[Sigh]

About a week ago, I walked across the stage of Liberty University's Vines Center during the Commencement ceremonies, as one of the few thousand new graduates of 2009. While I was among the masses of souls heading towards the crippled job market, I was surrounded by family, friends and well-wishers. Even as I returned home to NJ, I was the recipient of many congratulations and "You did it , boy-ee!".

However, my mind was elsewhere.

The school year 2008/2009 was crazy. Insane. Bonkers. From the academic front to the financial banks, I personally have reached and exceeded my limit for stress and worry.

With no money in the bank, I somehow managed to pay rent and stay in my apartment. With a history of being almost allergic to mathematics, I reached into a mental reserve and pulled out a 97 in my Psychology of Statistics class. And in addition to all of this, I was still a fervent student in the class of Life, learning new things about myself. I've learned things that I thought I already knew about myself, things that I considered to be unshakable truths, not of my choosing, but simply because...that's the way things were.

Yet, with all the drama this year was filled with...I stood on this stage, representing 4/5 years of failures and success, tears and laughter, confusion and solace.

While most of my fellow schoolmates would be looking for jobs and editing their resumes, my academic journey was not finished yet. I would be returning in the Fall to begin my Graduate Studies in Counseling.

And my mind is still elsewhere...

Because for the second consecutive year, I will be returning to work as a counselor at Kids Across America in Missouri.

Some/most of you may not know anything about this place, so I will attempt to explain it.

Imagine the Boys and Girls Club of America and Vacation Bible School meets Wild and Crazy Kids...hopped up on Red Bull.

Kids from all across the country will be filling church vans and school buses to make way to Joe White's camp, for 6-7 days of sports, crunkness and God's love. One of the first things that I was told during last year's staff training was that I had better be sure that I was prayed up before going to camp. If not, and if my intentions were just to work for the summer, I would be completely depleted before the summer's heat struck in July.

I want to go to camp with more in store, this time around. Last year was amazing. But what about this year? What do I have to give?

Somehow, I doubt that a group of wily 10-year-old's will be held or captivated by a Bachelor's Degree.

This year has left me tired. Empty. Pushed to the point of tears.

With all that I've experienced, all that I've been through, all that I've learned about myself, I've got to prepare myself to POUR all of that into these kids. I have a hunger for more, more than a piece of paper, congratulating me on reaching this level of success. For three months, I will be in a delicate position of leadership, more grand than any entry-level position.

These kids are coming from a variety of backgrounds, some more rugged than others. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God hasn't brought me through this year without a master plan behind it. I want to bear myself naked for this season, holding none of what I've learned for myself. God's love and provision for me has been so apparent; if for no other purpose, but to share and inspire others.


So.
From May 20th until August 12th, I will be in Missouri, doing my part in the Great Commission. Playing Warball, Football, Basketball/Having Impromptu Crunk Sessions/LOVING on groups of young men that God saw fit to allow me to lead. Even if only for a few days.

I attend college at Liberty University.

A lot of people (both attendees and otherwise) have a lot to say about it. Some like it, some love it, some hate it, and some...just want to graduate.

I've noticed lately that there has been a bug going around. I haven't really been bitten by it, but it'd be a lie to say that it hasn't affected me. A few friends of mine have caught it, but at this point in the game, I'm wondering how long I can run from it.

I'm speaking about the Marriage Bug.

Folks are getting engaged and whatnot, right and left. Those people who used to share a table with me at Singles' Cafe have moved on to more committed pastures.

And I'm not going to go into a schpeel about whether I am ready for marriage or not. That kind of conversation needs a can of Red Bull and chicken nuggets.

But in the midst of a conversation with a close friend of mine, I started to think about a particularly interesting aspect of getting hitched. Before the Ball and Chain become fastened to a young man's ankles, he is allowed one night of autonomy, set up from the ground up by some close homies.

This event is known as: The Bachelor Party.

I was encouraged to daydream.

If I could set up my own bachelor party, what would it look like? Would it be riddled with girls that like to get buckked-nekkid? Would I be drowning in a sea of Hennesy and Courvoisier?

