By Marlon leTerrance
A dear friend of mine named Sherrima stopped by my office one morning. Her eyes were bubbling over with excitement and her smile was as bright as the break of dawn. I was sort of anxious to hear what was on her mind.
"Guess what, babe?!" She asked, the words gushing forth so fast I had to filter through them.
"What? Your hairdresser retired?"
"No, silly! I’m getting married," she practically screamed this into my ears.
I am not quite sure whether it was her words or the tone of her voice that startled me more, but I was certainly caught off guard. I had known Sherrima since grade school. She was a stubbornly independent woman, and I found it difficult to imagine her married.
I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and considered the possibility. She looked happy. And more than any woman I knew, she deserved a loving, gentle man in her life. I was glad for her. I smiled up at her and winked. "I am very happy for you, sweetheart. But who is the lucky dude?"
"Don’t you remember. He’s the guy I was telling you about. You know. His name’s Paul." She stared me down until my eyes revealed a hint of recognition. "He asked me to marry him last night and I said yes!!"
"That’s great! But, sweetheart, you’ve only known this Paul character three weeks. Are you sure he’s Mr. Right?"
"I can’t wait to introduce him to you. He’s so sweet. He does everything that I ask him to do. He’s nice. He never argues with me. He buys me all kinds of expensive gifts. And, unlike most men, he’s not afraid to say he loves me!"
Sherrima rambled on and on for about ten more minutes, but I was no longer listening. I was too busy trying to figure out the best way to let her know that she was making a huge mistake.
When you feel empty and alone on the inside, it’s very easy to fall in love with a guy for all the wrong reasons. You start allowing yourself to become attracted to a guy just because he appears to be nice and responsible, not because he is the man who makes you happy and satisfies your inner needs. This is a cheap way of trying to grab the "best thing happening." And a relationship based on illusions never works.
If you are attracted to someone because he always tries to please you, because he does only what you want him to do, that is not love. If you get involved with a man just because he buys you expensive gifts and tells you sweet things that make you feel strong and smart, that is not a real relationship. That’s just a roundabout way of loving yourself. Your so-called Mr. Right becomes nothing more than a handy little ego booster...and even though you may learn to genuinely care about him, you will never really respect him as a man.
You can love someone and give him the room and the right to be himself, or you can try to control him, to make him do your will--whether it’s for his own good or not. But you cannot do both at the same time. This was Sherrima’s problem. She had found a man who was willing to sit in the back seat of their relationship, and she was just glad to finally have a respectable, charming guy to cater to her every whim. But love is a double-edged sword, it cuts both ways. Women have to be willing to meet men half way, giving love as much as they take it, receiving demands as often as they make them. Anything else may be fun, it may enhance your ego and sense of feminine power, but it’s not a real relationship. It does not recognize the uniqueness of the other person, only his usefulness.
Loving someone for being like you, for being an extension of your will, is not really love. True love can be generated only between people who see themselves as equals, between people who can be mutually fulfilling to each other. Where one commands and one obeys, there can be loyalty and gratitude but not love.
Sherrima thought about this for a moment, then shook her head. "But he loves me."
"That’s not the problem, sweetheart. I know he loves you." I said, then smiled lightly, hoping to somehow take the sting out of my next words. "The problem is...you don’t love him."
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
The Queen of My Dreams
By: Marlon leTerrance
There’s a good chance when I first meet the queen of my dreams, I won’t know what she looks like. She could be beautiful or homely, tall or short, black or white, even young or old. Still, I am confident that I will be able to recognize her, if only because I know everything else about her.
When I walk into a crowded room, she will be the woman with her head held up. She’s not stuck up, she’s not arrogant or vain, but she has been through enough in her lifetime to appreciate her own self worth. She knows her strengths and her weaknesses; therefore, the opinion of others doesn’t influence the nature of her self-confidence. She’s honest with herself and will be just as honest with me. Even if revealing the truth would rip us apart, destroying the very fiber of our relationship, she is a strong enough woman to confront reality head on. She will never lie to me about anything, no matter how painful the truth may be, because honesty is the core ingredient of who she is as a person.
Her head will be held high in the air because she is too real, too honest of a woman to ever hide anything from me.
When I see her, there is a good chance that she will be smiling—and that smile will light up the room. She is not always happy or filled with a childlike sense of joy. She has experienced pain, deeply, and she has suffered through heartache and betrayal before. She knows what it feels like to be emotionally hurt and alone. Her eyes have watched dreams fade away into the darkness. Her ears have heard promises break. Her heart has felt love mutate into pain and hatred. But instead of running from these feelings and becoming a cold and distant person, she dealt with them and found the courage to move on. She understands the limitations of being human and accepts the fact that life is a precious gift that sometimes involves disappointment and pain. She has a joyful soul. Her tears are caused by heartache and misfortune just like everyone else. But she loves life enough to actually seek out happiness, even when it’s hard to find.
She will be smiling because she’s able to see Beauty even when it’s not very pretty.
There will be a twinkle in her eyes when she looks at me. She’s a passionate woman, both romantic and spontaneous, and this will shine through whenever she looks at me. She understands how precious life is and she is not afraid to step outside the norm to experience new and exciting things. She enjoys cuddling because she’s an intimate woman who takes pleasure in being close to the things that are important to her. She’s loyal and committed—she can be trusted with the most vulnerable aspects of her man’s character. She is a strong woman who’s secure enough with herself that she doesn’t have to constantly challenge the strength of her man. She wants a lot out of life, a lot out of love, and she is adventurous enough to explore different paths to success.
There will be a twinkle in her eyes when she looks at me because a fire of passion burns inside of her that she is brave enough not to put out.
When she walks, she will exude a raw femininity. She’s a sexual woman without a host of sexual hang-ups. She doesn’t concern herself with the images society has regarding women and sexuality. She’s in touch with herself, and her body, so she knows what she likes and don’t like. She enjoys the challenge of pleasing her man and will not shy away from the possibility of experimenting with new things. The intimacy of sex is the vessel she uses to channel her love. She allows her body to sometimes express feelings that even the most elaborate words could never make clear. If I were to write a poem across her naked back with the tips of my fingers, she is a woman who is sensitive enough to romance that she would close her eyes and attempt to read each word back to me. Her body is a canvas for her man’s tongue, and she is always prepared to help him paint a masterpiece.
