My Teenage Years

Self Love #1

2009-06-09T01:03:00.003-04:00

I, once, purposely lost myself, leaving clues in detailed caligraphy for a man to follow perfumed with the smell of US in afterglow...because I did not want to find me, boring, alone, ugly. Clues I followed, though, through tears, gentle smiles, apologies spoken to shards of broken mirrors to find a self I constructed for another to find...attractive. The journey led me to me and I disproved the destinations' findings.

I have spent time, like it is not a recession, on other people's dreams, listening to their fears, massaging their broken hearts; and their accounts are full with not a dime to spare for this brotha...NO MORE!

I want to know the intonations of my laugh, the depths of my dimples. I have learned the color of my love, paprika, and the names of some past lives, Jimmy, Edna.

Before I painted on canvases with selected colors, quiet pastels from my minister parents to keep things wholesome, simple watercolors to be erased by the academy. Now, I finally own rich hued oils to paint my white picket dreams with some acrylics left over in case I need to add some thing.

I understand all my jokes. I love all my favorite songs. I love my body even when it may be adorned in an unfavorable outfit. I have been there for myself not all nineteen years, but a good majority. I can bring myself to climax. I am perfect enough for me, and everything I need.

I love me.

http://twitter.com/uphii I change it every so often, but this one is STICKING!!!

-Marcus "Marz" B,

Travlin' Light

2009-05-24T10:42:00.003-04:00

Interacting with my parents now is amazingly refreshing. All three of us are adults, with our own bills, beliefs, God we pray to, and the only thing we have in common is my childhood. They wonder the road they paved. I laugh knowing my detours along the way. My sister looked so pretty in her prom dress. I changed my outfit because momma asked me to, before she asked me to clean the kitchen, change the curtain rods, catch the cat and hold him hostage in the basement, set a table, find some gospel music to play in the house.

DISCLAIMER: "GOD IS LOVE" BY MARVIN GAYE AND "JESUS IS WAITING" BY AL GREEN IS NOT GOSPEL!!!!

or so they say...my spirit grew weary of singing like a slave years ago, especially after finding freedom from religious bondage.

I danced when no one was dancing. I jumped and marveled at being a few feet closer to the sun, to God. I laughed when no one understood what was funny, didn't I know I was going to hell for wearing high waisted girl pants?

We've both grown together, separately. He was the first male to find me attractive at fifteen, and I'm jealous he took the virginity... and perturbed I didn't give him others. I know he wold leave me with a bad hairstyle, twenty unnecessary pounds, poor credit, but I want to KNOW!

We've both grown together, separately. She has a boyfriend now, and walks around with a Parallel Bible. She secretly wants my approval. I now give it freely.

past midnight

2009-05-13T02:31:00.002-04:00

Every ghetto every city, Philadelphia is Bedstuy with fewer street lights and more trash, more trade and angrier tears. As the kale greens simmer with chili powder, garlic, brown mustard, and sea salt I bite my lip wishing there was a cute boy to see me bite my lip and decide to relieve my teeth's night post.

You don't realize how big your dick is until you start having sex with other men. A year ago, I was a virgin. Soon, I wonder will I long to fill my bed with warm brown bodies that remember my name because it has two syllables opposed to the man they had the night before with four- D'Angelo. Sometimes I wonder what the weather will be the day I decide to become a bitter black gay man, I hope it's sunny with light cirrus clouds and a fragrant breeze. I have a knack for attracting the rich ones, almost went to Paris, but I opened my mouth when he was flaccid and he didn't like the words that ejaculated hot and sticky, burning his face; and, didn't sound like his name...

I long to laugh with children, walk runways, dance naked, eat grapefruits in a field planting the seeds, write my love with my tongue across the thighs of several brown deserving men.

I used to pray to be beautiful, I pray that others realize their beauty now.

The sweet potatoes are done now.

Love. Peace. Afrogrease.

twitter.com/QueeNiggeratti FOLLOW ME!

AMAZING!!

-Marcus "Marz" B.

Whispers to God for a Past Lover.

2009-04-25T11:05:00.002-04:00

I knew I could never love you because you did not love yourself. I fell in love with the idea of you loving yourself and realizing it was a reflection of me. You had 56 years of bad luck prior from the mirrors you left shattered. Words like bricks you beamed at my head, so fast I was too smart to realize you never wanted to look in that mirror.

Yet, I stood, erect waiting you would see my brown skin, my masked smiles, my pained eyes filled with visions, my words exposing the dreams I had when I slept alone, with you in my bed.

Age 10: "Mom, There's this boy that likes me in class, and I like him back".
Mom: "Marcus, you leave that boy alone and keep focused on your school work".

Age 14:"I'm gay"
Dad:"Pray, and stay focused on your schoolwork, you're really good at that Spanish, stay focused".

Age 16:"Yes, I'm a homosexual".
Mom: "One day a girl will find you attractive. Just keep praying and focus on your schoolwork"

Just keep praying and focus on your schoolworkJust keep praying and focus on your schoolworkJust keep praying and focus on your schoolworkJust keep praying and focus on your schoolworkJust keep praying and focus on your schoolworkJust keep praying and focus on your schoolworkJust keep praying and focus on your schoolworkJust keep praying and focus on your schoolwork...The day I stopped praying to a God in heaven, and to the God in me, and put down my books I was able to find you.

I told myself we could remain friends. I wanted to hold onto that feeling of love I told myself I'd always have, but it was fleeting like your ambrosial scents, your self reminders you were bisexual, me remembering why I liked you in the first place-the things I knew I could possess if I read the correct book.

The day you left I prayed.

-Marcus "Marz" B.

Grown

2009-04-21T11:33:00.004-04:00

Strolling Bedstuy streets, searching for that third high, the first and second lacked the passion to incite me to climax, rising action meeting falling action. The books on my shelf mock me, and I mock them back.

