Forgivness Not Permission

I don't know what it is but telling me no always makes me want to do it more. As a courtesy to my parents I asked permission to see the movie Boomerang. I think I was about 14 when it came out--maybe 15. Either way I was under the recommended age of seventeen. I emphasize the term 'courtesy.' I asked to give them an opportunity to sanction me viewing the film. Growing up in that super religious household (as far as that kinda stuff goes, we won't even go into all the hypocritical stuff) I had an inkling that they may not grant me permission to view the film. True to form I was denied.

For me no usually doesn't mean that it can't happen. It just means that I have to adjust some things to make it happen. I devised a way to see the film anyway and I saw it. This taught me something. Sometimes when you attempt to go through the proper channels you may be denied. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I do not ask for permission. I ask for forgiveness. Basically, I'll just do what I want to do and when you call me on it, I'll say oops my bad. I'm not suggesting that this is the best way to do things or that it is right. There is something inherently manipulative about it inasmuch as I've already thought it out and because there is a possibility that you'd say no I'm just gonna forgo that conversation. In this way if you were to say no and I did it anyway I would be being defiant like I was with my parents about the movie. If I don't ask in the first place I'm just being presumptuous.

I can recall being in church and my desire to see Boomerang was mentioned from the pulpit. I can't be certain, but this was probably followed up by some admonitions to parents to keep a good eye on your kids or something like that. As I was sitting in the pew listening to my business being put on front street I had mixed emotions. On one hand I thought it inappropriate for him* to discuss that from the pulpit. On the other hand I was smiling and rubbing my hands together on the inside ala the bad guy on Inspector Gadget because I had already viewed the film. Whereas him* thought him* was making himself* look big by letting the congregation know how he vetoed that, etc., I relished in the fact that I had already done what I wanted to do anyway. Maybe this will make for good holiday conversation. As a matter of fact maybe I'll make a list of stuff that I did that they didn't know about and share it during the holiday. Anybody wanna come to my Thanksgiving?

Untitled

Only three others share this secret, our friends the Sorceress, Man-At-Arms and Orko. Together we defend Castle Grayskull from the evil forces of---oh wait, I just had a HeMan flashback. Seriously though not a lot of people know what I'm about to share. It is our life experiences, environment and level of exposure to sundry things that shape who we are, influence how we behave, and provide a framework from which to draw expressions used in common vernacular. One of my expressions is "I don't hook for free." Let's examine where that came from.

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Lisa was my skinny aunt who was maybe fifteen or sixteen at the time. I was roughly five or six. I wish I had some baby pictures on hand from that age. I was so cute! Anyway, not the point of the story. Actually Lisa wasn't really my blood aunt. She was my grandfather's adopted daughter. Rumor had it that she was actually another man's child but he adopted her anyway. My grandfather and Lisa's mother had three other daughters together, but Lisa was always rumored to the illegitimate child of Deloris, Lisa's and my other aunts' mom. Everybody engaged her like they did everyone else because for sure the four girls were sisters even if her paternity was in question.

We stayed in a small town in southeast Georgia. The population was 702 at the 2000 U.S. Census. That small. There was a set of railroad tracks that separated the "sides" of town. My granddaddy's property was about 2.5 acres and had two houses on it. We lived in one house and he lived in the other one. Since the houses were only yards apart sometimes we ate dinner at either house. It was not uncommon for my mom to cook at our house and then walk down and cook at my grandfather's house. Mind you, he had four daughters living with him, but my mom would still cook over there sometimes. He was particularly fond of her potato salad and pig feet. Yeah, that kinda country.

I don't remember exactly when it happened, but it happened over a period of time. When I would come inside from being outside playing or when Lisa would come outside to get me from playing we'd go "make up granddaddy's bed." That was the name assigned to the deed. What it really meant was we were going to go in granddaddy's bedroom and hunch, at first. Then it progressed to me having to take off my clothes and attempt to penetrate her. She guided me though the process of how to "make a woman feel good." What a foolish proposition to think that a 5-6 year old boy could make a teenager, much less a woman, feel anything.

I knew absolutely nothing about any of the other mechanics necessary to engage in copulation. I can remember her becoming annoyed when it would slip out and she'd have to put it back in. The realism is that you can see how that could happen at 5-6 years old. If I didn't seem into it she also become annoyed. I knew what we were doing was wrong, but I was young.

It didn't always just happen when we were home alone. Sometimes my grandfather would be in the front room asleep. He slept so hard because he worked at a factory and did hard labor. She would usually put the night stand in front of the door to prevent anyone from barging in on us. After a while I began to tell her that I didn't want to do that anymore. Each subsequent time she would tell me that it would be the last time and that she was going to buy me some Ruffles Sour Cream and Cheddar potato chips and a Sprite. These happen to be some of my favorite junk food snacks even now. She even told me that my younger brothers didn't mind making up granddaddy's bed with her and that she had already bought them their chips and soda. In my ignorance I reluctantly agreed to continue with hopes of securing my prize for my obedience.