There will be a hint of femininity that reveals itself whenever she walks because she’s secure enough with her sexuality to be a woman.
She may be in a wheelchair when I meet her, but I know she will have her head held high. She may have just lost her job when I see her, but I am sure there will be a hint of a smile lingering somewhere across her face. It’s possible that she will be blind or deaf when I introduce myself to her, but I’m confident that there will still be a twinkle deep in her eyes. She could have long legs, or short ones, but I know she will be sexy to me when she walks my way.
I don’t know how beautiful she will be. I don’t know how educated or cultured or successful she is. She could speak English or Spanish; I’m not sure about many of her details. I’ve seen her many times in my dreams; yet, I still do not know her race or age. I may not have the slightest idea what my dream queen will look like, but I’m still certain I will know her when I see her.
I guess the question is…will she know me?
There’s a good chance when I first meet the queen of my dreams, I won’t know what she looks like. She could be beautiful or homely, tall or short, black or white, even young or old. Still, I am confident that I will be able to recognize her, if only because I know everything else about her.
When I walk into a crowded room, she will be the woman with her head held up. She’s not stuck up, she’s not arrogant or vain, but she has been through enough in her lifetime to appreciate her own self worth. She knows her strengths and her weaknesses; therefore, the opinion of others doesn’t influence the nature of her self-confidence. She’s honest with herself and will be just as honest with me. Even if revealing the truth would rip us apart, destroying the very fiber of our relationship, she is a strong enough woman to confront reality head on. She will never lie to me about anything, no matter how painful the truth may be, because honesty is the core ingredient of who she is as a person.
Her head will be held high in the air because she is too real, too honest of a woman to ever hide anything from me.
When I see her, there is a good chance that she will be smiling—and that smile will light up the room. She is not always happy or filled with a childlike sense of joy. She has experienced pain, deeply, and she has suffered through heartache and betrayal before. She knows what it feels like to be emotionally hurt and alone. Her eyes have watched dreams fade away into the darkness. Her ears have heard promises break. Her heart has felt love mutate into pain and hatred. But instead of running from these feelings and becoming a cold and distant person, she dealt with them and found the courage to move on. She understands the limitations of being human and accepts the fact that life is a precious gift that sometimes involves disappointment and pain. She has a joyful soul. Her tears are caused by heartache and misfortune just like everyone else. But she loves life enough to actually seek out happiness, even when it’s hard to find.
She will be smiling because she’s able to see Beauty even when it’s not very pretty.
There will be a twinkle in her eyes when she looks at me. She’s a passionate woman, both romantic and spontaneous, and this will shine through whenever she looks at me. She understands how precious life is and she is not afraid to step outside the norm to experience new and exciting things. She enjoys cuddling because she’s an intimate woman who takes pleasure in being close to the things that are important to her. She’s loyal and committed—she can be trusted with the most vulnerable aspects of her man’s character. She is a strong woman who’s secure enough with herself that she doesn’t have to constantly challenge the strength of her man. She wants a lot out of life, a lot out of love, and she is adventurous enough to explore different paths to success.
There will be a twinkle in her eyes when she looks at me because a fire of passion burns inside of her that she is brave enough not to put out.
When she walks, she will exude a raw femininity. She’s a sexual woman without a host of sexual hang-ups. She doesn’t concern herself with the images society has regarding women and sexuality. She’s in touch with herself, and her body, so she knows what she likes and don’t like. She enjoys the challenge of pleasing her man and will not shy away from the possibility of experimenting with new things. The intimacy of sex is the vessel she uses to channel her love. She allows her body to sometimes express feelings that even the most elaborate words could never make clear. If I were to write a poem across her naked back with the tips of my fingers, she is a woman who is sensitive enough to romance that she would close her eyes and attempt to read each word back to me. Her body is a canvas for her man’s tongue, and she is always prepared to help him paint a masterpiece.
There will be a hint of femininity that reveals itself whenever she walks because she’s secure enough with her sexuality to be a woman.
She may be in a wheelchair when I meet her, but I know she will have her head held high. She may have just lost her job when I see her, but I am sure there will be a hint of a smile lingering somewhere across her face. It’s possible that she will be blind or deaf when I introduce myself to her, but I’m confident that there will still be a twinkle deep in her eyes. She could have long legs, or short ones, but I know she will be sexy to me when she walks my way.
I don’t know how beautiful she will be. I don’t know how educated or cultured or successful she is. She could speak English or Spanish; I’m not sure about many of her details. I’ve seen her many times in my dreams; yet, I still do not know her race or age. I may not have the slightest idea what my dream queen will look like, but I’m still certain I will know her when I see her.
I guess the question is…will she know me?
High Speed Love
By Marlon leTerrance
Two weeks after I met Sheila, she claimed she loved me. Two days later, she was upset because I still had not expressed my undying love for her as well. Our relationship soon turned into an emotional tug-of-war. She wanted me to give her more of myself than I was ready to give. And I refused to tell her something that simply wasn’t true.
I can still remember our last conversation. We were sitting inside my apartment, sharing an intimate, candle-lit dinner. Around us, it seemed as though everything we had built together was suddenly falling apart. I was both afraid and uncertain. I knew Sheila was about to issue me an ultimatum, but I was not certain how best to deal with it. She had become an important part of my world and I did not want to lose her. Yet, her impatient and emotional demands were leaving me no choice.
There were tears in her dark brown eyes and her lips trembled a little as she spoke. “I love you, Marlon,” she began, her voice laced with a cold sense of determination. “But I will not continue loving a man who does not love me back.”
I was too shocked and amazed to respond immediately. I had not expected her to be so blunt. In some odd way, the whole situation seemed terribly amusing. When I thought about it longer, I found it damn near hilarious. Here was the strong, intelligent black woman I’d always dreamed about, and she ends up being so strong and so demanding that it was impossible for me to please her.
Sheila was special to me. I cared for her deeply. But, in all honesty, I did not love her.
I handed her a hanker-chief from my vest pocket and sighed deeply. I needed a moment to gather my thoughts before offering a response. No matter how wrong and impulsive I believed her ultimatum to be, I still could not muster up the courage to break her heart. At the time, I didn’t want to begin a promising relationship with lies and falsehoods. I felt trapped.
Finally, I raked all my doubts aside and approached the problem head-on. “Sweetheart,” I whispered. “I want, so badly, to love you also. But I can’t love a woman I hardly know.”