Books: "You thought you were going to be a professor and graduate from college".
Me: "You think I'm going to read you today."

Armed with almonds, the Holy Qu'ran, Grand Theft Auto Chinatown Wars, a smile, a prayer, and a semi- erect penis I charge the day and it runs away from me as we play tag. I laugh in between sips of my white wine sprinkled with cinnamon. My past used to be so present as if it were my future, it's where it needs to be now. I need to find my future, I get to create it, or so they say.

They-Say Vision - Res

They say adulthood is difficult, it's just childhood in drag, when it gets to scary I make a scary face at it.

Follow me: http://twitter.com/QueeNiggeratti

-Marcus "Marz" B.

Untitled

2008-10-19T13:58:00.003-04:00

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” my grandmother would bellow every Sunday standing at the podium on the elevated violet pulpit that separated her from the congregation. My grandmother was also my pastor, and she was giving another one of her “fire and brimstone” sermons that condemned everyone in the congregation to eternal damnation. Everyone was branded with a Scarlet letter, from Adultery to Masturbation, to Worrying. She had just admonished everyone to, “ live right because Jesus is coming back any second now. You don’t want him to come back and you’re sinning.” With that message out of the way, she began to quote various scriptures that seemed to come from a bible she created, because I could never find these scriptures in Ezekiel or Thessalonians. “A liar will not tarry in his sight,” and “God said repent,” were two other scriptures she quoted frequently from the book of Catherine. Although my grandmothers’ words did not make the canon, they were still scribbled fastidiously in the notebooks of the fervent churchgoers of Deliverance House of God Prayer for All People right under John 3:16 and a theological analysis of Psalms 23. My grandmother may have not been John the Baptist, but she raised eight successful children; and John, knew nothing about that subject.
*
The first memories I have of my father are of him beating me. Every morning I would wake to the sun shining across my face, and I would stare at the roof of the small apartment. I had been potty trained at eight months, but I would never go to the toilet--at least, not in the bathroom. My dad turned all the lights out and told me the devil would get me if I got out of the bed. Jumping out of my bed, because my crib was forfeited to my baby sister who needed it more than I did, I would strip the mattress of the wet sheet. After running across the floor, tiptoeing past my parent’s room , and depositing the sheet into the laundry basket, I would think I was safe. One day I wasn’t; I turned around and there he was, a giant against my feeble frame. “What were you doing?” “Nothing,” I answered innocently. I followed his gaze to my briefs. “Go lay on the bed and take off your wet drawers,” he said firmly. I ran to the bed to remove my underwear and lie face down into the mattress, making sure not to hit the wet part. Every part would soon become the wet part from my tears. Didn’t he realize it was only once this week? I can’t hold it long enough for the devil to leave the apartment. Why couldn’t I be good? “Shut up all them tears,” I would hear from the next room, and the jingle of the belt prong hitting the buckle. My butt cheeks would clench, and the floor would creak, and I would see his shadow grow along the white wall looking like the devil of the day time. As his shadow shrunk in size, it retained its grotesque shape, and my fear grew larger.
I would scream, stomp in place as if running away, grab for the belt, regret it when my knuckles were hit and he would scream, “now you’re going to get more for trying to grab the belt,” and wonder when it would be over. Then the belt would drop one end of the belt and hold the other in his hand. I refused to look at him, and the metal would jangle and every so often it would hit the side of my thigh. The cool metal against the fire burning on my skin would break the wall I rebuilt daily to contain my hatred for my father. Daddy didn’t do it though, I did this and it was I whom I hated.
*
My father has always had a vast belt collection. They all looked the same to me, I only know their difference from the way they feel across my skin. Throughout the years he began to play this cruel game whenever I did something wrong I had to choose which belt he would use to beat me. Standing at the closet with over thirty belts hanging in the old pine closet next to his suits and ties, my heart would start to palpitate. I would feel the leather and rub my finger along the material. I would feel how thick the belt was, take it down and see how heavy it felt in my hands. After filtering my options down to two belts I would bring the end of the belt to the buckle the same way my father would minutes from my selection. I would hit my arm with the belt. This one didn’t hurt as much as that one. I’m going to choose this one. My father had a way of making this one feel like that one, and every one.
*
Through the moonlit valley of the shadow of death I sleep walk wide awake. Intentions pure the devil stays at bay. The shadows are mine, and they leave behind my childhood. I am a man. Daddy thought mommy was me and tried to hit her with a belt. He realized she wasn’t me and dropped the belt, his fist would suffice. Mommy forgot daddy was daddy and used her fist to grab a knife. He don’t live here no more. His void can only be filled by me, I am the only other male in this house. Mommy needs someone to hold her. Climbing into the bed beside my mother a new life begins, a life as a man.
*
I hated the way my sister would yell when she got beat. I would scream Jesus repeatedly, and my father would yell back, “ You shoulda been saying Jesus when you did what you did.” My sister expressed her pain with screams that disturbed my soul. Screams like those of my mother. She would constantly break things and hide them, poorly. When my father would fin the broken item he would ask us both who broke it. I didn’t break it. Sometimes, I did break the thing, but I would reassemble the shattered object. For ten minutes he would ask who broke the object, and we’d both plead innocent. He’d then decide that he would beat us both. She would start crying, and I would roll my eyes. I don’t want to hear her screams, they made me feel like I was being beat. “I broke it,” I’d say heroically. “Now, you’re going to get more for lying”.
*
“Someone called me up the other day talking about their child called DHS on them. She wanted to beat her child all over the place with a switch. If you’re going to beat your children you either get a ruler and beat them on their knuckles, or you get a belt and hit them buttocks. All that running, hooping, and hollering is too much for me, especially in my old age. Tell them the more they run the more you‘re going to hit them. Bend them over a chair or the bed, and hit them until the Lord tells you to stop. The Lord will tell you how many times they need to be hit. Any more than what Jesus says is abuse. Children,” Grandma Pastor would turn to the children section of the congregation looming over the podium, “ you call DHS if you want to. I told my children, ’call DHS if you want and tell them to take your little sister too‘. If the state thinks they can do a better job of raising my children than they should have them. Don’t let these children scare you into not beating them with DHS.”
*
“I’m going to call DHS on you,” I screamed at my mother. She grabbed the yellow book and telephone. “ Here is the number, when you get done go pack your bags and be a good orphan” she said as she walked away briskly. Her nonchalance disturbed me to my soul. I put the phone down, and picked up the sponge to scrub the floors instead of just mopping as requested.
*
My father never said he loved me. He would take me on long car drives and he would rub my head, and that’s how I knew I was loved. The affection I felt and the privacy we shared on that car ride. Today, is extremely difficult for my father. He is an ordained minister, and decided to preside over his father’s funeral. He is in the middle of the eulogy and trying to remember all the good times he shared with his father- they are few. He hated his father., but still visited him in the hospital every Wednesday for several years. Grandpa had an advanced diabetes. He had to have both his legs amputated, and continued to drink Pepsi and eat gluttonously. He was a charmer and was able to get the nurses at the hospital to bring him ham and other delicacies to his hospital room. Grandpa was verbally and physically abusive to his entire family. He beat my grandmother Thelma in the head with glass plates, and cheated on her repeatedly. She recounts him as, “the biggest whore this side of Broad Street.” My father experienced overwhelming abuse from my grandfather. He was always confused why he had to be punished while his older brother, Daniel, went without reprimand for all his devious actions. My father discovered when he was 21 that Grandpa was not Daniel’s father.
*
I’m standing in the kitchen, hugging myself. My mother joins my embrace seconds later. “I didn’t even do anything, “ I utter confused. “ I know,” my mother offered trying to soothe me, “I know. Your father just has to learn to stop taking his issues out on you. He sees his father and he sees himself, and he sees you, and he can‘t handle it.” Ten minutes ago, I stood in the hallway telling my father why my science project wasn’t finished. He pulled his belt off accusing me of lying and wondering why I was always being bad. He brought the belt into the air, and struck me in the face. The belt struck my cheeks, then the back of my head. He hit my glasses pushing them back and the nose pieces scratched the sides of my nose, and eventually breaking them. My mother yelled hysterics in the background, as I recoiled from each blow to my face. “Go downstairs and get your project done.” My legs shook from all the nerves rushing over my body, and my synapses danced and erupted with confusion. My father lifted the belt once more, and they all understood to go down the stairs. My science project almost won the state championship.
*
“I beat you because I love you,” my father said to me one time as we drove to church. “You don’t understand in this world as a black man the trials you are going to encounter, yet. I am trying to prepare you to be able to succeed and ensure that you know the right way to go. I’d rather I beat you down than the police beat you down. They don’t love you nor care about you. They’ll shoot you and frame you and the paper will laud them for ridding the world of another one of us. So, be good and I won’t have to use this anymore.” He grabbed his black leather belt as the car came to a halt in the church driveway. The gold buckle reflected the sunlight into my eyes, as he rubbed my head. “I love you.”

