The DARK COMPLEX-ion...

Below is the uneditted version of an essay that I wrote for PULSE magazine. For the shorter, published version please visit www.gmad.org


The Dark Complex-ion: An inner monologue
A trip into one mahogany man's psyche.






















We've been indoctrinated and convinced by the white racist standard of beauty
The overwhelming popularity of seeing, better off being, and looking white…
-MeShell NdegeOcello, “Soul On Ice”



You’ve felt it all of your life.

At first, you thought it was a crazy outlandish idea, one without merit. You didn’t understand how it could possibly be true in this wonderful world that you’d been born into- the land of milk and honey, peanut butter and jelly, milk and cookies. You stared back at it every morning in the mirror and couldn’t imagine that it would have the consequences that it apparently has. You wrote it off, convinced that if anyone knew that you had these suspicions, you would be ostracized, demonized, forever branded a pariah. All of this, and you were only 5 years old. Even in your underdeveloped adolescent mind, you knew that it was wrong. You knew in your heart of hearts that it went against human nature and understanding. You thought that surely people were more intelligent than that. But ever since that day, you have been proven wrong on so many levels and on too many occasions. The reality was that you felt you were being treated differently because you were dark-skinned. Only five years on the face of the earth, and you had already become aware of The Dark Complex.

You were not light enough to assuage white fear and too dark to “lighten the race” for black assimilation. Being treated differently by those of the Caucasian race seemed par for the course. Even with your childish reasoning you had already internalized that the difference between black people and white people contributed to the difference in treatment that was often bestowed upon you and your family in a “mixed” setting. Strangely enough, that seemed logical to you. But then The Dark Complex came along, and turned even that strange perspective on its head.

You see, The Dark Complex told you that you were going to be treated differently because you were dark—and this inequality in treatment would be administered by your OWN KIND; those who were often mistreated themselves simply because of the color of THEIR skin. However, the color chasm that exists between black skin and white skin was far greater than what existed between black and chocolate, chocolate and brown, brown and mahogany, mahogany and café au lait, café au lait and pecan, pecan and cinnamon, cinnamon and “light”, “light” and “red”; these were the finer points. And because there was an infinitesimally smaller chasm between these shades of the same color, it seemed all the more illogical to you. So you buried it in your subconscious. You thought of it as spurious fodder; ridiculous, even.

Then you went to kindergarten.

You noticed that in Ms. Kanner’s class- since the majority of pupils were of African descent- there was nothing screaming inherent racism from the blackboard. However, you DID notice that the teacher’s pet was a little closer to Ms. Kanner’s color, the hallway monitors always seemed to be a bit closer to pink than you were. The principal was obviously a product of a mixed union. The only “darkies” were the “lunch ladies”, who served you your nutrition during 5th period with a mix of nonchalance and scorn. You still thought nothing of it. But one day, you got into a war of words with another student. Those hours playing “the dozens” in the schoolyard- most of which started with the insult “You’re so black…”, or “Your mother’s so black…”- seemed designed to make you believe that black was something to be ashamed of, made fun of, ridiculed. The word “black” would sometimes be followed by “and ugly” (i.e., “You’re so black and ugly…”) , so much that it seemed the two could be used interchangeably. But you shrugged it off. You knew better.

Then you became a teenager, and your hormones- skewed as you were led to believe that they were- had you looking at others not as just schoolmates but as objects of affection. It was then that your Dark Complex theory found weight. The girls that you convinced yourself you HAD to be attracted to blinked past your cocoa epidermis and made a bee-line for the redbone brothers with the slighter features. The first time it happened, you couldn’t believe it. By the fifth time, you felt like you knew what the deal was. Just as you were becoming more aware of yourself as a sexual being, you realized that there would be times when your pool of paramours could be limited to those able who valued the hue of your skin before they got to your heart.