I spent the rest of the night trying to explain to Sheila the importance of knowing a person before falling in love. But she could not understand this. Like many sisters I’ve known, Sheila still believed in soap opera romances and storybook relationships where everyone falls in love overnight and then lives happily ever after. She was so desperate to somehow experience this fantasy love that she never allowed real love the time and space it needs to grow.
Love is not a vendor machine. I cannot place a quarter into my heart, press a couple emotional buttons, and order up a bag of romantic feelings. The process is far more complex than this. And whenever someone tries to lower the standards for love, she only robs herself of life’s most precious gift.
A lot of women counter this argument by claiming that black men are simply irresponsible and afraid of commitment. They believe that most brothers are so lost in our struggle for manhood that we equate love with weakness, commitment with prison. I beg to differ. I think brothers like me are just less inclined to believe in love at first sight. We have learned, usually from bitter experience, that it takes more than interesting conversations and extraordinary sex to produce love. We have to know who we are about to dedicate our lives to-and knowing her name and phone number is simply not enough.
Most Black men are not afraid of commitment. I believe we just respect love and commitment so much that we are not willing to make a mockery out of our feelings the way far too many women do.
Sometimes, women act as though men have stopwatches on our hearts. This is ridiculous. I can’t meet a woman and command my feelings to mutate into love by a certain time period.
“Marlon, if you don’t know me by now, you never will.” Sheila stood up suddenly and made her way toward the door. I asked her to stay a little longer but she didn’t respond. I would have been surprised if she had. Like far too many sisters, she didn’t want to start talking about the specific problems because that was the first step on the road to possible acceptance.
“Where do we go from here?” I wondered aloud, just as Sheila was about to leave. She smiled at me, the saddest smile I had ever seen, and silently walked away. I stared at her departure, still hurt and emotional in her wake. If only she had taken the time to learn what true love really is. If only she had waited a little longer.
Two weeks simply was not enough time.
Two weeks after I met Sheila, she claimed she loved me. Two days later, she was upset because I still had not expressed my undying love for her as well. Our relationship soon turned into an emotional tug-of-war. She wanted me to give her more of myself than I was ready to give. And I refused to tell her something that simply wasn’t true.
I can still remember our last conversation. We were sitting inside my apartment, sharing an intimate, candle-lit dinner. Around us, it seemed as though everything we had built together was suddenly falling apart. I was both afraid and uncertain. I knew Sheila was about to issue me an ultimatum, but I was not certain how best to deal with it. She had become an important part of my world and I did not want to lose her. Yet, her impatient and emotional demands were leaving me no choice.
There were tears in her dark brown eyes and her lips trembled a little as she spoke. “I love you, Marlon,” she began, her voice laced with a cold sense of determination. “But I will not continue loving a man who does not love me back.”
I was too shocked and amazed to respond immediately. I had not expected her to be so blunt. In some odd way, the whole situation seemed terribly amusing. When I thought about it longer, I found it damn near hilarious. Here was the strong, intelligent black woman I’d always dreamed about, and she ends up being so strong and so demanding that it was impossible for me to please her.
Sheila was special to me. I cared for her deeply. But, in all honesty, I did not love her.
I handed her a hanker-chief from my vest pocket and sighed deeply. I needed a moment to gather my thoughts before offering a response. No matter how wrong and impulsive I believed her ultimatum to be, I still could not muster up the courage to break her heart. At the time, I didn’t want to begin a promising relationship with lies and falsehoods. I felt trapped.
Finally, I raked all my doubts aside and approached the problem head-on. “Sweetheart,” I whispered. “I want, so badly, to love you also. But I can’t love a woman I hardly know.”
I spent the rest of the night trying to explain to Sheila the importance of knowing a person before falling in love. But she could not understand this. Like many sisters I’ve known, Sheila still believed in soap opera romances and storybook relationships where everyone falls in love overnight and then lives happily ever after. She was so desperate to somehow experience this fantasy love that she never allowed real love the time and space it needs to grow.
Love is not a vendor machine. I cannot place a quarter into my heart, press a couple emotional buttons, and order up a bag of romantic feelings. The process is far more complex than this. And whenever someone tries to lower the standards for love, she only robs herself of life’s most precious gift.
A lot of women counter this argument by claiming that black men are simply irresponsible and afraid of commitment. They believe that most brothers are so lost in our struggle for manhood that we equate love with weakness, commitment with prison. I beg to differ. I think brothers like me are just less inclined to believe in love at first sight. We have learned, usually from bitter experience, that it takes more than interesting conversations and extraordinary sex to produce love. We have to know who we are about to dedicate our lives to-and knowing her name and phone number is simply not enough.
Most Black men are not afraid of commitment. I believe we just respect love and commitment so much that we are not willing to make a mockery out of our feelings the way far too many women do.
Sometimes, women act as though men have stopwatches on our hearts. This is ridiculous. I can’t meet a woman and command my feelings to mutate into love by a certain time period.
“Marlon, if you don’t know me by now, you never will.” Sheila stood up suddenly and made her way toward the door. I asked her to stay a little longer but she didn’t respond. I would have been surprised if she had. Like far too many sisters, she didn’t want to start talking about the specific problems because that was the first step on the road to possible acceptance.
“Where do we go from here?” I wondered aloud, just as Sheila was about to leave. She smiled at me, the saddest smile I had ever seen, and silently walked away. I stared at her departure, still hurt and emotional in her wake. If only she had taken the time to learn what true love really is. If only she had waited a little longer.
Two weeks simply was not enough time.
A DAUGHTER'S DECLINE:
My Letter to the Parent
By Marlon LeTerrance
Dear Parents;
This may be the hardest letter I have ever had to write in my entire life. Ever since I first developed fancy dreams of one day becoming a writer, I have defended you and protected you from hostile conservatives who frown on your parenting efforts. I explained to everyone who would listen how difficult your situation was, how you had to work two and three jobs sometimes just to keep food on the table. I defended your style of parenting, and argued that, even though you were not perfect, even though you sometimes had to rear us up in the ghetto, you still did the best that you could.
I don’t think I am satisfied with that argument anymore. My experience last weekend has forced me to toss aside all the contributions that you have made within our communities and single out a flaw that cuts deep into my soul. And even though it troubles me to speak out against you, I am afraid that I have no other choice. Please forgive me.