P.S. I have been writing three times a week, just not posting. I am beginning to remember things that I told myself to forget...

-Marz

Sticks, Stones, and Glass Houses

2008-09-05T02:01:00.004-04:00

If I were not gay, I would be too Afro-centric. If I invested in white supremacy and did not speak of that “slavery stuff“, I would still be in New York. If I lived in Philadelphia, I still am not studying (insert profitable major) and theology. If I was studying (insert profitable major), I would still be learning about the corruption of the world. If I was not socially conscious, I would still be a Muslim; because, I have chosen not to consume pork. If I were a devout Christian, I still am not married. If I was married I still do not have children. If I had children, a wife, worshipped White Male Jesus at a tabernacle, only read the bible, studied law and theology, and lived dumbfounded in the phantasmagoria of our culture I would be perfect. If I was perfect I would be able to fit into the perfect family, the one to which I was born.

My parents speak of others. They speak of the neighbors’ marriage, Sister Johnson’s children, Judge Maybelline, Oprah, Tyra, who is going to hell, and what they are doing to erase their name from the book of life. They are perfect. They live in a glass house in which they walk around naked. Those on the outside stare in with awe at the carpet arrangements and the sanctity of their marriage. A family so nuclear, pedestrians wait for the explosion.-it will never come, because my parents are perfect.

Bricks with, ”FAGGOT!” sprawled across them crash through the walls, and my parents cry out to WHITE MALE JESUS for forgiveness. I am their Jonah to bear. I sit and watch as the house begins to shatter and fresh air begins to flow through. I can breathe. My hands are cut from cleaning the ceiling I broke. My hands are covered with blood. My hands are trying to carry the weight of the bricks up to my glass room; hopefully, the floor will not collapse into the kitchen. I was once afraid that brick would one day strike me. The scars from being struck before are indented into my soul.

In the glass house, exists a perfect version of me. I loathe interaction with this boy because in his presence I am repulsive. My skin is too dark, hips too wide, penis too small, dimples too deep, actions too callow, words too infantile, nature too base, thoughts too perverse, soul too evil. I confront the perfect me every time I converse with my mother or father. They converse with him as I stand cloaked in black cotton. “Is the devil in the house of the glass people?” asks a persistent onlooker. I have been asked to stay behind the bricks I have collected in my room. I will be invisible and can frolic in the darkness.