However, even through all of that, you still managed to love yourself all the way into young adulthood. You winced when one of the college applications you fill out requires that you affix a picture of yourself. The Dark Complex once again rears its ugly head as you question why they would need to know what you look like when your academic merit, extracurricular activities and scholastic aptitude tests should provide the admissions counselor with more than enough information upon which to judge your suitability for their school. You pause for a second and wonder if this is a ploy to conspiratorially keep sepia-toned blacks out of those hallowed halls. In any event, you find yourself accepted to this prestigious historically black college and are well into your second year when someone comments that you are somewhat “pretty” and would make an excellent candidate for a certain fraternity- if not for your dark skin. As you hadn’t wanted to pledge that particular organization anyway, you go on to join the fraternity of your choice and dismiss that earlier conversation as just ignorance and the further perpetuation of collegiate stereotypes that had described charter members of these fraternities; stereotypes which no longer applied in the “real world”. Today you still find it amazing that, for at least 80 years before your matriculation, those very stereotypes existed on black college campuses. Even more amazing is that almost 20 years after your graduation, those same stereotypes still seem to exist and don’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon.


Fast forward to “real” adulthood, because this is where The Dark Complex gets REAL heavy. There you are, ready to take your rightfully earned place in Corporate America.
Because your college grades were above average and your references are stellar, you are lucky enough to have your resume circulated as widely as was possible back then- before the advent of careerbulder.com. You are somewhat taken aback when a human resources manager for a minority-owned business you interview with pulls you aside and apprises you of the company’s “plantation lullabies”. First and foremost, that it appears that only the “upper-echelon blacks” (a term she used to describe those whose ethnicity seemed blurred by a softer hair texture and brighter skin tone than your typical African American) got recommendations for promotions into the “good ole boys club”. You blink twice when she espouses that the only reason you got an interview is because your name isn’t decidedly black. Your eyebrows reach toward your forehead when she postulates that you will have to work twice as hard as your lighter-complected cohorts to gain the same respect. You are saddened both by the possibility that she may be right and the fact that she is black. You will later have a conversation with one of your contemporaries, who will secretly concede that his lighter skin may have assisted in his accelerated ascent of the corporate ladder. “Wow” is the only thing you will be able to manage to get out of your mouth.


But wait, there’s more…
















"They said, if you was white, you'd be alright, If you was brown, stick around, But as you is black, oh brother, Get back, get back, get back."
-- "Black, Brown, and White," by Big Bill Broonzy.

Your love of literature leads you to books like Lawrence Otis Graham’s “Our Kind Of People”, Toni Morrison’s “The Bluest Eye”, and bell hooks' “Salvation” and you begin to realize just how systemic this Complex is among your kind of people. You read about the “divide and conquer” tactics of slave-master Willie Lynch as it pertains to the mental enslavement of blacks by separating us according to where on the color spectrum the tint of our skin falls. You come across psychological studies wherein little black girls are given two dolls- one white and one black- and when asked questions about the characteristics of each, seem to attribute the most negative ones to the black doll. Movies like Spike Lee’s “School Daze” and D.W Griffith’s “Birth of a Nation” reinforce in you how undesirable your shade of sepia can be not only for white folks but for YOUR folks as well.


Then you look at popular media as a whole, and The Complex is in full effect. You wonder if you should be glad that you were born a dark skinned man and not a dark skinned woman, because they seem to get it the worst. You cringe when you are “regaled” with stories where black men are told by their families-their BLACK families- “don’t bring home no dark-skinned woman”. You are incredulous when you hear of darker women being told not to wear red lipstick or to stay out of the sun so as not to appear even more undesirable to a potential suitor. You chuckle (slightly) at the idea that photographer Thierry Le Goues was thought to be so radical (and almost accused of being exploitative) in showcasing dark mahogany-painted nude skin punched up by using nothing but a white background. You not only chuckle but laugh out loud that innovative photographer/graphic artist Jean Paul Goode- simply by introducing the regal dark beauty of Grace Jones- was touted as being so ahead of his time (and he was); as though black skin didn’t exist and wasn’t beautiful before he focused his lens on the obvious.



Even some of the most popular musical artists seem to have fallen prey. You are constantly miffed at and put off by current black hip hop artists featuring mixed race and “other” models in their videos, leaving the darker-skinned and undeniably black models in the background- if they cast a black girl at all. You groove to Kanye West’s music and give him props. You tell everyone that will listen that he is smart, enterprising, and artistically prolific. Then you damn near eat your words when you read that he is quoted in Essence Magazine- a publication geared toward empowering black women- as saying:
“If it wasn’t for race mixing there’d be no video girls. Me and most of our friends like mutts a lot. Yeah, in the hood they call ‘em mutts”.