I severely doubt it. My style is far from explicit. I try to keep it PG-13. (Note that I said TRY)

After a little thinking and rationalizing, this would be a few of the things I would like to spend my last day of freedom doing.

• Food: Enough of that nachos and salsa crap. I want to be able to eat whatever the heck I want. Meaning, probably a lot of everything. Quesadillas. Meat-Lovers' Pizza. Roti. Jamaican Beef Patties. Pineapple-Pomegranate Smoothies. Fried Chicken. I want it all - nothing is off limits.
• Entertainment: When I'm married and I start having kids, I'll more than likely have to get rid of most/all of my dangerous/illegal activities. With T-minus one night, I'll have to get as many un-couth shenanigans in a 24-hour period as possible. And this includes, but isn't limited to: Skydiving. Fire-breathing. Graffiti. Mooning a crowd. Peeing off of a tall building. Participating in a mosh pit. Dance Battle, turned into an enviable music video. And I want everyone to be sober for the entire affair.
• Music: Since this should be a high-octane event, I want all the bangers. Not club-bangers, mind you. The classics. The stuff that every man in a 10 mile vacinity can sing along to. Live music, if we can afford it. If The Roots can be there, so be it.
• Sports: An impromptu American Gladiator's match. And I shall be the victor.
• Gifts: I want to be callous, and just say, "Show me the money!". However, I will accept these following items: Complete Series of Seinfeld (if I don't have it yet). Every piece of music that Mars iLL has released and otherwise. My own DJ booth. Platinum coated Shell-top Adidas/Air Force Ones. A "Man Plaque" with my name on it. Each and every gaming console since SNES, with the most violent games included.
• ...and a moment of silence for my pinky ring. I don't show it off much. I usually have it in bubble wrap in my sock drawer. At that moment in time, I will be retiring it, since there will be no more room for it in my jewelry cabinet.

I'm kidding. Kinda.

Honestly though, although Marriage is a cup that I am not ready to sip from yet, I do plan on it, and it shall be quite the adventure, in and of itself. Cuz my wife shall be alladat and a bag of Fritos.

THESIS:
Throughout the history of the music scene in America, there have been various sounds and genres. One can almost say that these different genres were like musical personalities. If music genres were people, Jazz would be effortlessly smooth and debonair. Country would be a hard-working homebody. Dance-slash-club music would be a loud personality, dressed in eccentric (probably European) colors and Soca/Dancehall would be a party animal.
Three sounds in particular have grown and evolved into powerful cultural forces in America and across the planet, forces that refuse to wane against the tides of time. Hip-Hop, which fights for the title as the Most Controversial Musical Genre is only a few decades old, but has revolutionized the culture at large. It currently stands as the one musical genre that has faced death and resurrection. Rock, which is deeply embedded in America’s fabric, constantly struggles with identity issues. Soul Music, the genre that blended the sounds of sanctification and sensuality, usually resides in the backdrop, yet still resounds loudly throughout the music scene today.
My thought is this: with three dynamic sounds such as these, what could possibly be the result of the trio’s amalgamation? In other words, is there a place in our iPods for HipRockSoul? It would seem that none of these sounds could survive without the other, but could the three exist in the same set of headphones?
In order to ask this question, we need to understand what each of the individual genres mean to us. Hip-Hop fans will need to be able to define the differences between Hip-Hop and Rap, as well as other questions. Fans of the Rock genre should be able to draw a decent line between which division of Rock they prefer, or if they like it all, inclusive of Punk/Metal/Acid/Adult Alternative Rock. Fans of Soul need to simply know the roots of it, and recognize it as an ancestor of R&B, and not an identical twin.
It would also be very important to understand the role of music in our lives. Some may see it as a extension of themselves, a necessity for day-to-day survival; others don’t see it nearly as important.
BIG QUESTIONS:
• Is the thought of HipRockSoul too abstract to be desired?
• What possible purpose could HipRockSoul serve?
• How to pay each individual genre/culture their deserved respect even in the midst such a sonic delivery?

I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day.

For some people, this may come as a total shock. I call myself a poet, and poets are usually known as the people who live for the one day that being emotional and lovey-dovey is acceptable. Love is generally synymous with Poetry.