Dried platelets and hemoglobin on my genitalia. I long to take these clothes off, expose myself to myself. I realize my perfection is afraid of imperfection. My existence condemns him and he needs adulation to survive. I am ominous. I wish to warn him. He has only barely escaped. I remember one day I was hit with a brick, no walls to break its impact, to ricochet its direction. I was hit from a close range and given the foundation of my wall; that was the day I shattered to pieces and a wind blew me into the sea.

P.S. I would like to thank all the people who voted me Best Teen Blog for the third year in a row. (MUAHZ!)

-Marz

Hottentot Marz

2008-09-04T21:32:00.004-04:00

Blue walls anointed with water and olive oil, incantations whispered at the dawn of a new moon to protect the first born, the only male, so precious he is- the devil works in darkness.

“Momma yuse’ startin’ to luk lyhk Hottentot Venus”.

“That’s nice Marcus….”

In the shadows of my parent’s love I have pleaded for mercy, begged for forgiveness, asked to see the sun. The vastness is too much to overcome. Surrounded so much silence my thoughts roar, my whispers howl. Paranoid in the darkness when I blink too swiftly, when my heart beats too heavily. Restrained by fear of dreams too vivid, life too sanguine.

They both aspire to love the seven year old me He committed suicide. He did not know how to die; but, to not learn on was to perish forever. Selah!

IN the blue room I sit, knowing what these walls have seen, and what horrors they enclosed. They speak of tragedies. I know of the blood and tears that saturate the walls. The sacrifice I offered of myself to White Male jesus when I still believed he was Massa’.

If only I could touch the hem of his garment, reach my hand under, and fondle his penis. If only he could see my grotesque black body, Hottentot Marz; his white majesty would not be able to restrain himself. If only I was able to put his pink penis in my mouth, slide my tongue around the head seven times, pucker my lips and kiss the Creator- the shadows would absolve.

I am a homosexual= promiscuous
I am African American= hypersexual
I am a man= lascivious

I am a homosexual African America man. I am hyper sexuality cubed. This equation negates that I have been feminized, because a, “real man” is not a homosexual, which means I am not lascivious. I, however, am an African American female “Jezebel” figure. I have a penis, which excludes me from being considered a female, says to biology; but, not according to Venus. My homosexuality cancels out my African American (ness), because the African American voice has been essential zed. Only one Negro can be Mass’s friend, turn White Male jesus ear, and the token negro said that’s some, “white shit”. The face of the “gay man” is white, unless he has found the lustrous mahogany penis he ab/(w)hor(e)s to fuck. ( What if Jesus reciprocates?)

Is this why thousands of young queer brown boys lust to be, “white woman cunt”? Have we been excommunicated from the race, gender, and sex? IS this why we chase and hate ourselves?

Am I what I am? Am I what I am not? Am I what I am? Am I what I am not? Am I what I am? Am I what I am not?

Twelve young boys commited suicide in my childhood bedroom solving this equation. They were who they were, and they were who they were not. I am who I am, and I am who I am not.
I tribute the strong boys that died, so that the man I have become could live, exist, be.

The sun’s rays reach across the room penetrating my irises, and I see my mother praying, wiping water crosses into my blue walls.

“Momma yuse’ startin’ to look luhk Hottentot Venus , and Jeezus is comin’ to getcha”

-Marz

3X Week

2008-08-25T16:53:00.005-04:00

I
promise
myself
to
write
three
times
a
week.

Reflecting on the aftermath/blessing that was my 18th year of life, first year of college, and emancipation from the minister parents; I understand that I neglected to record the trickery, deceit, boys, drugs, art, shade, tears, reads, READS, love, and life that I've experienced. (Yes, yes, I've grown a bit from the fifteen year old boy I was when I began.)

Being that this is the last teenage year I want to make a thoughtful effort to share my craft with the cyberworld.

Where do I begin though? (HMMMMM.....)

I'll figure it out. But, I'm interested to see about everyone else.

P.S. Thank everyone that nominated me for Best Teen Blog, again, for the third year. Every time I think that everyone has finished reading what I have to say, what ideas I have to put into the universe I am slapped in the face with my self-doubt.

-Marz

The Last Teenage Year

2008-08-23T07:16:00.002-04:00

I am the Earth. Each day the sun and the moon revolve around me. I am comprised of water and rich luminous soil. I control the elements. I am the elements.

I am the Creator's creation. I create myself. I am the Creator.

I am stained with my blood, my humanity, from shattering mirrors to deconstruct my image: Black Rapist, Sambo, Jezebel, Sapphire, Mammy, Mule... I consist of blood-stain glassed shards: mind, body, soul, sex, emotions, thoughts, perceptions, love.

I am a passionate orgasm manifested. I am love shed, forced into the universe.

I am a black woman embodied in the male form.

I oppress the oppressor by creating more oppression to posit on my body. My pores contain uncontainable power. I cannot be mined for resources. I am fear personified. My presence deconstucts Jesus' whiteness, he is happy to no longer be in whiteface.

My soul has lived before as a dancer, whore, intellectual, writer, activist, thinker, artist, REBEL. I have been lynched several times, shot twice...I will complete my mission this life. I was born in my awkward phase. Normativity perturbs me. Bask in my glory and live in my moments, and I will return the favor.

I celebrated nineteen years of life this past Wednesday, thus begins the last teenage year....

-Marz

June 10, 2008

2008-06-11T00:32:00.000-04:00

I am obsessive. I spend hours a month staring at myself in mirrors, practicing my expressions for unforeseen pictures. (I still do my eyes too wide.) I lust for more music, although I could play my Itunes library for two hundred days without repeating a song. I think my clothes fit horribly, despite the complements an outfit might receive. I wonder if I am eating more than a normal serving, thus consuming more calories than stated on the side of the box, carton, bag. How will I ever be gay boy skinny? (I will never be with these hips and I have accepted this fact.) Every morning, I wonder if my “ weird phase,” will be over and I will finally fit in. my list continues, far beyond…

I obsessed over you.