After making sure that you’ve read that correctly, you shake your head. It’s not that you begrudge Mr. West his preferences; he can choose to date whomever he wants. However, at what point does preference bleed over into prejudice? It is this trend toward unbalanced casting in the media and in the boardroom that leave our mahogany mamis literally in the dark. What do statements like West’s say about THEIR beauty? How are they to compete in the dating world, when the lighter complected women whose “blackness” is visually diluted are seen as the only suitable mates for the modern black heterosexual male?

You pontificate as to if Beyonce, in all of her glamour and with all of her talent, would be as successful as she has been if she were just a couple of shades darker. Then you become incensed that you should even have had to pose that question in the first place. You do a running list of today’s celebrated black beauties (Halle Berry, Kimora Lee, Amerie, Alicia Keys, Mya, Jada Pinkett Smith, Melissa Ford, Tyra Banks, etc.), and it appears that your question has been answered.























But what of the modern homosexual male? You realize that this hybrid vigor is not relegated to just the straight world. That’s right; for all of our supposed progressiveness, gays are not exempt! You never understood why you couldn’t PAY a darker skinned man to give you any attention, while lighter “pretty” boys clung to you like (for lack of a better term) white on rice.


At the height of the “new” internet dating craze, you searched profile after profile and were confounded by the number of mahogany brothers looking for “light-skin blacks and latinos only”. You came to realize that for all of our marginalization by the larger gay community, black gay men have also played The Dark Complex card; black men who exclusively date white men in an obtuse attempt to somehow deny their own blackness; dark men who ONLY date lightskinned men as if their own melanin will somehow dissipate and blend into their lover’s skin as their extremities are intertwined during their most intimate moments; and light skinned men who wouldn’t look twice at another light skinned man because they find dark skin more brute, sexual, hyper-masculinized; animal, even. This is not to say that it is always the case- most of the time people end up with the one that steals their heart, regardless of the melanized stain of his skin (you would like to believe). You begin to realize that your dark skin- however innocuous you may think it is- whether it is simply desired, absolutely abhorred or completely fetishized, will always be a point of contention for some



You find that even in the black gay “ball” scene, the polarization is even more palatable due to the infinitesimally divisive list of “categories”; so much so that it has been a long-held belief by some unnamed sources that the lighter-skinned kids reign in the “fem queen realness” category and that the category of “face” is almost always reserved for those closest to the European ideal. The browner children have been relegated to the non-beauty categories of “sex siren” or “butch queen realness”. In an attempt to address this, there has of late even been further division in the categories; “light and lovely” and “dark and lovely”- as if the two are so mutually exclusive as to not be able to be judged side by side. You wonder: will “lovely” ever just be “LOVELY”, regardless of shading? It brings you right back to where The Dark Complex first found you, at the intersection of beauty and blackness- which for some still cannot peacefully coexist.


Two Lonely Hearts (On the Subway)
It all comes to a head when you’re riding the train home from church one Sunday. Its one of those days when you feel like you look really good; you are sporting a fresh cut, a beautifully tailored suit and perhaps your most stylish shoes. All of that shine on the outside is radiating on the inside, as you look up from your New York Times directly into the eyes of a woman whose gaze you have felt perusing you for at least since you boarded. Just as the train pulls out of the Fulton Street Station, The Dark Complex sits right next to you. You are literally screaming inside when this beautiful black woman (a café au lait confection rocking shoulder-length jet black hair, light brown almond shaped eyes, voluptuous, with just enough pucker in her glossed lips)says “excuse me”. Pulling away from the Arts and Leisure section, you make direct eye contact with her.
“Yes?”
“I just gotta tell you. I usually don’t get into darker skinned men, but you are attractive for a dark skinned man. I just wanted to tell you that.”
You’re sitting there, half flattered but completely dumbfounded without a clue as to why. “Oh, uhm…Thank you” was all you could stammer.

Trying to return to your newspaper, something just doesn’t sit right with what you just heard. You can’t concentrate any longer, and you didn’t understand why you are getting incensed at the idea of this “compliment”. Then it hits you..

