IN THE AFTERMATH
My birthday is over.
The weekend is over.
And all things considered, I'd rather my "special day" came and went without anyone lifting a finger.
Thursday night was nice. My wife and mother joined forces for a small party. I finally tasted Woody's barbecue for the first time thanks to my mother. And my wife bought a Coldstone's cheesecake that was tasty. I watched the Star Wars trailer for episode three, and it was worth sitting through sixty minutes of the OC.
Life was good…THAT night.
Friday was uneventful, but I'm not complaining. I was able to spend a whole day with my family.
Saturday was more of the same, plus I redecorated my living room (I’m gay that way).
But Sunday...I should never have even gotten out of bed. Isn't it amazing how one bad day can turn the previous four into a big pile of shit?
My mother had been "teasing" me with a shopping trip for a month, so when she mentioned it again I tried to talk her out of it, but really was looking forward to buying some new clothes. My wife and I got the kids ready and trekked to the white people’s mall where the shops are good and the people have manners. My wife was in a hurry to separate from my mother and I so she could shop for a dress. My first stop was a new pocket watch I wanted. I asked my mother what my spending limit was and she replied, "fifty-five dollars."
I blew it off because I didn't want to seem greedy. But in my head, I was floored.
Fifty-five dollars?
What the fuck can you buy for fifty-five dollars? THIS was the big shopping trip I'd been looking forward too? I went to two stores looking for something, one thing, to get and then I quit. My brain just didn't see the point of going from shop to shop looking for the one thing out of a hundred that I could get. It's like I wrote before, anything my friends and family can get for me, I can get for myself. And what I can't, they can't afford either, so what's the point?
Fifty-five dollars in today’s economy is just enough money to see what you CAN'T buy and have it rubbed in your face. I knew my mother didn't have a lot of money, but if someone were taking you to buy clothes, you'd think they'd have at least $200 on them. I walked aimlessly until my wife bought her dress and we could go home. I separated from my mother for a few minutes, but when I returned, she was gone. I was alone in a mall, walking by myself, window-shopping. And it doesn't get more depressing than that.
Whether it's true or not, when you go to a fancy mall, but can't buy anything, you feel like an outcast. It feels like everyone is looking down at you. The sales people can see you don't have any money and don't even greet you at the entrance. At one point, I went in to Victoria Secrets looking for my wife and realized I was the only man in the store and a female wasn’t accompanying me. Every time my eyes met someone else's I felt the need to explain what I was doing there. I would mouth the words "I'm looking for my wife." As if they gave a rat's ass what I was doing there, and feeling like a pervert only made me react like one, so I left pretty quick.
I tried the sitting in one place technique, hoping if my family were looking for me, they would pass by eventually, but that got old after thirty minutes. I'd set-up a meeting spot where my wife and I would check in and it was almost time, so I headed to the spot thinking we would look for my mother together. She never showed and I was off again. After looking on every floor and all the stores, I figured my wife and mother had to be in one of the major department stores. And sure enough, when I entered, they exited.
I was pissed about the fifty-five bucks. About my wife not meeting me when she was supposed to, about spending almost an hour walking around a mall like a vagrant. So I kept my mouth shut when my wife spoke to me and insisted that we leave for home immediately. But my wife wouldn't let it go, she insisted to know why we were leaving and why I was upset. As we stood by the elevator, things came to a boil...
There are times when having an interracial marriage is difficult. Especially when you're from two different social standings. My wife is Korean and I'm black. So she's never really been judged before, not like a black person. At most, more is expected from her, but that’s from other Koreans who expect her to be the best at everything. Like every Korean is a fucking Superman or Wonder Woman and being normal brings the whole race down. But for me, the worst is expected and I'm constantly fighting against that prejudgment every time I go somewhere. I remember being in high school and going out of my way to apologize to my white English teacher for a black girl's rudeness in challenging his authority. He asked me why black people, especially females, act so badly, and I shrugged my shoulders because I honestly didn't know. More recently, a friend and I were at Denny's when a group of black kids came in, ordered a load of food, ate some, and ditched. Leaving the waiter, a white guy, to deal with his boss who blamed him for not keeping a closer eye on the rabble. If I had the money, I would have paid for their food, and it was a lot. But all my friend and I could do was watch and feel ashamed, as if we had committed the crime ourselves.
Walter Mosley in his book ALWAYS OUTNUMBER, ALWAYS OUTGUNNED wrote, via his character, Socrates Fortlow, that the older black generation is always paying for the mistakes of the younger generation. Every year it looks like the behavior of black children, teenagers, and young adults is declining. And I admittedly stay away from black malls, not because I'm ashamed, but I don't want to be lumped in with black people who propagate the beliefs that continue to socially cripple African Americans in this country.