Last weekend, while you were away, something happened to me that you need to know about. I was riding shotgun (in the passenger seat) with my twenty-four-year old cousin. The music was turned up a bit too high and the truck reeked of marijuana smoke. We were, in a way, two everyday young brothers on our way to the local Pool Hall. We were neither troublemakers nor saints.
I wasn’t sure why my cousin slammed on the brakes and yanked the truck into an abrupt U-turn. In our world, things like this happen too often to warrant suspicion.
“Yo! Did you see that?”
I was leaning too far back in the seat to have seen anything except street lamps. Still, on cue, I raised up. And that’s when I first saw her. She was about fifty yards away, talking with three guys who appeared to be around the same age as my cousin. To describe exactly what I saw would be a sin. Just know that she was too developed physically for the clothes she had on. Body paint would have been less revealing and more conservative than her choice of attire.
The truck pulled onto the curb next to them and my cousin called out to the female. She walked over, more from curiosity than anything else. I watched the three guys exchange pounds (handshakes) and disbelieving expressions as their eyes followed her body movements. She was an eye magnet, and from the cool, flirtatious way in which she greeted my cousin, it was obvious that she was very much aware of her appeal.
She spoke with the experience of a seasoned traveler and there was a tattoo on her left shoulder that seduced the imagination. Her tongue was pierced and she seemed proud of the fact that she never wore bras. She was twenty-years old, she explained, and she was from “Upstate,” whatever that meant. I listened from the sidelines as she and my cousin played romantic games with each other, both of them tap-dancing between being subtle and lewd. Five minutes later, they were discussing the possibility of getting a motel room when she laughed out loud, sending alarm bells ringing in the back of my head. It was a giggly sound: too loud, too spontaneous, and too innocent. For the first time, I decided to speak.
“What year were you born?” I asked, abruptly.
She paused, confused, maybe even suspicious. I could tell she was mentally doing the math. Still, her final answer didn’t add up. Her face blushed slightly, if only for a moment, and then she jumped on the offensive. Her hands dropped to her hips and her neck slipped into second gear as she prepared to lash out at me. It reminded me of the moments when I used to catch my fifteen-year-old sister doing something wrong. Instead of admitting her mistake, she’d flare up in a rage.
Using the same technique I’d often used with my sister, I made my voice become stern and dry. “How old are you, sweetheart?”
The answer scared my cousin and drove a cold, sharp ice pick through the center of my being. She was only sixteen. And she was on her way to a club, with fake ID, dressed in an outfit that would embarrass a strip club dancer.
I may have been wrong, but I made her get into the truck; I drove her home, and I called every half hour to make certain she stayed there. She was in tears, but her tears could not possibly compare with the internal tears I shed on her behalf. I imagined my sister in her place, and it disgusted me. But my anger, my beef, my rage is as much with you, as parents, as it is with her.
Why was your teenage daughter walking around the ‘hood dressed like a backroom hooker? Please don’t disrespect my intellect with the usual excuses. I don’t care if she picked them out. I don’t care if it’s the fashion. No sixteen-year old girl should be allowed to prance around in the street with outfits on that compete with thong bikinis.
I know it’s hard sometimes. Some of you are single parents, struggling to make ends meet. But I am convinced that the role of parenting goes far beyond economical support. I know you are doing your best. But in this case, that’s just not good enough. I understand that, sometimes, the situation has become so bad that it’s difficult to “control” her and tell her what to do. My sister can be hardheaded and stubborn as well. But I refuse to believe that unsupervised teenagers have the right to represent themselves and their body in whatever way the current fashion dictates. I can’t accept that argument.
With more and more sexual predators stalking the Internet and the streets, I am certain that you must play a greater role in the lives of your children. From the allegations aimed at R. Kelly to the white basketball coach convicted in Miami for fondling a minor, the evidence proves that you cannot leave your children to fend for themselves. Until your children reach a more mature and responsible age, both mentally and physically, you cannot completely trust them to make the best choices relating to their image and sexuality. For you to stand back either not knowing or not caring is, in my eyes, child abuse. I don’t care if you have to become private detectives in some cases, you must learn what your child is doing. To me, anything less is a crime.
I know I am angry. Forgive me. I am still young and I don’t have children, so my opinion will certainly meet reluctant ears. But I had to write to you and let you know that I saw your daughter last weekend. I talked to her and tried to give her some wisdom to take home with her. It may have helped. It may not have. I don’t know. I just hope I don’t see her next weekend.
Sincerely,
Marlon leTerrance
By Marlon LeTerrance
Dear Parents;
This may be the hardest letter I have ever had to write in my entire life. Ever since I first developed fancy dreams of one day becoming a writer, I have defended you and protected you from hostile conservatives who frown on your parenting efforts. I explained to everyone who would listen how difficult your situation was, how you had to work two and three jobs sometimes just to keep food on the table. I defended your style of parenting, and argued that, even though you were not perfect, even though you sometimes had to rear us up in the ghetto, you still did the best that you could.
I don’t think I am satisfied with that argument anymore. My experience last weekend has forced me to toss aside all the contributions that you have made within our communities and single out a flaw that cuts deep into my soul. And even though it troubles me to speak out against you, I am afraid that I have no other choice. Please forgive me.
Last weekend, while you were away, something happened to me that you need to know about. I was riding shotgun (in the passenger seat) with my twenty-four-year old cousin. The music was turned up a bit too high and the truck reeked of marijuana smoke. We were, in a way, two everyday young brothers on our way to the local Pool Hall. We were neither troublemakers nor saints.
I wasn’t sure why my cousin slammed on the brakes and yanked the truck into an abrupt U-turn. In our world, things like this happen too often to warrant suspicion.
“Yo! Did you see that?”
I was leaning too far back in the seat to have seen anything except street lamps. Still, on cue, I raised up. And that’s when I first saw her. She was about fifty yards away, talking with three guys who appeared to be around the same age as my cousin. To describe exactly what I saw would be a sin. Just know that she was too developed physically for the clothes she had on. Body paint would have been less revealing and more conservative than her choice of attire.
The truck pulled onto the curb next to them and my cousin called out to the female. She walked over, more from curiosity than anything else. I watched the three guys exchange pounds (handshakes) and disbelieving expressions as their eyes followed her body movements. She was an eye magnet, and from the cool, flirtatious way in which she greeted my cousin, it was obvious that she was very much aware of her appeal.