“Excuse me. I know that you meant that as a compliment and I appreciate the spirit in which it was given, but please don’t say that to another darker-skinned person again.”

Somewhat taken aback, she furrows her brow and her almond-shaped eyes drop to half moons.
“Huh?”
“I said ‘thank you’, but I don’t think you should repeat that to anybody else”.
A little exasperated, she murmurs, “Ooookay, never mind then. Sorry!”
“No I mean, I’m flattered by what you meant, but what you said isn’t complimentary at all”. Sensing her growing inner dialogue (which probably wasn’t complimentary at all at that point), you try to soothe the situation by making it more personal to her..

“I mean, if I said to you ‘I don’t usually like black girls, but you are cute- for a black girl’, how would YOU take that? It is almost like saying that black women ON AVERAGE aren’t attractive, but you’re the exception”
You watch as she processes what you’ve just said. Then her quizzical expression changes to one of embarrassment. “You know, I never thought about it like that” she says.
You exchange a couple of pleasantries with her until you reach your stop, leaving her with some brain candy





And all of that brings you to the present. To this day, you will continue to contend that skin color will always matter- even to those who preach that it shouldn’t. You look at the spouses of the leaders in the black community- your civil rights leaders, your preachers and deacons, your politicians, your musicians and revered actors- and wonder aloud if the fact that their betrothed are polar opposites of their skin tone is the luck of the draw or by design.











So perhaps The Dark Complex has gotten to you without you even realizing it.

You repeat to yourself what you have always said in conversations about black people and skin tone. Namely, that it is only after we thoroughly embrace the idea of beauty in all shades that we as a people may even have a chance. Until then, you’ll continue to watch as the lighter skinned women literally overshadow the darker-skinned women in videos, movies, commercials and reality show competitions. You’ll continue to try to take the backhanded compliments on your attractiveness in spite of your dark hue in stride. You’ll continue to question each person’s motives when you see a “mixed” couple. You’ll continue to give pause when the “majority community” in corporate America are astounded by your articulation and demeanor, as though your race and/or your skin color couldn’t possibly produce someone with an extensive vocabulary and grammatically correct subject/verb agreement. However, you’ll NEVER stop luxuriating in the beauty of your black skin. See, your blackness is fine; the blackness of your skin, the blackness of your mind. You love the skin you’re in. You love your people- Black, Brown, Puerto Rican and Haitian. You’re just getting tired of waiting for black people to realize that just as ebony chanteuse India Arie proclaims that “I am not my hair”, that we are not (just) our skin. What do you think would happen if all black people one day woke up and we were all the same shade of brown? Would darker skin remain demonized by some, denigrated by others, or celebrated by all? “

Is a homogenous dispersion of melanin (thereby making all of us indistinguishable) what it would take in order to eliminate my people’s plight with The Dark Complex?





You tell me…

Don't Miss Tim'm West and company this Pride Friday- August 4th!!!!

The psuedoartistic punk will be in the house...

It will most likely change your LIFE...

Also featuring: Baron, Hanifah Walidah,
& others TBA



Friday, August 4, 2006
Katina Parker & Tim'm host
Spoken Word
a FREE open mic event
10:00 p.m.
After the BlackOUT Arts Series
Pride In the City, NYC
TRIBECA Performing Arts Center
199 Chambers Street #110SC
New York, NY 10007
info@tribecapac.org
A,2,or 3 trains to Chambers St
Between Greenwich St and the West Side Highway...

Go in, Let have!

"Torn"- The LIFEBEAT Reggae Gold 2006 debacle...

Read this


I need some frank discussion on what I should take away from the cancellation of the LIFEBEAT Reggae Gold 2006 concert that was slated for this coming weekend. I applaud all of the activism that went into making sure that the LIFEBEAT organization heard the battle-cry of innumerable SGL men and women across the country. It stands to reason that someone who spews hate and misinformation toward a group of individuals based solely on their sexual persuasion definitely should be called to task on it. I know that Beenie Man (and to a lesser extent a good segment of the reggae artist cognoscenti) has cast aspersions on the gay community with regard to promoting violence towards us- that’s despicable. And to that, I offer a hearty ‘Bravo!!!’