Other people remember me as the kid who dressed in a mourner’s black on the 14th, bought a red rose from Wal-Mart…just to light that mother on fire. (It stunk up the dorm quite a bit, too.) I remember deciding that the day’s mission was to ****block all couples in my vicinity.

Don’t get me wrong. I think that Love itself is a beautiful thing. The reason we are saved and have a chance at eternal life is because of An Amazing Love. And why else do we love Luther, Barry, Donny, Marvin, Teddy, The Temptations, etc.?

I think I know where this hatred came from. Psychology would tell me that something horrendous happened in my youth that affected my view on this day. I believe this horrendous occasion is called: Middle School. And I may not be an official Psychologist or Therapist yet, but I figure the blame can be:
• Never getting a valentine in grade school
• Having all my crushes laugh at me in grade school
• Seeing all the jerks/douchebags/losers/weedheads/bums get the girls that they really didn’t deserve
• An amazingly staggering low self-esteem
• …Etc….

But. I’m 21 now. Grown man status. What’s done is done, and therefore water under the bridge.

But I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day.

I used to hate it, with the fury of a thousand hates. I even wrote a poem about it, aptly entitled “Love Sucks”. There was even a part two.

However, I cannot hate it anymore. My bitter/emo stage has passed, and I have experienced love, or understood more of it for real. Not even from a relationship standpoint. I have grown and learned and understood how universal the idea of love really is. With my parents, family and closest friends, I have experienced love.

The idea that February 14th is the official Love day is laughable to me. I see it as a result of commercialism. As a matter of fact, I fear that the same thing is/has been happening to Christmas…(but that’s for another post, another day…)

It would be, and has been wrong of me to hate the day. One of the main things that I’ve learned about love is that there is no such thing as too much love.

It sounds cheesy. It sounds hokey. It sounds corny. But its true.

I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day. I see no real die-hard purpose for it.

But there’s always a reason to love.

There are three modes that Freud detailed as being a part of our psyche, the Id, Ego and SuperEgo.

The Id speaks on the behalf of the pleasure principle, doing what feels right and answering its biological desire. The Ego stands as the police force, in a way. The SuperEgo is the judicial system of the psyche, standing as the judge, declaring things right or wrong. The SuperEgo can also be understood as a balance between the Id’s irrational pursuits and the Ego’s legalistic tendencies. My Id’s name is Javier. My Ego’s name is Obby. My SuperEgo’s name is Biggs.

From time to time, they sit at a round table and converse with each other. The following is a transcript from such an event.

Biggs: So…ya’ll know that we officially have a Black President, right?

Javier: Whatever. That n*gga ain’t even really all Black. He’s part-brotha. Half-time.

Obby: Javier, you know you ain’t right. And, remember back in the day? Even an ounce a dark in yo’ meat, and you were considered totally Black.

Javier: Oh well. I know he better open up Rikers. My cousin’s been in there since ’96, and he didn’t even do nothin’.

Biggs: Are you serious? He held up a liquor store with a toothbrush and a bar of Ivory soap. Still, no one is completely sure how he killed the cashier.

Javier: He didn’t do it! I was with him, spankin’ that behind on Mortal Kombat with Sub-Zero! At my house, in Phoenix!

Obby: But his fingerprints were all over the place…

Javier: It wasn’t him.

Obby: …and around the cashier’s throat…

Javier: It wasn’t him.

Obby: …and there was a report of him buying several rounds of shotgun rounds earlier that day.

Javier: It wasn’t him.

Biggs: Are you just trying to be ignorant and callous?

Javier: It wasn’t him.

Obby: (Sigh) In any event, I know that this is supposed to be a really huge day for America, especially for African-Americans, all across the country. I mean, we just swore in the country’s first non-white president. But I’m still kinda…reserved about him. I just…don’t agree with all of his policies.

Javier: And? Man, eff any that got a problem with my Black President! We fidna paint that motha BLACK! Cookouts and Block Parties all over DC!

Biggs: Didn’t you just dismiss him as only half-black?

Javier: BLACK PRIDE!

Biggs: What is wrong with you? Do you even have a stance?