I needed you to know you were broken, by my standards. I wanted you to come to me to be fixed. I had a blueprint laid out. I did not want to be that tired queen that I have read numerous times for not being able to keep a man for more than two months. The youths you and I conversed about as rose flavored smoke diffused into the air of that bar in the Lower East Side. The youths we were…are. (Feminized because of our queerness into Mammy figures, believing our life goal is to have and keep a man.) Yet, I cried in my bath tub over you with less than a month spent together. (More hours elapsed of me staring at myself in the mirror.)

I obsessed over what to say to you. I wanted to write scripts for the night I told you, “ I like you”. I wanted to stop sniffing the pillow you laid on because it had your scent. I wanted to stop talking about you and how I felt when you stared at me with your simple smile. How I longed to know what thoughts flowed through your head, the thoughts you were afraid to share because you thought I would not want to obsess over such thinking. But, I obsessed over your lack of speech and conspired biographies volumes thick off a simple eye flutter.

I realized, I have never been able to sleep peacefully with another my entire life. From sleepovers to m sister climbing in my bed at seven because a monster tried to kill her, I have never been able to share my space without feeling invaded and uncomfortable. We slept perfectly, intertwined, naked, apart, clothed, angry, happy, high- we slept. Our spirits were so similar that I did not feel an invasion but a warm embrace, a soul mate, which is delightfully disturbing. You are beautiful, but many of your flaws reside in my being. Realizing that I am the one in need of a blueprint and reconstruction has rendered me, well, distraught. I have been striving away obsessively to do this work in me, the work I was able to see by critiquing you in the mirror and praising my image, the work I was going to do on you.

Now, I sit and obsess over my completion, which is never-ending and dually wonderful and horrible.

-Marz

My First Time

2008-04-11T14:07:00.004-04:00

"The same mouth that will speak ordinary words now say things only meant for me as it roams my face and neck. Hands that will casually grip a stranger's neck now travel lovingly down the curve of my back, pulling me closer. Though two thin layers of skin keep us apart, spirit knows no such boundaries and indeed we are one."-Sidney Brinkley

My first time was a passionate embrace. I paused and looked at his beautiful black male body. I could not resist the urge to bring his attention to his beauty, I wanted to scream this at the top of my lungs. My roommate, however, was awake at his desk reading a book, and I could see it took self-restraint to not peer into the action in my bunk. "You're so beautiful," I whispered, and he was dumbfounded, as if my beauty emanated so strongly his could not ever penetrate, as if he was hideous. "No, you're beautiful," I felt a euphoria. My soul was raptured, and our spirits embraced and conflated above the physical restraints of flesh and blood.

I thought of the beauty of two black men loving each other. A beauty that is rare. A beauty that was horridly disfigured in the act of Cain killing Abel, black men unable to love each other because they were taught to hate them self; feeling he must denigrate his fellow man in order to distinguish himself. We existed together neither relenting our essence, acquiescing our agency, yielding against our will. This was a beauty I rarely experienced growing up. My father punching my in the face at four, blood dripping down, inhaling blood, standing in a corner for four hours, fighting fainting-this was the beauty I was taught to love. Being gay bashed in front of the police station at thirteen by my "brothers" who were knew that I would one day escape the ghetto. They did not want the token Negro to speak of the "black experience", as if there is one experience, as a gay experience. Besides, that's that "white shit".

But, it wasn't "white shit," it was black love, the type that God wanted with Adam when he decided to create utopia at the intersection of the Euphrates and the Tigris Rivers. Spiritual love. I love his spirit. If only this love could be felt by all men of color towards each other, the solidarity we could create, the hegemony we could subvert. The bourgeoisie knows of the benefits of discord. Willie Lynch did wonders during slavery.

A few hours of sleep feel like an eternity of rest. How did I ever sleep without him in my space? I ask this often when I think of the many sleepovers growing up, and how I could never sleep. I would rest, but I could not sleep. I do not like people in my space, I feel violated.

We woke and entered the light together, walking into the bathroom He, I, and Lauryn Hill on the toilet. She felt so comfortable and inspired by this black love that she serenaded the morning. Nothing even mattered at that moment like the fact that I was missing class. WE found peace of mind, and rhythms that flowed just like water. Dirty/clean, fresh/FRESH, a wonderful oxymoron of a morning. Back to my bed, "Baby, you gotta go to class," he offered. " Fuck class," I responded, "besides without me there the professors will see that I'm the star pupil. If I'm not there then they'll have no one to steal comments from and everyone will know they did not read". We slept, and I have not slept like that, since conception. Ever since being formed, created, supplied the necessities of life to exist. In that bed I was formed, supplied necessities of life. He is my safe space when I am attacked, when I am annoyed, which is often, he forms me...

And what fucks me up the most is...I was created to help form him. My purpose is divine. One day, I will tell him I love him. I love the God in him.

If we are all the children of God, then aren't we all Jesus but with different names?

If we are to be crucified I want to be on the hill next to him, and we will resurrect together.

After telling anyone about your first time, one of the first questions is, " How was it?"

Simply put, "RAPTUROUS!"

I'm enthralled beyond belief I waited, because I will never regret my first time.

-Marz

Three Reads, Two Scholarly

2008-04-10T08:57:00.009-04:00

Scholarly Read- talking about someone's "ridiculous shape, their tacky clothes" using something you've learned or read in class.

Random White Girl: Oh my God, I love you're outfit. Are you going somewhere today?

Me: No, I just wanted to attain the white normative gaze so they will listen when I assault their privilege. I like your shoes though...as I continued to walk down the hallway, effectively administering a hair flip with my light Caesar haircut.

