The End of the Beginning

I started “Ya’ll Know Betta” as a means of disciplining myself to write a book of essays over the course of a year. I initially planned to write a couple a month and build a total of thirty five to prepare for publishing. This, my final essay for this project, totals seventy. Actually seventy one, but I’ll address that later. I have been writing narratives and opinions since the ripe old age of seven, but I have learned that growing up is truly embracing what you are meant to do, and just doing it. By the time this posts, the entire collection will have been received by the US copyright office, beginning the first step towards publishing.

The best thing about doing all of this has been watching as a 9 year old who bears my father’s name laugh at the idea that his dad is actually a writer. I have drafted essays while sitting outside of karate classes, while sitting in the school parking lot, and while cooling my heels at various athletic practices. There are times when I’ve been too preachy, but he has always reminded me that humor is the best medicine and most effective teaching tool. Sometimes, just watching his interaction with folk provided inspiration. Espescially listening to the exchanges between he and his favorite person in the world, his namesake.

J: Hey Grandad, you know, I realized today that if I could get in more practice time, I could turn those triples into homers every time.

Grandad: I realize that Buddy. Boy, some of those other kids on the team are really slowing you down. They play like they’re nine.

J: They are, but that’s no excuse. At the very least, they could work harder at being close to my level. I mean, they’ll never get there, but they could try. (Shaking head).

Grandad: Agreed. The Sox would probably draft you by 12, maybe 13, if we could get you some more practice time. You know what’s even worse (pounding steering wheel)? That doggone school keeps eating up a good six, seven hours a day we could be at the cages…

My mother and I laugh at these two. In my opinion, they are the Black version of Kip and Uncle Rico, and provide me with more humor than any man ought to have for free.

I have tried to be true to my convictions for the last nine months, no matter how controversial or even contradictory they might have been. I believe in law and order, but as a parent, would do whatever was necessary to put food on the table. I believe in the Almighty and recognize the great works churches have done, but have the same scorn for educated church people that Jesus of Nazereth had in his day. I believe in relationships, but have learned the hard way that both genders play games, and a person’s level of income, civility and education have no bearing on their morality or plain sense of fairness.

I applaud Black education but abhor the way so many of us who have attained it treat those who may not have been so blessed. I know racism exists and is alive and well, but travels have shown me this is still the best country in which to live at the current time. I love family but truly understand Richard Pryor’s quote, “Family…is sometimes like having to serve a life sentence for a crime you didn’t commit.” Rich had a way with words.

I have been accused of being a hard on Black women. Perhaps. I have only offered what I thought were fair examinations of inconsistencies from my point of view. I long for a day when these double standards can cease. Black men and women were all transported here in the bottom of boats like animals. Perhaps it is time to work together instead of always making one gender take the brunt of the heat for the race’s problems. The double standard is what I have tried to expose here. I can write reams about trifling Black men and never hear a word, but 500 words detailing how some Black women are really out for self has sometimes caused an outcry as if I murdered someone. I am a Black man. I work at being a good dad, I’d like to think I was an OK husband (even my ex seems to think so, now) and I try to be a good fiancé. I have my issues like everyone else. Being a Black man, I’ll never see the world as anything but, because this is the skin I am in.

There were seventy one essays. One was removed. I had a standing rule that once published, I would edit essays, but not take them down. One posting, however, drew the ire of my most beautiful fan. While I felt it was satire at its finest, my fiancé took real issue with my fictitious accounting of how we met. Knowing the wisdom in keeping your woman happy, I pulled that posting and replaced it with a blow by blow truthful account of our meeting. It wasn’t anywhere near as funny, but the last thing that I want is Ruqayyah sad, hurt or worse, mad. I removed the posting but saved the essay. I still think it is hilarious, and it may make it into the book.

Thank you so much for reading. My next effort, also on Blogspot, will be the further (mis) adventures of one Flatbush Jones. For the record, Flat is real, and most of what I have written happened. I hope you’ll join me as I work on my next project, theflatbushfiles.blogspot.com. This has been a real pleasure. To paraphrase a man I admire greatly, "The words and humor have been God's. Only the mistakes were mine."
Cheers!

19 November 2009
Chicago