Javier: Look, this country ain’t done nothing for me, but raise my taxes and called me a n*gg*r. I got the right to have some kind of pride about this whole thing. (Starts singing “Oh Happy Day” from Sister Act 2)

Obby: I understand that. But you shouldn’t really act out. You might offend someone.

Javier: Hey, who has two thumbs and doesn’t give a crap? Javier Id, at your service.

Obby: But what about abortion? What about the economy? Seems kinda sketchy to me.

Javier: Look, things are fidna change. Baseball is no longer a national past time. Sales for ribs are about to go through the roof! It’s a celebration, snitches!

Biggs: You do know that nothing’s going to really change immediately, right?

Javier: Like what?

Obby: He has a point. Being a president doesn’t mean you just do what you want with the country.

Biggs: Not just that. Wheels are going to start turning, yes, but there’s more that has to be done. Especially on our part.

Javier: Whatever, n*gga.

Obby: This is true. The waves of his election and presidency will effect more than current issues. For example, his family has quickly become the new model for fatherhood, being supportive wives and husbands…

Javier: Oh, you talkin’ about Michelle? With her fine behind…

Obby: Javier! That’s the First Lady you’re talking about like that!

Javier: Shoot, I’d vote for her any day…she could be MY First Lady…

Biggs: That’s disrespectful. It’s a good thing you’re not anywhere near the White House.

Javier: …all of that brown goodness…

Obby: At the end of the day, right is right. There’s nothing we can really do about it. Pride aside, I just can’t agree with his stance on abortion. I’m sure he’s a great guy, but I really hope he handles this presidency properly.

Biggs: Exactly. We need to pray for him and how he handles this country for the next four years. We need to pray for his daughters and his wife…

Javier: …bootybuttcheeks!

Biggs: …and we should also keep in mind that we are Americans together. We may not like him, his policies or anything else, but just as how we had to respect our last President…

Javier: Eff Bush.

Biggs: …we should show him his due respect. And look forward to the future with eyes of optimism.

Javier: BLACK PRIDE!

One of the cockiest phrases ever is:

"When God made me, he was showing off."

It's always someone lookin' crazy fly. You wouldn't see a bum saying that, would you? You can't readily associate God with the stench of whiskey and throw-up.

Naturally, we can assume that whoever is saying this is some type of good-looking. And even if someone is saying that about someone else, I don't think they would choose anything less than pleasant to describe.

Maybe it's a part of our nature as man, or maybe we've been taught to understand God as utter perfection. As a matter of fact, I have a few people/things of my own whom I would instinctively think perfectly captured God's knack for making all things good and whatnot:




All pictures of beauty. All created by God, right?

So, what about this?


I consider myself to be an average looking person. Not too bad, nothing to scream about. Simply put...normal.

Upon thinking about it, what does that mean? Can I say that God was showing off when he made me?

I'm not Will Smith. I'm not Idris Elba or any other bronze skinned Adonis. I don't have chiseled abs or amazing pecs. I don't even think I'm insanely talented. I write poetry, short stories and the like. I try to put everything I have into every single thing I write, but that doesn't place me at the upper echelon of existence. There are tons of better writers out there than I. There are better singers, better dancers, better looking people.

I am not perfect by any means. So...does this mean that I am not allowed to say that God was showing off when he made me?

I think there remains something to be said about God and his design.

We know that He is the epitome of perfection. He is perfection. He is the trifecta of omni: omni-present, omni-potent, omni-scient. All places, all powerful, all knowing. So, just from that deduction, creating supermodels and natural treasures should be a cakewalk for him. He can create a sexy army of Jill Scotts and Kerry Washingtons by sneezing. He can paint immaculate canvasses with less than the least bit of effort. It's nothing for Him.

But to create something so incredibly unique? There are unique stars, unique planets, unique snowflakes, but unique me? There is only one.

There is only one.

And I know that there are billions of snowflakes that fall every winter, but the design is rather simple when compared to each and every one of us.

We are beautifully and wonderfully and uniquely and amazingly and divinely made.

Who out there can dance like me? Sing like me? Think like me? Write like me? Cry like me? Fart like me? Burp like me? Shout like me? Step like me? Move like me? Speak like me? I'm like a gumbo of awesomeness.

So...
God was showing off when he made me.