I know this may read harshly, like I hate my own race, but when my people have a chance to prove "mighty whitey" ideas wrong, they fail. I’ll go to a black theater in a black part of town and sure enough there's a black person (or people) talking to the goddamn screen. African Americans have let comedians define our character so no one takes us seriously and we don’t see the damage we’re doing to ourselves. We're not a people anymore. We're a marketing tool, a gimmick, a walking sitcom, or a racist punch line. We’re the bastard creation of every Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy joke ever written, but it’s getting old, and we’re not as funny.
My wife has no idea what this feels like and has a freedom I lack, to act on her emotions in public without the social repercussions. So when she tried to speak to me and I didn't answer, she went off. I tried to compose myself and calm her down. I asked her not to speak if she couldn’t control her anger, but that only made it worse, she raised her voice, and she lost it in a short, quick verbal double tap to my head. When the elevator doors opened, the damage was done. Maybe no one was listening. Maybe if they were, they couldn't give a rat’s ass what was said. But what if they were and in their eyes I fulfilled some prejudgment that all black people were ghetto? That my wife had married some Neanderthal who knocked her up with two kids and now she's stuck with me, the nigger, in a nigger marriage, trapped in a nigger world.
I was mad.
I was irate, but I maintained control in front of my mother. I chanted. I entertained visions of bashing my wife's head into a window. I chanted some more and stayed quiet.
Two of my friends called and tried to squeeze me for info once they heard my voice and knew something was wrong, but I blew it off. I'm not the type of guy to really talk about my problems. And when I do, I treat them more like jokes, proof that I am the black Charlie Brown. I waited for my wife to show some sign that she was sorry, but none came. I made the first move by telling her what happened with my mother. She followed by giving me insight to what she was thinking when I wanted to go home. I told her how I felt when she lost her composure, and she revealed she knew she'd fucked up, she knew I was really pissed, and thought keeping quiet for the rest of the day was the best course of action.
My wife has seen me get mad before, really mad. I'd never lay a hand on her or my kids. I'm not just saying that, I'm literally incapable of striking a woman and have way too many bad memories of getting spanked. When I was about ten, there were two girls who'd make fun of me, called me names and tried to start a fight. I always backed down because boys aren't supposed to fight girls...I didn't want to get my ass kicked (I fear pain). It was my mother who saw that, called me upstairs, and chewed me out for letting two girls push me around. When I went back downstairs, I stood my ground, put up my fists, and they backed down. They never bothered me again. But I didn't overcome my fear because from age 10 to 14, my biggest female adversary was my mother. I remember the last time she "spanked" me, she was using a belt (I think) and I was blocking with my arms. I think seeing my hands up pushed her too far, she dropped whatever she had and threw up her fists, daring me to fight her. I backed down because my mother honestly scares the shit out of me. Thirty-three and I'd rather fight some brute in the streets than go head to head with my mother. So after that, I was sixteen and living with my father when his psycho girlfriend, who I didn't like, grabbed me by the neck and choked me, jerking me right and left, for eating her can of Hormel chili. I never put a hand on her in revenge or defense. I'm physically incapable of hurting a woman and I'm not happy about it. But my wife doesn't need to know that. I've told her before, but she forgot. And who am I to disprove a fallacy that keeps her in-check. A man should NEVER hit or physically assault his wife or any woman in any way (and no, you can't shake her). But if she THINKS you'll do something to her...well, there's no law against that.
So I explained my viewpoints to her about her "explosion". She's always known how I feel about our behavior in public, but we all slip on occasion and that's what happened. She apologized and though it took another 24hrs to heal, I forgave her that night. Things are still a little "testy", but that's how marriages work. Some things just linger and it takes time for it to fully go away. But when shit like that happens, that's when the love has to kick in to keep you confident in your relationship. I think only 25% of a good marriage is about love, but that small quarter will make or break it faster than shit (the remaining 75% is divided between SEX and MONEY - and guess which counts more).
So Sunday passed and Monday came and went, but not without two more slaps in my face. I was offered two gigs, one writing, the other was as an extra in a poker movie. But I had to turn them both down so I can attend the wedding of a dear friend. The blog entires I'd made last week that I took down are back up at the request of my "fans" who appreciate what I do here. And last night I got porn in the mail. After getting beat over the head with ads for Hush DVD on the Stern show, I finally gave in a made a purchase. My selections were Janine in her first boy/girl movie, MANEATER. And Jenna in a remake of Hyapatia Lee's classic, THE MASSEUSE (that included a copy of the original).
And today is going like any other day in my life, full of temptation, angst, and regret.
JPG.