She spoke with the experience of a seasoned traveler and there was a tattoo on her left shoulder that seduced the imagination. Her tongue was pierced and she seemed proud of the fact that she never wore bras. She was twenty-years old, she explained, and she was from “Upstate,” whatever that meant. I listened from the sidelines as she and my cousin played romantic games with each other, both of them tap-dancing between being subtle and lewd. Five minutes later, they were discussing the possibility of getting a motel room when she laughed out loud, sending alarm bells ringing in the back of my head. It was a giggly sound: too loud, too spontaneous, and too innocent. For the first time, I decided to speak.
“What year were you born?” I asked, abruptly.
She paused, confused, maybe even suspicious. I could tell she was mentally doing the math. Still, her final answer didn’t add up. Her face blushed slightly, if only for a moment, and then she jumped on the offensive. Her hands dropped to her hips and her neck slipped into second gear as she prepared to lash out at me. It reminded me of the moments when I used to catch my fifteen-year-old sister doing something wrong. Instead of admitting her mistake, she’d flare up in a rage.
Using the same technique I’d often used with my sister, I made my voice become stern and dry. “How old are you, sweetheart?”
The answer scared my cousin and drove a cold, sharp ice pick through the center of my being. She was only sixteen. And she was on her way to a club, with fake ID, dressed in an outfit that would embarrass a strip club dancer.
I may have been wrong, but I made her get into the truck; I drove her home, and I called every half hour to make certain she stayed there. She was in tears, but her tears could not possibly compare with the internal tears I shed on her behalf. I imagined my sister in her place, and it disgusted me. But my anger, my beef, my rage is as much with you, as parents, as it is with her.
Why was your teenage daughter walking around the ‘hood dressed like a backroom hooker? Please don’t disrespect my intellect with the usual excuses. I don’t care if she picked them out. I don’t care if it’s the fashion. No sixteen-year old girl should be allowed to prance around in the street with outfits on that compete with thong bikinis.
I know it’s hard sometimes. Some of you are single parents, struggling to make ends meet. But I am convinced that the role of parenting goes far beyond economical support. I know you are doing your best. But in this case, that’s just not good enough. I understand that, sometimes, the situation has become so bad that it’s difficult to “control” her and tell her what to do. My sister can be hardheaded and stubborn as well. But I refuse to believe that unsupervised teenagers have the right to represent themselves and their body in whatever way the current fashion dictates. I can’t accept that argument.
With more and more sexual predators stalking the Internet and the streets, I am certain that you must play a greater role in the lives of your children. From the allegations aimed at R. Kelly to the white basketball coach convicted in Miami for fondling a minor, the evidence proves that you cannot leave your children to fend for themselves. Until your children reach a more mature and responsible age, both mentally and physically, you cannot completely trust them to make the best choices relating to their image and sexuality. For you to stand back either not knowing or not caring is, in my eyes, child abuse. I don’t care if you have to become private detectives in some cases, you must learn what your child is doing. To me, anything less is a crime.
I know I am angry. Forgive me. I am still young and I don’t have children, so my opinion will certainly meet reluctant ears. But I had to write to you and let you know that I saw your daughter last weekend. I talked to her and tried to give her some wisdom to take home with her. It may have helped. It may not have. I don’t know. I just hope I don’t see her next weekend.
Sincerely,
Marlon leTerrance
Blood on the Pant Leg
By Marlon leTerrance
A nine-year-old boy stared at the blood on his pant leg for a moment too long to measure. His right hand scratched a muddy trail down the front of his T-Shirt while something resembling tears formed along the corners of his eyes. Someone yelled out for him to run, to get off the street. In another country, under another circumstance, the boy might have heard the scream. He might have screwed up his face in a mischievous smile and skipped out of the street without the slightest hesitation. But on this day, too many bullets were whizzing by his ears. The sound of buildings crumbling to the ground outranked the voice of reason. More screams. More gunfire.
An armored tank rumbled down behind him. An old woman wailed out the boy’s name, pleading with the child to move, to get out the way of death. Somewhere in a mind incarcerated by fear, natural instincts made futile attempts at yanking the boy into action. But the boy felt paralyzed. There was blood on his pant leg.
Another building collapsed to the right of him. It could have been a school building, perhaps a hospital, a police station, but the boy remained fixed in place. Dark gray dust particles grabbed onto the contours of his face, his clothes. For several seconds he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t shut his eyes, and couldn’t think. Yet, through it all, he could feel the warm fingers of blood massaging its way down his right leg, beneath the pants. It was fresh Palestinian blood, the kind that enrages a nation and howls out for revenge.
The boy never moved. The bombing never stopped. The tank continued forward. And the screams finally died down--only to be replaced by new ones.
Several of my homeboys are beginning to become a bit peeved by the misinformation being hammered into the skulls of the American populace. They feel as though the American media associations are purposely reporting only one side of the Middle East conflict in order to appease Jewish sympathizers. The Palestinian coverage is, too often, presented with crafty references to suicide bombers and terrorists, an approach that indicts every Palestinian in the region. The media’s spin on the Middle East Crisis can easily be summed up, in the eyes of many of my peers, as another clear case where “might is right.”
Often, after enduring long lectures about problems within Black America, I am seduced into listening to the Ghetto Politics of brothers and sisters from around my way. Many of them seem to feel as though the Palestinian’s plight is a modern day example of the American Indian’s plight. Forces with military power, world dominance, and deep pockets are, once again, allowed to dictate the conditions under which others are forced to live. I am not sure if I agree or disagree with these views, but I can’t help but wonder what the American media’s take on the situation in the Middle East would be if the Palestinians were properly financed and given the military support of a powerful country like, say, China. I can only imagine how much different the United States’ Foreign Policy would then be in the Middle East as opposed to now.
The cats in my neighborhood haven’t forgotten the images of years past when poor Palestinians were, much like our South African brothers during Apartheid, defending themselves by throwing rocks at armored tanks. Now that the American government can justify their love affair with Israel by hiding behind the word “terrorism,” a lot of the folks in my ‘hood are afraid that the so-called “War on Terrorism” will very soon turn into a “War on Justice.”
I am an American. And even though I felt compelled to travel to Africa and research my family’s origins, I still love this country dearly--even with all its flaws.