But... then I started to think about what the ramifications of this cancellation COULD be, and it just led me to more questions. When I first heard about the concert, I was put off by the organization’s selection of theme (reggae music, which has been historically anti-gay) and some of the artists (Beenie Man’s “Bad Man Chi Chi Man”- while catchy musically- espouses some of the most hate-filled, violence-oriented and homophobic lyrics I’ve ever heard in music, period.). My first instinct was the ‘WTF???’ reflex. Then I thought about what the larger picture MIGHT be. Could the reason the LIFEBEAT organization chose to do a reggae concert be to open up the dialogue on the issue of homophobia and in a grander scheme of things start Caribbean people to start really talking about the AIDS crisis at large? With what seems like “acceptable” gang-beatings and slayings of gay people specifically in Jamaica but inherent on all of the islands, maybe it is time for someone to start the wheels turning in the Caribbean psyche about the counter-production of homophobia as well as the need for AIDS awareness and activism.

Beenie Man, specifically, has sung (and still does sing on tour) lyrics that are deplorable. To be fair, he has issued a formal apology to those whom his lyrics have caused “stress…and outrage”- whether it is a half-assed apology or not is another issue. However, if someone as obviously IGNORANT as Beenie Man could put his money where is supposed mouth is and do something positive in the fight against AIDS, who are we to tell him he can’t? So what, he doesn’t ACCEPT the gay “lifestyle”. Not everybody does or will. However, not personally accepting homosexuality and taking action against a disease that affects us ALL are mutually exclusive. Take him to task (as has been done) for the hatemongering lyrics and the apparent inability he has to see the humanity in those with whom his lifestyle diverges. Demand RESPECT for our choice to be a part of the gay Diaspora without pandering for an acceptance from those that will in all likelihood never come. However, don’t be blinded by the same hypocrisy that you accuse him of- that being because he doesn’t agree with what you agree with he must therefore be essentially hushed. EDUCATE!!!

The bigger question (for me) is- what is he doing in the fight against Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome? What are we ALL doing about it? If AIDS is not- as we all know- a “gay” disease, at what point do we as gay people stop demanding homo-friendliness as the prerequisite for the right to fight for the abolishment of a condition that affects us ALL?

In essence, while this is indeed a victory against homophobia- hands down- is the sum total positive? If the purpose of the concert is to raise money for the war on this plague, why is the community in such an uproar over PHILOSOPHY? With HIV/AIDS funding and charitable concerts dwindling every day, are we shooting ourselves in the foot by hailing the cancellation of the concert a total “victory”-and thus the lost opportunity to gather much-needed funds for the cause? I don’t know. I’m torn in between the two…

A short letter to LOVE

Dear Love,

I don't really want anything, and I know I could've just sent you an email with the usual "hi", "sup", "hope you're doing well", etc., but I decided to write instead. You know, these days nobody (me included) takes the time to sit down and WRITE a real letter, whatwith the technological necessity of email, text messaging, etc.

I wanted to take a minute to tell you that I MISS YOU. It seems like we hang out with each other in spurts, and then, for some unexplained reason, we end up on opposite sides of the fence. Now, when we spend time together it is the greatest. I always have a good time and vow to do everything I can to keep you around. My mood elevates, my belief in my abilities are never stronger, and I am sooooo productive. You encourage me without having to say a word. You make life sooo easy and bearable. You know me inside and out, even though sometimes I try to hide myself around you.

Of course, the other side of the coin is that when you're not around I feel smaller, moodier, less able. I feel disgusted at myself for once again allowing you to slip through my fingers and at the same time feel helpless to prevent you from doing so. I try to figure out where we parted ways so that if you come back around to play, I can steer clear of our point of departure. I don't understand everything about you, but I'm willing to try. I don't always see you pulling away from me, and sometimes by the time I do you are out the door.


I know everybody wants to be your friend; everybody wants you to be a part of their life and it seems as though you spread yourself thin at times, trying to be everything to everybody all the time. That kind of schizophrenia would drive me crazy. But that's one of the things that so amazing about you; you seem to be so fluid (and elusive) at the same time. You can breeze into anyone's life at any minute, make a grand entrance and instantly become a friend of the family, someone they feel like they've known forever. I wish I had that kind of finesse.