Last week at the Theorizing Blackness conference at the CUNY Graduate Center, I read a professor because he was LIVING in his patriarchal privilege, the same way that WASP men live in, well, everything. (white supremacy, privilege, heteronormativity, hegemony, patriarchy, etc.)

Me: "I'm interested in the assumption that masculinity, specifically, black masculinity, is innate to maleness. I think this psychology negates the masculinity of women, especially within the context of the black woman whom, historically, has been masculinized as, essentially, a 'black man with a vagina' through popular portrayals. I feel, moreover, neglecting to recognize the masculinity of the black woman in theory and reality works to emasculate black masculinity as a whole. Lastly, I am intrigued in how these ideologies neglecting the black woman in this discourse is upholding patriarchy and misogyny".

OVERHEARD IN NEW YORK

This is a cute thing that are in many New York papers when people write in funny or shady things they hear in the city.

Location: Downtown 4 train

An old black Christian woman is screaming at the top of her lungs, "Come to Jesus, he will save your soul. The world is going to end and do you know where you are going to go, we are all sinners, but the Lawd will save you".

I was sad that she was trying to indoctrinate people, especially since Christian rhetoric was used to indoctrinate and keep her mother, no shade, (ok, maybe her grandmother) in slavery.

There is Old Chinese man, about fifty, and he is tired of this woman screaming in his ear.

CM: Can you be quiet?

BW: NO I CAN NOT! I refuse to be quiet about the goodness of my Lawd and Savior Jesus Christ

.
CM: Everyone do not have to believe like you.

BW: This is America, which means I have a right to freedom of speech, if you don't like it here, you know what you can do.

I GAGGED for dear life that this older black woman just told this man to fucking emigrate back to his country.

CM:I have right to not believe like you.

BW (continued): This is America, on our money what does it say, "In God we trust," not "in Buddha we trust". OH HALLELUJAH!!!! I bind you up in the name of Jesus, no weapon formed against me shall prosper.

Marz (in my head): That is the devil!! Chinese man keep subverting her.

P.S. My blog, my baby, I have a boyfriend!!! (I'll be back to write more, but I have to subvert people in class and refuse to half step.)

-Marz

My Favorite Pair of Underwear

2008-04-01T14:18:00.004-04:00

Songs: "Trouble Sleeping & Call Me When you Get This" by Corinne Bailey Rae "It's late at night and I'm feeling so tired, having trouble sleeping, this constant compromise between thinking and breathing".

"Dream" by Alice Smith "When I wake up in the morning time, I, like to see you sleeping by made side, I, think about the nights we had before want to give you this and more, let you know I truly adore you".

"I Just Died" by Amerie "Staring in the mirror as I, start to carefully contemplate just really how deep is this thing I have for you, you swear you know my heart, and from the start you know I tried, steadily denied, friendship turned to love, I know you probably think that I'm so strange stuttering on every word when you look my way, why?And maybe it's all in my mind, But when we hugged goodbye, I had butterflies I just died. I just died in your arms tonight, don't want nobody bring me back to life, I just died in your arms tonight"

I have tons of underwear- all boxers and boxer briefs. Some were bought on discount when I worked at Old Navy. Some were purchased as Christmas presents from grandparents. Few were bought to fit my new slender frame after losing weight. I can go three months straight wearing a new pair of clean underwear.(I actually had to do this at the beginning of my college career when I couldn't afford to do laundry.) I love my gray boxer briefs that I dance around to Amerie's Touch album too, they go hand in hand. Although I hate that it does not have a flap. I like when I can match my underwear with my outfits. I picked this up from my gay father. I have orange striped ones, green holiday boxers, and striped trunk cut boxers; I have tons of underwear.

My favorite pair of underwear are boxers. They are midnight blue and have yellow Chinese symbols sporadically placed all around, size medium, loose yet fitted. I like the colors and the designs. I can't explain it, they are just my favorite pair. I regret wearing them sometimes because I know they will have to wait until the next wash to be worn again. I always joked to myself that I would be wearing my favorite pair of underwear the first time I had sex...I was right.

P.S. (Strangely he was wearing the same exact pair.)

-Marz

A Beautiful Nostalgia

2008-03-24T12:56:00.004-04:00

There is a ten minute span upon returning home to Philadelphia in which my heart swells with euphoria. I stepped into the night air in Central Philadelphia smiling and saw a girl wearing neon orange patent leather ballet flats....PHILLY!

My toothbrush was exactly where I left it, askew on the white ceramic sink. My room, however, was not. My mother, father, and sister have all tried to occupy my space and their belongings now reside there. I felt big in this space, my room, my parent's house, Philadelphia..."My son, the New Yorker". We conversed over gummy bears and green tea- mother and son, woman and man, two adults sharing on her living room couch. I understand her now. Little did I know she would finally understand me...

She drove her little black car oblivious to the shifting of traffic lights from red to green. Normally I would have yelled, but I was in no rush to get anywhere. She spoke of my sister, her job, health, and victories in arguing with my father and how they amount to nothing in the end. She hates my skinny jeans. She thinks I am too skinny, I need to eat. I think I am too fat, I need to eat less.

I told her I was not a Christian and did not align myself with any religion. She stared wide-eyed, as I begin to speak about The Creator and what I am learning.

"Right now, I'm learning to listen, because I hear often, but I listen seldom."

"I'm also learning to love, and validate myself. There are so many people who spend their lives so afraid to confront themselves, so afraid to be by themselves, hear their thoughts, hear their voice, enjoy the space their soul takes in the universe that they run from person to person trying to fill the void in themselves that they refuse to fill. I refuse to have someone in my life that I love more than me. I refuse to know more about someone in my life more than me. I refuse to devote more time to someone else in my life over me, except for the Creator".