Having said that, I do not trust the leaders who have been elected to represent me in the government. When the President or a Congressman calls for a press conference, I listen with ears covered by filters. When Time Magazine publishes an article that relates to issues I care about, I take notes and research the truth on my own. This is why the news coverage of the Middle East situation troubles me so much. My research doesn’t match the published reports I am seeing splattered across newspapers, magazines, and the television. This discrepancy has me wondering if the pro-Israel spin is another example of American propaganda. J. Edgar Hoover, COINTELPRO, and the anti-communism tactics are still fresh on a lot of folks’ mind.
I am not qualified to have an expert opinion concerning the Middle East. In my eyes, when innocent, civilian blood is spilled--be it by the blast of a Palestinian suicide bomber or by the bullets of an Israeli soldier--a murder has occurred. Politics can’t justify crime.
My beef is neither with Israel nor Palestine. I have never been to either country. Instead, my beef is with the media coverage of the conflict. The integrity and ethics of journalism should dictate that honest, unbiased reporting is always done in a way that thoroughly explores both views openly. The responsibility of the news media is to give readers the facts, as clear as possible, and allow the reader to form his or her opinion independently. As a person who reads the news, I don’t want to be told what to think. I merely want to learn the truth.
Last week, I asked my great uncle to help me understand why the American media coverage seemed to be biased towards Israel. He looked around and lowered his voice, as if afraid someone might overhear him: “Most of the media is secretly owned and controlled by powerful Jews.”
I don’t know who secretly controls the media. I really don’t care. But when a suicide bomber ignites a bomb that kills dozens of civilians, I am touched and deeply saddened by the loss of Israeli lives. I read the news accounts with a heavy, deflated heart. At the same time, there’s a little Palestinian boy standing, not too many miles from the blast, with blood on his pant leg. There are no cameras. There are no reporters. Still, I believe his story and his tears are important. I am hoping someone tells it.
A nine-year-old boy stared at the blood on his pant leg for a moment too long to measure. His right hand scratched a muddy trail down the front of his T-Shirt while something resembling tears formed along the corners of his eyes. Someone yelled out for him to run, to get off the street. In another country, under another circumstance, the boy might have heard the scream. He might have screwed up his face in a mischievous smile and skipped out of the street without the slightest hesitation. But on this day, too many bullets were whizzing by his ears. The sound of buildings crumbling to the ground outranked the voice of reason. More screams. More gunfire.
An armored tank rumbled down behind him. An old woman wailed out the boy’s name, pleading with the child to move, to get out the way of death. Somewhere in a mind incarcerated by fear, natural instincts made futile attempts at yanking the boy into action. But the boy felt paralyzed. There was blood on his pant leg.
Another building collapsed to the right of him. It could have been a school building, perhaps a hospital, a police station, but the boy remained fixed in place. Dark gray dust particles grabbed onto the contours of his face, his clothes. For several seconds he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t shut his eyes, and couldn’t think. Yet, through it all, he could feel the warm fingers of blood massaging its way down his right leg, beneath the pants. It was fresh Palestinian blood, the kind that enrages a nation and howls out for revenge.
The boy never moved. The bombing never stopped. The tank continued forward. And the screams finally died down--only to be replaced by new ones.
Several of my homeboys are beginning to become a bit peeved by the misinformation being hammered into the skulls of the American populace. They feel as though the American media associations are purposely reporting only one side of the Middle East conflict in order to appease Jewish sympathizers. The Palestinian coverage is, too often, presented with crafty references to suicide bombers and terrorists, an approach that indicts every Palestinian in the region. The media’s spin on the Middle East Crisis can easily be summed up, in the eyes of many of my peers, as another clear case where “might is right.”
Often, after enduring long lectures about problems within Black America, I am seduced into listening to the Ghetto Politics of brothers and sisters from around my way. Many of them seem to feel as though the Palestinian’s plight is a modern day example of the American Indian’s plight. Forces with military power, world dominance, and deep pockets are, once again, allowed to dictate the conditions under which others are forced to live. I am not sure if I agree or disagree with these views, but I can’t help but wonder what the American media’s take on the situation in the Middle East would be if the Palestinians were properly financed and given the military support of a powerful country like, say, China. I can only imagine how much different the United States’ Foreign Policy would then be in the Middle East as opposed to now.
The cats in my neighborhood haven’t forgotten the images of years past when poor Palestinians were, much like our South African brothers during Apartheid, defending themselves by throwing rocks at armored tanks. Now that the American government can justify their love affair with Israel by hiding behind the word “terrorism,” a lot of the folks in my ‘hood are afraid that the so-called “War on Terrorism” will very soon turn into a “War on Justice.”
I am an American. And even though I felt compelled to travel to Africa and research my family’s origins, I still love this country dearly--even with all its flaws.
Having said that, I do not trust the leaders who have been elected to represent me in the government. When the President or a Congressman calls for a press conference, I listen with ears covered by filters. When Time Magazine publishes an article that relates to issues I care about, I take notes and research the truth on my own. This is why the news coverage of the Middle East situation troubles me so much. My research doesn’t match the published reports I am seeing splattered across newspapers, magazines, and the television. This discrepancy has me wondering if the pro-Israel spin is another example of American propaganda. J. Edgar Hoover, COINTELPRO, and the anti-communism tactics are still fresh on a lot of folks’ mind.
I am not qualified to have an expert opinion concerning the Middle East. In my eyes, when innocent, civilian blood is spilled--be it by the blast of a Palestinian suicide bomber or by the bullets of an Israeli soldier--a murder has occurred. Politics can’t justify crime.
My beef is neither with Israel nor Palestine. I have never been to either country. Instead, my beef is with the media coverage of the conflict. The integrity and ethics of journalism should dictate that honest, unbiased reporting is always done in a way that thoroughly explores both views openly. The responsibility of the news media is to give readers the facts, as clear as possible, and allow the reader to form his or her opinion independently. As a person who reads the news, I don’t want to be told what to think. I merely want to learn the truth.
Last week, I asked my great uncle to help me understand why the American media coverage seemed to be biased towards Israel. He looked around and lowered his voice, as if afraid someone might overhear him: “Most of the media is secretly owned and controlled by powerful Jews.”