The weekend is over.
And all things considered, I'd rather my "special day" came and went without anyone lifting a finger.
Thursday night was nice. My wife and mother joined forces for a small party. I finally tasted Woody's barbecue for the first time thanks to my mother. And my wife bought a Coldstone's cheesecake that was tasty. I watched the Star Wars trailer for episode three, and it was worth sitting through sixty minutes of the OC.
Life was good…THAT night.
Friday was uneventful, but I'm not complaining. I was able to spend a whole day with my family.
Saturday was more of the same, plus I redecorated my living room (I’m gay that way).
But Sunday...I should never have even gotten out of bed. Isn't it amazing how one bad day can turn the previous four into a big pile of shit?
My mother had been "teasing" me with a shopping trip for a month, so when she mentioned it again I tried to talk her out of it, but really was looking forward to buying some new clothes. My wife and I got the kids ready and trekked to the white people’s mall where the shops are good and the people have manners. My wife was in a hurry to separate from my mother and I so she could shop for a dress. My first stop was a new pocket watch I wanted. I asked my mother what my spending limit was and she replied, "fifty-five dollars."
I blew it off because I didn't want to seem greedy. But in my head, I was floored.
Fifty-five dollars?
What the fuck can you buy for fifty-five dollars? THIS was the big shopping trip I'd been looking forward too? I went to two stores looking for something, one thing, to get and then I quit. My brain just didn't see the point of going from shop to shop looking for the one thing out of a hundred that I could get. It's like I wrote before, anything my friends and family can get for me, I can get for myself. And what I can't, they can't afford either, so what's the point?
Fifty-five dollars in today’s economy is just enough money to see what you CAN'T buy and have it rubbed in your face. I knew my mother didn't have a lot of money, but if someone were taking you to buy clothes, you'd think they'd have at least $200 on them. I walked aimlessly until my wife bought her dress and we could go home. I separated from my mother for a few minutes, but when I returned, she was gone. I was alone in a mall, walking by myself, window-shopping. And it doesn't get more depressing than that.
Whether it's true or not, when you go to a fancy mall, but can't buy anything, you feel like an outcast. It feels like everyone is looking down at you. The sales people can see you don't have any money and don't even greet you at the entrance. At one point, I went in to Victoria Secrets looking for my wife and realized I was the only man in the store and a female wasn’t accompanying me. Every time my eyes met someone else's I felt the need to explain what I was doing there. I would mouth the words "I'm looking for my wife." As if they gave a rat's ass what I was doing there, and feeling like a pervert only made me react like one, so I left pretty quick.
I tried the sitting in one place technique, hoping if my family were looking for me, they would pass by eventually, but that got old after thirty minutes. I'd set-up a meeting spot where my wife and I would check in and it was almost time, so I headed to the spot thinking we would look for my mother together. She never showed and I was off again. After looking on every floor and all the stores, I figured my wife and mother had to be in one of the major department stores. And sure enough, when I entered, they exited.
I was pissed about the fifty-five bucks. About my wife not meeting me when she was supposed to, about spending almost an hour walking around a mall like a vagrant. So I kept my mouth shut when my wife spoke to me and insisted that we leave for home immediately. But my wife wouldn't let it go, she insisted to know why we were leaving and why I was upset. As we stood by the elevator, things came to a boil...
There are times when having an interracial marriage is difficult. Especially when you're from two different social standings. My wife is Korean and I'm black. So she's never really been judged before, not like a black person. At most, more is expected from her, but that’s from other Koreans who expect her to be the best at everything. Like every Korean is a fucking Superman or Wonder Woman and being normal brings the whole race down. But for me, the worst is expected and I'm constantly fighting against that prejudgment every time I go somewhere. I remember being in high school and going out of my way to apologize to my white English teacher for a black girl's rudeness in challenging his authority. He asked me why black people, especially females, act so badly, and I shrugged my shoulders because I honestly didn't know. More recently, a friend and I were at Denny's when a group of black kids came in, ordered a load of food, ate some, and ditched. Leaving the waiter, a white guy, to deal with his boss who blamed him for not keeping a closer eye on the rabble. If I had the money, I would have paid for their food, and it was a lot. But all my friend and I could do was watch and feel ashamed, as if we had committed the crime ourselves.
Walter Mosley in his book ALWAYS OUTNUMBER, ALWAYS OUTGUNNED wrote, via his character, Socrates Fortlow, that the older black generation is always paying for the mistakes of the younger generation. Every year it looks like the behavior of black children, teenagers, and young adults is declining. And I admittedly stay away from black malls, not because I'm ashamed, but I don't want to be lumped in with black people who propagate the beliefs that continue to socially cripple African Americans in this country.