Like Chinua Achebe entitled one of his books, "Things Fall Apart." We had no reasons to expect anything to go wrong because we had gotten away with it for so long. Notice the pronoun shift. Even though I was young, I knew this was wrong. I did not try to stop it. I could have told my parents, yet I let it persist. The last time it happened my mother came down the hall pushed the door slightly, felt the resistance of the night stand, but was able to peer into the room and see what was going on. I know she got a full eye view because I would see her eyes through the crack. I was scared and nervous as hell, because I knew this wasn't going to be pretty. I'll skip the details on the fall out but I'll say it included a belt, a knife, some blisters and closer monitoring.

To top it all off I still didn't get my chips and soda. When people ask me to do something and I remark, "I don't hook for free," this is where that saying came from. I don't like to be taken advantage of. I like to know what you're going to be able to do for me before I put myself out. Some people might think this extremely crude that I would make light of this situation. To the contrary, I just can't profit anything from dwelling on the past. I allowed myself to be abused for the promise of some goods in return. That's pretty much was hooking/prostitution is. I remember the first time I said it to my supervisor when I agreed to be chair of the leadership team. She was looking at me like she had no clue what I was talking about. For a brief moment I thought I had gone too far, but after I asked her if I was going to get an extended contract, she came back (she looked out of it for a second) and told me yes. I mean, the situation is different because I was a child, but it's pretty much the same. I don't have any hard feelings toward her and I think I'm pretty well adjusted. Prior to reading this, would you have ever guessed?

The subject of child molestation, especially among black families is taboo, but happens so much more often that most care to think about or admit.

Off the subject, but what is it about saying, "This shouldn't leave this room," or "Don't tell anybody," that makes people just run and tell whatever you asked them to not tell? I know that usually when people say that to me, I interpret it as only tell the one person who you always tell stuff. Sometimes though depending on the seriousness of the issue it really means don't tell anyone at all. A situation happened this past week on the job when we were in a meeting and asked to not divulge what had been discussed. It got out and I had people coming up to me on Friday asking about what was said at the meeting--including the building principal. Why can't people keep their mouths closed?

Continued

Day 3 - So now it's Saturday. My first session started at 8:15 a.m. I woke up around 7:48 (kinda weird how I remember times so exactly) and got dressed. I walked out my room at 8:15 headed to the session. Nothing to report from the sessions. I started getting antsy around 5ish and called Michelle to see where she was. I called twice and got no answer. If I call you twice and don't get an answer, you're as good as left. I hopped on the train to run a few errands around town. I needed some shampoo and stuff like that. At some point she called to see where I was and was disappointed that I "left her." I told her that I called twice, but she said she didn't get the calls. While I was out I saw this older black guy on the street passing out campaign flyers in support of Hillary Clinton. The other people on the street to whom he offered the flyers were quite disrepectful to this man. Some even went so far as to curse him out because he was supporting the candidate of his choice. The people were making derogatory remarks about him and insisted that he was supporting the wrong candidate. I need to mention that the people acting up like this all looked like me, just so that you can paint that mental picture of the scene.

I was still tired from the night before but agreed to an area called the West End to grab a bite to eat. I thoroughly enjoyed my meal. Prior to arriving at the restaurant there were a whole lot of people trying to hustle stuff on the streets--flowers, horse rides, candy and food. It was unreal. I can't recall how many times I said no that night. Since I was already beat when we got back to the hotel I just crashed for the night.

Day 4 -Michelle left this morning. It's Sunday. What does any good Baptist boy do on Sunday mornings? You guessed it. I went to church. I looked up a couple of churches on a black church directory website but then I remembered about the Potter's House under the effacious leadership of the renowned Bishop T.D. Jakes. I called a cab to take me. It was almost $30 one way. I went ahead and did it since I don't know when the next time is that I'll ever return to Dallas. The cab driver was wildin'. He was going off because he said the bellmen downstairs wouldn't give him the "good" trips like to the airport or the Galleria Mall where he would make $30-40 one way. The bellman approached the window once I was inside the cab and asked the cab driver if he had a number. I wasn't clear on what they were talking about, but I did know that he wasn't really asking him for a number. Those cabs are out there every single day. Why would he not already know the numbers to all the cab services who frequent the hotel? The cab driver later explained to me that it was code to ask if he intended on bribing the bellman to get one of the good jobs. The cab driver shared with me that he was Muslim and participating in any form of bribery is against his religion. I told him it wasn't necessarily bribery so much as it is the way business is transacted in a capitalistic society. If you want preferrential treament, you pay a premium. People who fly first class are not bribing Delta for the good seats; they are paying the cost.