The issue my mother and I have had for the last three years has been her seeing who I am. I have never been one to truly value my parent's wishes for my life or care what they think of me. I realized that if I allowed my parents to procure their happiness through me I would never be happy; and they would constantly find something new that would make them happy. "Marcus go to theology school. Marcus marry a woman. Marcus cut your hair." I, however, do hate when I am misunderstood, like Mother Nina Simone. Although I do not know who I am, I have been trying to show the few hard facts I have to my parents, and they have been consistently oblivious. I tell my parents I'm volunteering at HIV organizations but she believes the pastor who says I am prostituting. I tell my parents that I want to study African American studies they tell everyone I'm becoming a lawyer.

My mother is finally open to learning who I am and accepting that person. She does not understand a good majority of the things I'm saying, feeling, expressing, but she is asking questions now to get a further understanding. I believe most parents give birth to their children with these ideal lives that they have preordained for their child, and it is difficult for the parents to see the child subvert these ideals. I have been subverting my parents ideal son/child for a long time, and they know I do not care. My mother, however, is starting to realize that her ideals are just those...ideals, and nothing in this word is ideal. In addition, her ideal for my life is as oppressing as patriarchy or white supremacy.

She drives so slowly. We traveled to the bank and to get a pair of glasses, and it took three hours, but I enjoyed her company. I scolded her on her outfit, business conduct, and unhealthy eating habits. (Some things never change...lol) We returned to the house, their house, where I grew into the perfectly imperfect teenager that I am. I stood outside and stared around at the same crooked racist cops, juvenile delinquents, colored souls still singing spirituals centuries after slavery ended, the graveyard, my parents, and was humbled. Ilive in downtown Manhattan, The Creator took me from so much to so much. I used to feel disdainful about my neighborhood, but it comes with me every day in class. I shut the white students DOWN when it is needed, and it is needed often. I used to wonder why everyone stayed, but I realized that my parents are happy with their lives. The Creator knows I do not understand their happiness, but it is wrong of me to impose my ideal on them.

I cooked lunch and we talked some more. I told her how I used to want to be a power gay. But, I see now that many people in the gay/black community do things to receive awards and recognition, solely. They care about their causes because philanthropy is the chic thing right now. I no longer care about awards and banquets. I care about creating living awards. My students in Harlem are each an award that lives and has been enriched by the time I have spent with them and no amount of gold plated metal could equate to the feeling of knowing YOU touched a life. I told my mother that I am interested in studying Black Male Sexuality as my body of work. She inquired, and I explained. I can see it is difficult to explain, especially me wanting to get a Ph.D. in Pan-African queer literature, but she is amiable. I told her I want to work with young queer sexual minorities of color one day as my career. She questioned why. I explained racism, homophobia, patriarchy, and hegemony. She understood. I talked of my journey as a queer Pan African male living with two Pentecostal minister parents. She had never heard this story-her soul was vexed. She had not realized the pain she had caused working blindly behind her religion.

She thinks I am an atheist. My God does not have a name, merely, The Creator. She wants me to name her, him, and it, did he not create everything? I told her how slave masters inculcated Christianity into the slaves to keep them in bondage. I told her that the white people taught that we should serve the whites to get into heaven, but they also taught that we were so lowly that we did not have souls.

We discussed the bible and Lauryn Hill, Emmett Till and Nikki Giovanni, pro-blackness and my hatred of whiteness and white supremacy. She thinks I am a racist and hate white people. She joins the many that think I am a black separatist. She wonders how I became so conscious.

I came out when I was ten, thirteen, and seventeen...eighteen is going to be the one that sticks. We discussed her homophobia in correlation with having two queer children. I can see her joining PFLAG.

My soul cried tears of joy and pointed to scars and said, "You did this," not with malice or hatred but in explanation...Her soul in return stood with the knife in hand, dropped it, and said, " I did not know, and I apologize"...I could never imagine that she would acknowledge the pain she had caused. I did not expect her to, but I needed her to know that SHE DID THIS!

My father is next...

She asked where I was staying the night, and I told her my gay parents. She questioned their intentions in my life and explained why she does not like them. A mother lives to be the center of their child's life and when she feels she is being pushed away and replaced she is hurt. I explained that I needed to learn how to become a gay black man living in this society and she could never teach me that nor could she ever be replaced. I also noted her lingering homophobia, she noticed it too. It is difficult, but she's working on it, and I am grateful. He arrived outside and I moved swiftly to the door after a long embrace. "I hate to see you go again, but this is what you need, which is unfortunate for me, but I see the growth, I finally see you. It took me so long, but I do. I doubted your ability to survive in New York, and you're thriving...I would not be able to do some of the things you've told me".

I no longer wish to travel the road less traveled but the road ordained and predestined by the Creator. There are no previous voyagers, only the Creator and I. I trust in where my journey will lead.

I walked outside....I thought...I asked my mother would she like to meet my gay father...she obliged.
They hugged in front of her house.

THEY HUGGED IN FRONT OF HER HOUSE!!!

MY MOTHER SEES ME, SHE MET MY GAY FATHER, AND THEY HUGGED IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE!!!

I wish I could express this nostalgic five hours as beautifully as they occurred, but I can not. I also SWEAR that I have learned how to write better since being in college although it has not been properly displayed here. But this is dedicated to Ms. Mack, the few fabulous black gay men in my life that spoke it into existence as I rolled my eyes, the International Nomad, and to the people who still read...

-Marz

January 28, 2008

2008-01-28T13:30:00.000-05:00

In retrospect
government is better than brie.

Candlelight dinners were intimate.

The fire hyrdrant was cleaner
than the public pool.

The second semester began with a gunshot, and although the race has only been in session for a week there is already 200 pages to be behind in. This semester I am more focused. I feel a sense of authority over the school. I belong here, many of these white students do not.

"Why am I the only stupid person in this class?"