I don’t know who secretly controls the media. I really don’t care. But when a suicide bomber ignites a bomb that kills dozens of civilians, I am touched and deeply saddened by the loss of Israeli lives. I read the news accounts with a heavy, deflated heart. At the same time, there’s a little Palestinian boy standing, not too many miles from the blast, with blood on his pant leg. There are no cameras. There are no reporters. Still, I believe his story and his tears are important. I am hoping someone tells it.
Why I Write
I fell in love with writing at a very early age. The idea that an author could create imaginary universes with a few strokes of a pen fascinated me, especially as a kid. I loved the way words could be meshed together to illustrate a point. I would read books and become more interested in the way an author told a story than the particulars of the story itself. I never cared much about the genre or subject matter; I just enjoyed the experience of spending time with well-crafted words. When strung together properly, words could become sentences that opened the gates to my imagination. The right writer could take me anywhere he or she dared.
I couldn't have been much older than eleven when I started the habit of underlining the sentences that touched me the most. It didn't matter if it was inside a textbook from school or a phrase out of the obituary or a few words on the back of a cereal box, when I noticed a beautiful sentence, I would underline it. I imagine I eventually ruined a ton of library books in my hometown growing up, but I didn't care. Some sentences, much like some people, need to be highlighted in life.
As a kid, I used to wander through my neighborhood with a tape recorder and interview any wino or prostitute or street dweller I happened upon. I would ask them the same questions I'd heard a journalist ask a politician on television or a writer ask a businessman in the newspaper. Most times my interviewees would laugh out loud at me and swear that I asked the dumbest questions. Jimmy Carter who? Ronald Reagan did what? Inflation on the rise where? Boy, them astronauts getting killed ain’t got nothing to do wit me! I was sometimes too young to fully understand the questions I ended up repeating. I just knew that these were the questions that writers asked, and I wanted to one day be just like them.
I don't think I ever wanted anything as much as I wanted to be a writer. In middle school, I remember being asked over and over again what I wanted to be when I grew up, but no profession appealed to me the way writing did. I didn't care about money. I didn't care about fame or social status. I just wanted to write a few sentences in my lifetime that were worthy of being highlighted.
I couldn't have been much older than eleven when I started the habit of underlining the sentences that touched me the most. It didn't matter if it was inside a textbook from school or a phrase out of the obituary or a few words on the back of a cereal box, when I noticed a beautiful sentence, I would underline it. I imagine I eventually ruined a ton of library books in my hometown growing up, but I didn't care. Some sentences, much like some people, need to be highlighted in life.
As a kid, I used to wander through my neighborhood with a tape recorder and interview any wino or prostitute or street dweller I happened upon. I would ask them the same questions I'd heard a journalist ask a politician on television or a writer ask a businessman in the newspaper. Most times my interviewees would laugh out loud at me and swear that I asked the dumbest questions. Jimmy Carter who? Ronald Reagan did what? Inflation on the rise where? Boy, them astronauts getting killed ain’t got nothing to do wit me! I was sometimes too young to fully understand the questions I ended up repeating. I just knew that these were the questions that writers asked, and I wanted to one day be just like them.
I don't think I ever wanted anything as much as I wanted to be a writer. In middle school, I remember being asked over and over again what I wanted to be when I grew up, but no profession appealed to me the way writing did. I didn't care about money. I didn't care about fame or social status. I just wanted to write a few sentences in my lifetime that were worthy of being highlighted.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Introduction to the Voices
There are three different voices that constantly yell out at me whenever I begin to write. These voices have followed me throughout the course of my life, injecting their unique personalities and tones into much of my work. Before now, I've never really attempted to separate these voices. Instead, I just tried to ignore them until their yapping became too unbearable to write.
Below is an in-depth explanation of each voice. Maybe this will help readers understand why I sometimes write the way I do.
MARLON le TERRANCE
The first voice is possibly the most talented one. It's the voice that usually speaks the most often. Whenever I read the newspaper and discover countless atrocities being suffered by innocent people in my country and abroad, this voice claims center stage and compels me to write about it. It's a voice filled with compassion and respect for human life, a voice committed to making a difference in the world, however small. It's the voice of Marlon leTerrance.
If I were to personify this voice and give it human characteristics, it would be the voice of a gentleman who is thoughtful and kind. It's the balanced voice of a young man who has traveled the world and experienced a variety of cultures, opinions and ideas. He's open-minded and fair, able to empathize with the human struggles of his fellow man. People gravitate to him naturally. He has a passion for life that's infectious. In a world that's often dark and lonely, he still daydreams with a poet's innocence; he still loves with a blind passion.
Marlon leTerrance is an avid chess player who approaches life in a strategic manner--always confident that virtually every problem has a solution. He's experimental and adventurous, almost to a fault. He is constantly daring himself to reach higher in life. His style is firm but flexible; the sort of man who finds a way to adjust to whatever situation that envelops him. He's open and optimistic--two traits that make him able to believe in people who haven't yet learned to believe in themselves.
When he walks into a room, he does so with a quiet air of confidence. He doesn't have to speak loudly to relay his message to the world; he has accomplished enough in his lifetime to be satisfied with himself. This makes him easy to relate to. He 's not afraid to let people see that he's vulnerable, a mere human attempting to find his way in an imperfect world.
He writes with a measured and composed and tolerant tone, like a General mapping out his next war strategy. Marlon leTerrance is the voice you want in your ear when you are seeking a rational solution to one of life's many problems.
INMATE20173
Inmate20173 is the prodigal son. He's the little cousin in everyone's family who runs away from home and comes back, years later, a shell of a man. He's seen stuff no kid should ever see and experienced things no man could ever forget. Like the bone that breaks and heals stronger at the broken place, like the string that is stronger where it broke and was knotted, Inmate20173 is a survivor, a ghetto cockroach.
Inmate20173 boxes in the gym as a hobby and plays poker on a professional level, which makes him both calculating and observant. He's extremely gifted when it comes to reading people, if only because he's dealt with practically every variation of hoodlum over the course of his life. It's hard to trick a man who has seen all the angles.
Inmate20173 is the voice of the streets.
He grew up in a world of misfortune and writes with a Donald Goines slant. He's the around-the-way-guy who wants something more out of life--he's just not quite sure what that is. He's secretive and quiet---he always maintains a deeply reserved composure. Like most great poker players, he has nerves of steal. He's unflappable and solid, with dark brown eyes that stare into the core of his opponents.