Anyway, I wanted to let you know that if you ever decide to come back and hang out- even for a little while- I will definitely be here. I will clear my schedule and we can just sit and talk; or we can go to brunch on Sunday and pass around sections of The New York Times just like we used to do. We can walk through the arboretum and take digital memories of the day or go to the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. Remember how much fun that used to be? Remember how we used to laugh at people scrambling for chocolates and balloons on Valentine's Day (though I suspect that secretly we both would have liked to have been the recipients of those chocolates)? Remember how we used to commemorate our union every year? It always seemed strange to me that we couldn't make it past the third year. My friends always say that you are good for me- they see me smile more, they feel my positivity more, they like when you come around.

Its often said that you know someone for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. I'm hoping that I know you for at least two of the three. Drop by when and if you get a chance, it'll be good to see you again.

Your boy,
chad g.

Epiphany...NOBODY has EVERYTHING...

This will also be one of those "what is the meaning of life?" posts that I've been known to write.

As I was thinking about what I was going to get a friend of mine for his impending birthday, I was faced with the age-old question: what do you get for someone who has EVERYTHING? That made me think about what exactly is meant by "having EVERYTHING". And who seems to have everything in our society? Celebrities.

We revere celebrities. We adore them for what they have; they appear to have everything they (we) could possibly want. They live lavish lifestyles and cavort with the world's most visible, influential (and sometimes notorious)people. Their wealth eclipses the average person's lifetime earnings exponentially. They appear to have EVERYTHING. As a result, it appears that they have a lot of things just handed to them on a silver platter; free clothes from designers that we shell out our hard-earned ducats for, swag bags from awards shows that would make the average person feel like its Christmas in April, the ability to incite complete worship and mayhem simply by stepping into a restaurant. But look deeper. Do they REALLY have EVERYTHING? Are their lives REALLY that much different from ours, because they don't have to deal with some of the obstacles that we do? In other words, if we cut them- do they not bleed? My initial thought is that they do, indeed.


Shaq, who is 7 foot 1 (check), wears a size 17 shoe, has millions in the bank and scores of adoring fans- has a little dick (I don't know that personally- I'm taking Karrine "superhead" Steffans' word for it!)

Pamela Anderson- she who has the starring role in many a heterosexual male's masturbatory marathons (and perhaps in a couple of homo's dreams as well!)- has a very serious, if not lethal, form of hepatitis

Stevie Wonder- creator of some of history's most creatively musical songs- will never be able to see the beauty of purple in his lifetime.

Magic Johnson.













I'm sure even the "chairman of the board", Oprah Winfrey- who has more money than GOD and is probably the only person on the face of the earth that could singlehandedly solve the Cuban missile crisis, bring peace to the middle east, find a cure for the common cold, and get to the bottom of who exactly killed Tupac,Biggie, JFK and Jimmy Hoffa (all while encouraging you to live your best life)-has some perceived void in her all-expansive life. Who knows.

Some of my most beautiful, stunning, striking and genetically gifted friends have also been saddled with the most extreme cases of low self-esteem and self-loathing (whether they acknowledge it or not is another story).

It seems that many times we concentrate on what we DON'T have instead of what has been made available to us. We measure our success against those who appear to have much more than we do. Life, for some of us, is a scorecard of obtaining things that we lack (materially, spiritually, etc.) in a desperate attempt to have it "all". So...who REALLY has it all? I guess it depends on what you define as ALL? Is good health, loving family and friends having it all if you live in the projects- or in Iraq? Or is having millions in the bank but having to endure the disdain of all those around you something you can live with? Is there a middle ground?

I don't think I have the answer to the question for everyone. I was thinking the other day that if I had everything I could possibly ever want materially and have the unquestionable devotion of the love of my life as well as the guarantee that I would enjoy the health of an 18-year old for the next 80 years- would I STILL not feel complete?