I know this may read harshly, like I hate my own race, but when my people have a chance to prove "mighty whitey" ideas wrong, they fail. I’ll go to a black theater in a black part of town and sure enough there's a black person (or people) talking to the goddamn screen. African Americans have let comedians define our character so no one takes us seriously and we don’t see the damage we’re doing to ourselves. We're not a people anymore. We're a marketing tool, a gimmick, a walking sitcom, or a racist punch line. We’re the bastard creation of every Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy joke ever written, but it’s getting old, and we’re not as funny.
My wife has no idea what this feels like and has a freedom I lack, to act on her emotions in public without the social repercussions. So when she tried to speak to me and I didn't answer, she went off. I tried to compose myself and calm her down. I asked her not to speak if she couldn’t control her anger, but that only made it worse, she raised her voice, and she lost it in a short, quick verbal double tap to my head. When the elevator doors opened, the damage was done. Maybe no one was listening. Maybe if they were, they couldn't give a rat’s ass what was said. But what if they were and in their eyes I fulfilled some prejudgment that all black people were ghetto? That my wife had married some Neanderthal who knocked her up with two kids and now she's stuck with me, the nigger, in a nigger marriage, trapped in a nigger world.
I was mad.
I was irate, but I maintained control in front of my mother. I chanted. I entertained visions of bashing my wife's head into a window. I chanted some more and stayed quiet.
Two of my friends called and tried to squeeze me for info once they heard my voice and knew something was wrong, but I blew it off. I'm not the type of guy to really talk about my problems. And when I do, I treat them more like jokes, proof that I am the black Charlie Brown. I waited for my wife to show some sign that she was sorry, but none came. I made the first move by telling her what happened with my mother. She followed by giving me insight to what she was thinking when I wanted to go home. I told her how I felt when she lost her composure, and she revealed she knew she'd fucked up, she knew I was really pissed, and thought keeping quiet for the rest of the day was the best course of action.
My wife has seen me get mad before, really mad. I'd never lay a hand on her or my kids. I'm not just saying that, I'm literally incapable of striking a woman and have way too many bad memories of getting spanked. When I was about ten, there were two girls who'd make fun of me, called me names and tried to start a fight. I always backed down because boys aren't supposed to fight girls...I didn't want to get my ass kicked (I fear pain). It was my mother who saw that, called me upstairs, and chewed me out for letting two girls push me around. When I went back downstairs, I stood my ground, put up my fists, and they backed down. They never bothered me again. But I didn't overcome my fear because from age 10 to 14, my biggest female adversary was my mother. I remember the last time she "spanked" me, she was using a belt (I think) and I was blocking with my arms. I think seeing my hands up pushed her too far, she dropped whatever she had and threw up her fists, daring me to fight her. I backed down because my mother honestly scares the shit out of me. Thirty-three and I'd rather fight some brute in the streets than go head to head with my mother. So after that, I was sixteen and living with my father when his psycho girlfriend, who I didn't like, grabbed me by the neck and choked me, jerking me right and left, for eating her can of Hormel chili. I never put a hand on her in revenge or defense. I'm physically incapable of hurting a woman and I'm not happy about it. But my wife doesn't need to know that. I've told her before, but she forgot. And who am I to disprove a fallacy that keeps her in-check. A man should NEVER hit or physically assault his wife or any woman in any way (and no, you can't shake her). But if she THINKS you'll do something to her...well, there's no law against that.
So I explained my viewpoints to her about her "explosion". She's always known how I feel about our behavior in public, but we all slip on occasion and that's what happened. She apologized and though it took another 24hrs to heal, I forgave her that night. Things are still a little "testy", but that's how marriages work. Some things just linger and it takes time for it to fully go away. But when shit like that happens, that's when the love has to kick in to keep you confident in your relationship. I think only 25% of a good marriage is about love, but that small quarter will make or break it faster than shit (the remaining 75% is divided between SEX and MONEY - and guess which counts more).
So Sunday passed and Monday came and went, but not without two more slaps in my face. I was offered two gigs, one writing, the other was as an extra in a poker movie. But I had to turn them both down so I can attend the wedding of a dear friend. The blog entires I'd made last week that I took down are back up at the request of my "fans" who appreciate what I do here. And last night I got porn in the mail. After getting beat over the head with ads for Hush DVD on the Stern show, I finally gave in a made a purchase. My selections were Janine in her first boy/girl movie, MANEATER. And Jenna in a remake of Hyapatia Lee's classic, THE MASSEUSE (that included a copy of the original).
And today is going like any other day in my life, full of temptation, angst, and regret.
JPG.
posted by QABBAL at 3:39 PM
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