He's an immensely loyal individual who would never betray a friend. Still, Inmate20173 shies away from people and intimacy. He's seen the worst of mankind and this makes it hard for him to trust.
In wartimes, he's the peacemaker. He has survived several life threatening clashes over the years and realizes that no one wins when blood is shed. Inmate20173 is the voice you want arbitrating whenever a conflict is raging out of control. He has overcome enough hardships in his life to make people feel compelled to listen.
NIGHTSHADE
NightShade doesn't walk into a room; he sneaks in. He is always lurking in the shadows somewhere, a tormented soul ready to go to war over the slightest insult--real or imagined. His heart is cold and emotionless, and it pumps hatred and anger in greater quantities than blood.
NightShade is uncompromising, relentless, and lethal. If Marlon leTerrance is the General who can mastermind a war effort, NightShade is the mercenary who's overzealous about fighting in that war. Louis Farrakhan once said, "I have an army that they can see, and an even bigger army that they don't know nothing about." NightShade, if such an army actually existed, would be on the front lines.
NightShade is fearless and vicious. He's convinced that action speaks much louder than words; and he prefers action in its most aggressive, murderous form. He practices a no-holds-barred form of writing that lacks compassion or respect. When he attacks, it's done so devastatingly thorough, he leaves you suffocated and crushed. He's a vigilante spirit who fights with both the pen and the sword interchangeably.
When I have been hurt or wronged and feel myself screaming out for justice, NightShade is the voice in my ear whispering delicious thoughts of revenge.
THE THREE IN ONE
Sometimes, though not often, these voices come together when I write. This strange collection of voices makes each new word selection utterly unpredictable. Each new sentence becomes a journey into the unknown. I always enjoy the experience, no matter where it takes me. I can only hope you will as well.
---Marlon leTerrance
Below is an in-depth explanation of each voice. Maybe this will help readers understand why I sometimes write the way I do.
MARLON le TERRANCE
The first voice is possibly the most talented one. It's the voice that usually speaks the most often. Whenever I read the newspaper and discover countless atrocities being suffered by innocent people in my country and abroad, this voice claims center stage and compels me to write about it. It's a voice filled with compassion and respect for human life, a voice committed to making a difference in the world, however small. It's the voice of Marlon leTerrance.
If I were to personify this voice and give it human characteristics, it would be the voice of a gentleman who is thoughtful and kind. It's the balanced voice of a young man who has traveled the world and experienced a variety of cultures, opinions and ideas. He's open-minded and fair, able to empathize with the human struggles of his fellow man. People gravitate to him naturally. He has a passion for life that's infectious. In a world that's often dark and lonely, he still daydreams with a poet's innocence; he still loves with a blind passion.
Marlon leTerrance is an avid chess player who approaches life in a strategic manner--always confident that virtually every problem has a solution. He's experimental and adventurous, almost to a fault. He is constantly daring himself to reach higher in life. His style is firm but flexible; the sort of man who finds a way to adjust to whatever situation that envelops him. He's open and optimistic--two traits that make him able to believe in people who haven't yet learned to believe in themselves.
When he walks into a room, he does so with a quiet air of confidence. He doesn't have to speak loudly to relay his message to the world; he has accomplished enough in his lifetime to be satisfied with himself. This makes him easy to relate to. He 's not afraid to let people see that he's vulnerable, a mere human attempting to find his way in an imperfect world.
He writes with a measured and composed and tolerant tone, like a General mapping out his next war strategy. Marlon leTerrance is the voice you want in your ear when you are seeking a rational solution to one of life's many problems.
INMATE20173
Inmate20173 is the prodigal son. He's the little cousin in everyone's family who runs away from home and comes back, years later, a shell of a man. He's seen stuff no kid should ever see and experienced things no man could ever forget. Like the bone that breaks and heals stronger at the broken place, like the string that is stronger where it broke and was knotted, Inmate20173 is a survivor, a ghetto cockroach.
Inmate20173 boxes in the gym as a hobby and plays poker on a professional level, which makes him both calculating and observant. He's extremely gifted when it comes to reading people, if only because he's dealt with practically every variation of hoodlum over the course of his life. It's hard to trick a man who has seen all the angles.
Inmate20173 is the voice of the streets.
He grew up in a world of misfortune and writes with a Donald Goines slant. He's the around-the-way-guy who wants something more out of life--he's just not quite sure what that is. He's secretive and quiet---he always maintains a deeply reserved composure. Like most great poker players, he has nerves of steal. He's unflappable and solid, with dark brown eyes that stare into the core of his opponents.
He's an immensely loyal individual who would never betray a friend. Still, Inmate20173 shies away from people and intimacy. He's seen the worst of mankind and this makes it hard for him to trust.
In wartimes, he's the peacemaker. He has survived several life threatening clashes over the years and realizes that no one wins when blood is shed. Inmate20173 is the voice you want arbitrating whenever a conflict is raging out of control. He has overcome enough hardships in his life to make people feel compelled to listen.
NIGHTSHADE
NightShade doesn't walk into a room; he sneaks in. He is always lurking in the shadows somewhere, a tormented soul ready to go to war over the slightest insult--real or imagined. His heart is cold and emotionless, and it pumps hatred and anger in greater quantities than blood.
NightShade is uncompromising, relentless, and lethal. If Marlon leTerrance is the General who can mastermind a war effort, NightShade is the mercenary who's overzealous about fighting in that war. Louis Farrakhan once said, "I have an army that they can see, and an even bigger army that they don't know nothing about." NightShade, if such an army actually existed, would be on the front lines.
NightShade is fearless and vicious. He's convinced that action speaks much louder than words; and he prefers action in its most aggressive, murderous form. He practices a no-holds-barred form of writing that lacks compassion or respect. When he attacks, it's done so devastatingly thorough, he leaves you suffocated and crushed. He's a vigilante spirit who fights with both the pen and the sword interchangeably.
When I have been hurt or wronged and feel myself screaming out for justice, NightShade is the voice in my ear whispering delicious thoughts of revenge.
THE THREE IN ONE
Sometimes, though not often, these voices come together when I write. This strange collection of voices makes each new word selection utterly unpredictable. Each new sentence becomes a journey into the unknown. I always enjoy the experience, no matter where it takes me. I can only hope you will as well.
---Marlon leTerrance
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