I think the answer lies not in having it all, but in achieving HAPPINESS. Happiness, regardless of what your bank account, prognosis, or mother-in-law says, is the feeling that none of these things can limit or affect your peace of mind. PASSION drives us as human beings as well. Everyone will tell you that if you find something that you are passionate about in life (and would do it even if you weren't getting paid), that you are on the path to HAPPINESS. They would also go on to say that helping others has an indescribable happiness all its own. I would also add that STRUGGLE is another aspect of having it all- because if you never had to work for anything, how would you develop a true PASSION for achieving it? How would you appreciate it? Its only through surpassing OBSTACLES that we truly know our strengths. Into everyone's life a little shade must fall. It lets you know you're alive, human, mortal. Obstacles define your character, the lack of which prevents your character from fully forming. Imagine having every one of your wants fulfilled. How would you move forward, knowing that no matter what you did you would be satiated? What kind of person would you be? It has been said that “What defines us…is how well we rise after falling”. But what if you didn't have to struggle for anything? Trust fund babies and members of royal families must face this question sooner or later.

So, instead of asking ourselves what do we have to do to have it ALL, maybe the question should be: what will it take to experience true HAPPINESS?

I met a BEAUTIFUL woman named Shelly at a barbeque this past holiday weekend. We started talking about, of all things, what is "having everything", and what that means. Its funny how these things happen. Shelly said something that I think sums it up: "you know, having it all is actually just waking up every morning- THAT'S happiness."

Thank you Shelly...

I hold these truths to be self-evident...

Oprah ends each edition of her 'O Magazine' with the last-page article entitled "What I know for Sure". Reading the last issue, it made me think about what I know for sure (or what I THINK I know for sure).

So Far, I have learned that:

1- I believe in LOVE. I just haven’t really experienced it yet.

2- Power and Beauty are the constructs around which everything is based.

3- Bullshit, no matter how pretty it’s packaged, no matter how many polysyllabic words surround it, no matter how many people tout it as dogma, no matter how it has withstood the test of time, is still- at its core- BULLSHIT!

4- Sooner or later, everyone-EVERYONE- will disappoint you at some point and on some level. And there will come a time when you will also disappoint yourself

5- YOU have the power to dictate the way you are going to be treated.

6- If you surround yourself with people unlike yourself who have their own talents, aspirations, and vision, YOU grow more.

7- Skin color will ALWAYS matter- even to those who lecture that it shouldn’t.

8- Even those that should know better, don’t always know better.

9- Ms. Mitchell was right; you don’t know what u got ‘til its gone.

10-The MOST important lessons you can teach a child are that they are BEAUTIFUL and that they MATTER!!!

11-People show you EXACTLY WHO THEY ARE within the first 5 minutes of you meeting them.

12-There are always THREE sides to any story.


What do YOU know for sure?

Open Mike- Grown Man wit' MINE!!!

The scene: chad g. steps up on the makeshift platform stage at the open mike. He is dressed in grey Akademiks sweatpants, a white polo rugby shirt and white Nike uptowns. He adjusts his blue Yankee fitted- his "poet hat"- surveys the crowd for a few seconds, puts his left hand on the mic stand, clears his throat and then offers them this:
"Ahem!!! This piece is called "'Grown man wit' mine"- based (partly) on a true story..."






Saw him guzzling that “ghetto lemonade” at the Pink Tea Cup
You think I took my pseudo-Dominican punk-ass over to say “wassup”?
Saw him dropping it hotly at A P T
You’da thought I woulda opened my mouth a little, to ask him to drop it with ME
Behind him in line when he picked up his grande skim Mochachino latte
Seems like after he got his change and turned around, I coulda had SOMETHIN' to say

Clocked him eating brunch reading the Times at Bar 89,
Perfect opportunity!
Before I could move some dude from the restroom sat at the table and cock-blocked me

Peeped him drinking White Zinfandel at the Tower in ATL
and thought "damn, is dude following me?
'Cause if ya REALLY interested, roll up, broad-chested, and ask the kid for the celly".

But I know his type: ugly-fine with plenty of knotches in his Dolcegabbana belt
Satisfied with the facial and other more satisfying features he’s been dealt
Goin' thru boys and breaking their hearts with no emotions felt

But I wouldn’t mind being one of ‘em...