Once I arrived at the church there was a seemingly never ending flow of people from teh church to the parking lot. It looked like a number that no man could number*. I got there in between services. I had to wait about 30 minutes before the next service began. The service was pretty good although Bishop Jakes didn't preach. He hurt his back in the earlier service so they just showed the DVD of him preacing from the earlier service. The guy who was MCing the service was pretty funny.

Day 5 - I woke up Monday knowing that this was my last day in town and realized that I hadn't done any of the tourist stuff. I went to the infamous grassy knoll and the book depository from where the shot that killed JFK allegedly came. The grassy knoll area is so small. I thought it was going to be the expansive space, but it's really not. I went downtown to another mall and this guy who was selling on the street directed me to some other touristy (I made that up) stuff that in which I might be interested. When I made it in that night a friend of mine who I had called earlier in the day called me back to let me know he actually was coming into Dallas for a few days. I wish he would have arrived sooner, but alas. We kept missing each other, but we met up later that night for drinks. The time got away from us and I drug my tired azz back to my hotel knowing that when I awoke I'd have to pack and start the process of getting back to the boro.

My luggage didn't arrive with me and I just got it this morning around 12:48 a.m. from the delivery service. I had to bum a ride to work yesterday. On top of that the friend who was supposed to take me home didn't come through. To say I was pissed would be the understatement of the decade. I know in friendship and relationships we don't do things to keep score, but the one time I actually need you you don't come through. That does not a happy James make. Although she knew in advance that I needed her to pick me up she texted me on the day I was to return to town to tell me that she had a meeting. Not even a phone call--a text. I can forgive her, but it's gonna cause me to pull back. Not that I'm out for vengance, but she better not need anything anytime soon.

*There's a prize for the first person who can tell me who made that statement.

Games

So I usually leave work around 2:15 each day, even though we're technically not scheduled to get off until 3:55. The school I work at is on a block schedule, so I teach three classes and have fourth block planning which starts at 2:09. I don't sign out or check out with anyone because I figure there's so many people who work here and so much junk going on that no one has time to keep up with little ole me. I get home on the sofa in my draws and a t-shirt ( I start stripping at the door) chillin' eating me some pork fried rice and chicken wings and my cell phone rings. It's someone from the school, but you know it's the main number, so there's no way for me to tell who it is. I answer and it's one of the assistant principals who is my primary evaluator. Let's call him Mr. G. The conversation goes something like this:

JayBee: Hello
Mr. G.: Hey JayBee, I need to meet with you.
JayBee: Um..okay..can it wait til tomorrow?
Mr. G: Naw, we need to do it today.
JayBee: What's it about?
Mr. G: We can't talk about it over the phone. We need to discuss it face to face.
JayBee: Okay...um give me about 15 minutes and I'll come over there.
(In my mind I'm like crap because I'll have to get dressed and drive back to work to see what the freak he wants.)
We go back and forth a little bit more. I've forgotten now exactly what he said to make me say this:

JayBee: Mr. G., stop playing games. You know I'm not on campus.
Mr. G.: I know you're not. Didn't I tell yo black azz not to be leaving without anyone knowing?
JayBee thinks to himself,"I don't remember him saying it, but whatever" I don't respond.
The conversation fizzled. He really didn't need to meet with me, but he and another teacher decided to "get me" by calling me knowing I wasn't at work. Luckily for me he like me and he wasn't being serious. The realism is though, we too m effin old to be playing games. If you want something from me, just say so.

The thing that I don't like about asking people who are in authority to do stuff is that there is the chance they could say no. Me being me, if it's something that I've already decided that I'm going to do, I'm going to do it anyway. If I do it and you've already said no then you'll think I'm being insubordinate. That's why I'd rather ask for forgiveness than ask for permission. Umma do me (Rocko) and if it's a problem later on, I'll just be like my bad--I didn't know--I'll do better or some similar half-azzed excuse.

Action!

It is difficult for other people to understand why I'm not all gung-ho about going home for the holidays. I realize that most people want nothing more than to be with their families during this time of year. However, for me, I'm not feeling the holidays like that. As a matter of fact, I choose not to go home very often because I have so many issues with some of the things going on there. Perhaps most people grew up in with a nice home environment. That is not the context from which I draw my lived experience. Moreover, I believe that it is because most people had a "normal" home life, that they find it hard to understand when someone from a dysfunctional situation chooses to distance themselves from home.