I need to just step to him and say:
"Yeah, you got pecs and abs and all that other jazz- but fuck dat I got those
Just like you nigga, I got deep eyes, full lips, 10 fingers, 10 toes
And you breathe air and fart and dream just like me
So all this posturin’ and side-glancin’ you doin' only tells me you’re not ready
For all the boy-passion and thigh-crashin’ and tongue-lashin’ I’m trying to give
And if you thinkin’ I’m just some good dick and wide back
Lemme change ya perspective.
Yeah you probably had ya heart broke and ya brain smoked by some boys not worth ya time
Well I have too and 36 years due, I’m finally a grown man wit mine
So if you not tryin to taste these lips and grab these hips you really losin’ out
'Cuz there’s at least 3 dudes RIGHT NOW who wanna know what I’m all about"

But then I stopped myself and realized I’m making all of this up in my head
That I’ve not said 3 words to this brotha and I’m already pronouncing him brain-dead…

WE DO THAT TO EACH OTHER, YA KNOW!!!!

So I walked up to him, with all this in my head and said “SUP”,
Convinced that his reaction would be WACK
You know what he did y'all?
He flashed me those pretty browns and those pearly 32's and said
“SUP” back!!!

So I said to him:
"Look, I'm not gonna do back flips and endure mind trips to let you know I think you FINE
I'm just gonna step in ya personal space and let you know the taste
'Cuz I'm a GROWN MAN WIT' MINE

And just when I exhaled and laughed and tried to find something else on my behalf to say
He opened his mouth and what came out COMPLETELY made my whole fuckin' day

He said:
See I think you too are fine and I'm a GROWN MAN WIT' MINE
So I'mma tell you what I saw...
I saw you getting choked up at the Pink Tea Cup
And standing at bay while I got my latte
And coming at the wrong time at Bar 89
And looking good as HELL at that party in ATL
So I'm glad you had the balls and gall to step up and all
to see if our vibes would grind

I said:
"Oh yeah? well I'm glad too, thats just how I do
'Cuz I'm a GROWN MAN WIT' MINE!!!"


WHAT?!!!

My father's name is Miguel...don't SON me to death!!!

My mother's name: Janice. My father's name: Miguel. Unfortunately, they have both taken the outstretched hand of God and joined him in heaven. In my estimation, those are the only two individuals who have to right to address me as "son"; NOT my boys who I hit the club with, NOT the brother working at ATRIUM greeting me as I walk through the door, NOT the dude asking me for the time as I'm waiting for the 2 train. And certainly not my good-good-girlfriend (whom I will not name, but she knows who she is!). Where the hell did this come from anyway? When did "bruh", "playa", "kid", "bro", "playboy", and the like morph into "son"?

I had the same stance two or so years ago, when everybody was going around calling each other "pa" ( i.e., "sup pa?"). Don't call me "pa"; I have no kids- to date, that I know of. (Pero, si hablamos espanol, puedes llamarme "papi" o "papo"- claro?).

This expression has become so ubiquitous amongst the brown and sexy that I don't think it even sounds strange to people anymore. And... its not confined to males! True story: I'm riding the A train back to Brooklyn late one night (as I've been known to do). Two o'clock in the morning on a Thursday. The train pulls into the West 4th Street station and the throng get on. Three young women, who couldn't have been more than 16 if they were 20, sat immediately across from me. What stunned me most was not that they were teenagers OUT SO LATE ON A SCHOOLNIGHT, nor that two of the three could easily have auditioned for "America's Next Top Model" and gave Ms. Jade a run for her money. What really furrowed my brow was the conversation-"...yo, dat nigga was mad cute, SON!"..."...soon as I get home, I'm hittin the bed, SON!"..." "...I'm not feelin like goin to class tomorrow, SON!". Since when is it okay for FEMALES to call each other 'SON'? WTF??!! That's supposed to be sexy?

Now I might be overreacting; "son" could just be another term of endearment that defies gender-specific categorization; sort of like "partna", "ace", or "running buddy". But I don't think so. Those colloquialisms denote an equality with those being referred to. When you address someone as "son", it denotes progeny, someone who would not be here if it hadn't been for you or your hormones. It automatically places the addressed in a subordinate position and the addressor in a position of reverence, respect and in most cases authority. Maybe its just me, and maybe I'm having a bad day, but unless your seed is responsible for my existence, unless you put me through college with your hard-earned money, unless you guided me into becoming the man that I am today, you don't have the RIGHT to refer to me as "SON".

but I digress, son...LOL