For one, my mother's husband (until I see a blood test I won't call him my f____r), has had both legs amputated and is blind and still calls himself "pastoring" a church. He needs to sit down somewhere. How can someone in his condition effectively lead a flock of parishoners? On top of the health issues, he has so many psychological issues that it is not funny. I dont' have the emotional energy right now to go into detail, but suffice it to say ole dude is crazy. The sad part is that he thinks it's everyone else--a hallmark of people in his mental state.

The reason most people cannot wrap their minds around someone adamantly refusing to be involved in home life is because of what I call "The Script." Society has written a stage play in which our roles are defined, complete with stage directions. According to the script, any dutiful son should be home with family, sitting around the fireplace reminiscing on days gone by. I'd much rather skip meals for three days. (Anyone who knows me knows how much I love to eat.) People who deviate from the script are labeled as social misfits by society. I do not apologize for deviating from the script. If anyone had a home life like I had, and I realize that other people had it so much worse, then they would understand why I choose to exit stage left, rather than move in closer.

I have no desire to have a relationship with that man. He keeps calling me and I keep ignoring his calls. Last night I was duped into answering the phone. I have his number stored as Don't Answer, but for some reason I looked at the digits instead of the words and hit the talk button. As soon as the interrogation began I had regretted not reading, after all, reading is fundamental. The question about why I haven't returned calls came up. So as not to have a heated discussion in front of my company I simply said I'd been busy. Of course, he didn't like that answer and asked me if I was angry with him. That's the understatement of the freakin' decade. I didn't even have language to have that conversation with him so I had to end it so that my attitude wouldn't be bad, since I was on my way out.

When I talk to some of my friends about how I feel they try to tell me how I should feel and what I should do. I am not interested in how you think I should feel or what you think I should do. That's why I rarely discuss it because most people simply cannot wrap their minds around the decisions that I have made with respect to this situation. Their advice always heads toward trying to talk to him and getting over it, etc. I really can't be mad at them because those are the types of answers that should be given to someone based on what is printed in the script. What they don't understand is that the copy of the script that I received was markedly different from the ones that they read. One of my friends claims to "get it" but at the same time always remarks about how she thinks I'm wrong for this and that. That means that you DON'T get it!! What annoys me is that people want me to detail some life-shattering event that caused me to feel such resentment toward him. Since no single event exists (i.e. molestation, abuse, drug use,etc.) that would be considered "bad" enough for me to feel this way, people dismiss how I feel. Again, the script dictates that there had to be some capital offense before you can say that a parent is not worthy of your time, rather than the sum of all the years of your existence, with every passing day spent with a person more miserable that the previous.

When I am done with someone I am done. Come hell or high water. It is over. Finished. (Notice the pattern 5-3-1). The part I hate most is that I have withdrawn from my mother as well. She likes to encourage me to speak to him as well. That type of behavior only makes me reluctant to call her as well. As a matter of fact, it makes me resentful on some level, as she should clearly understand why I feel and behave this way. She's just a Christian though. It doesn't matter what someone has done, she believes in forgiveness. I do too. However, I subscribe to a brand of forgiviness that does not require that I still interact with the offender. I can wash my hands of you and be fine. Truthfully, when he's no longer in the picture I'll make up for this lost time between my mother and I. Given his health, I don't think it should be much longer.

Psuedorandom Musings

1. Why is it that when you tell somebody something they have a tendency to discredit what you have said? When someone of a different race (white or Asian) or in a higher position tells them the exact same thing, then it's suddenly the gospel truth.

2. Have you ever lived with someone whom you felt like you were rearing? (Southern people say 'raising', but you raise sugar cane and sheep. You actually 'rear' people).

3. I wish a police officer would pull me over for anything. Now that I'm back on the right side of the legitness (is that a word) as far as my license is concerned, I will be in a position to verbally thrash any officer who pulls me over for no good reason at all. I'm getting badge numbers, superior officers, tag numbers, etc., and am definitely going to accuse them of pulling me for driving while black.

4. Why did one of my students take another student's paper, erase his name and replace it with his own name? The thing is, the student who erased the other person's name didn't even erase it good. How foolish can you be?

5. For some strange reason when I go out looking for things to wear, I usually return uncharacteristically empty handed. Things just don't seem to suit me anymore. Pardon the pun.

6. When you forgive someone, but find it hard to forget the infraction that initially caused you the pain, do you believe that is indicative of unforgiveness? I don't. I think you'd be a fool to try to forget what cause the problem in the first place. By remembering, you are able to guard your emotions against such damage in the future. Any thoughts?

7. I can cook a mean turkey leg.




8. It's been a while since we last spoke. Maybe I'll make the first move.

9. If you make a simple request of someone and they constantly defy the request, is that a sign of their disdain for you, their need to assert their own authority or a combination of the two?