Vulnerability is not weakness, only the truly strong can walk upright in their openness without fear.

Hearing is not listening.

I despise faggotry.

I could have never imagined that I had so much love inside of me to give...

-Marz

Nerd With Me!

2008-01-18T11:52:00.000-05:00

" How much of wanting another man is the desire to be that man? So many gay men love not men but the idea of masculinity: their desire is not for any individual man but for maleness as an ideal, exactly that which defines them as other and lesser. This perhaps contributes to the promiscuity so many gay men pursue, because no particular individual can embody an ideal, or not for long, whereas that one (the one across the bar, the one you don't know yet) may well be everything you ever wanted, everything you ever needed, manhood itself. If one cannot be a real man, which by definition no homosexual is, then at least one can have a real man, though that's always problematic, since real men don't have sex with other men, certainly not with other real men. I think many gay men worship the power that oppresses them. I think, too, all sexual relations in our society are about power over another on the submission to the power of another. For a gay man, both roles are simultaneously available."-Reginald Shepherd

Gay Black Boys

2008-01-10T12:59:00.000-05:00

Black gay boys walking dirt roads, cobblestoned streets, runways ,and pavements. Picking Cotton, husking corn. Hosed in the streets. Raped by slave masters with no light skinned babies to expect. Molested by "straight men" who are repressed. Beat in the night by men who want to feel STRONG. On slave ships, buggies, slave blocks, back of buses, colored sections, North of the Mason Dixon, trolleys, planes, and ships. Dredlocked, conked, Jerry Curled, Caesared, naturaled, parted, high top faded, and braided. Lisping, Strolling, Switching, Dancing, Singing, Hating Themselves, Loving Each Other. Always there are black gay boys.

He loves me. I did not know I could be loved.God loves me, but hates my sin. He lusts for my sin. Kisses my lips, licks my nipples, sucks my dick, eats my ass. he makes me feel special. He loves my sin, our sin, and I've never felt so righteous. I love him. Maybe I can learn to love myself. He is my reflection. I am afraid to look in the mirror and see who I am. I glance at him clothed, naked, open. He is love, I am love.

Sex is not love.

I feel so bad though, and it feels so good. Makes me feel good about who I am, that I can please another man. I could not please my father, and my mother is just a father in a skirt and I can not please her either. I can't please white Jesus crying tears on the cross knowing my seduction for dark lights, loud music, pursed lips, with reads more painful than death.

"The first naked man he saw was lynched. Hanging from a tree, rope so long so strong to hold a black man and his demons, deferred dreams, and tears. His face was disturbingly somber. He did not have a penis. My Pa says they chop them off sometimes, put them in jars...as souvenirs".

Black gay boys marry. They try to form their masculinity inside the wombs of other women, because it did not occur inside of their mother. "What did I do wrong? How did this happen to me?" Questions echoed between mothers, fathers, and sons.

Singing their hearts to God in the choir to open his ears to the pleas you make for "deliverance". Reading the bible. Reading the young queen that stepped on your shoe. Vodka and Olive oil. Lube and Communion grape juice.

Bitch. Cunt. Sister. Brother. Ms. Thang. Mother. Legends. Trade. DL. "Only on Saturdays after I get high".

GRID, destroying facades cemented in shame, guilt, and lies. Tearing doors off of closets, revealing a shrunken character to families more concerned with their appearance than their loved ones. "maybe if I hadn't found so many men who loved my sin...then..." Entire generations of black gay boys destroyed. Who will lead us into manhood? When there are few faint voices of black gay manhood, and besides we don't live for the old queens. (They have wrinkles.)

Up in drags, down in Timbs.

Feeling Isolated, Weird, Different, Special. Finding others. Elation. Vapid.

Finally we reach mirrors to see how fat we are. Why Anthony or Kevin did not look at us? WE starve ourselves of food, for attention from the ones screaming, "no fats, no fems". Slicing arms to visualize the pain inside.

Blasting beats off the walls that know you better than your mother, as you do dips onto the pillows on your bed. Feeling excluded because you do not fit into the stereotypical effeminate man, yet you don't live in feigned paradigms of black masculinity. Walking in your mother's shoes, knowing you're supposed to fill you father's.

Black gay boys in love with themselves. Removed of closets. Realizing they are more than a dick, ass, tongue, hand, more than their sexuality, which exists further than sex.

Wondering why they are black gay boys...because we were meant to have character and continue a legacy.

Langston Hughes, Bruce Nugent, Bayard Rustin, Essex Hemphill, Kevin Aviance, Harmonica Sunbeam, Pepper Labeija... and the list will continue, because always there are black gay boys.

(P.S. in a strange pensive place right now.)

-Marz

SPEAK!!

2008-01-06T21:14:00.000-05:00

I always say that God should have given me a beautfiul voice. I LOVE music. I would sing and share my gift with the WORLD. I would not need a record deal. I would just sing my head. God did not give me a beautiful singing voice. He gave me a beautiful authorial voice, and I stopped using it altogether. My teenage years was a way for me to delineate my thoughts. Many an epiphany has occured at the keyboard. My tears, laughs, lust, shade, victories, and defeats are stored here, and I just stopped speaking. There are still one and a half teenage years left. Looking back, I have neglected to chronicle my first semester, and it hurts. I know there are some days where I would be angry, ten minutes later I would be laughing, and then an hour later crying somewhere, and those posts would have been bipolar. There are days when I'm bi-polar though.

I can't be mute any longer. I have to share my gift with the world.

My Happiness

2007-11-26T15:30:00.000-05:00

" I realized that I was trying to find my happiness in other people and material things, when the key to my happiness is in me. If I'm happy because one makes me happy, what will happen when one goes away? If I'm happy because I have this or that, what will happen when it breaks? It's all going to burn. When you find your happiness and go after it, people start to get angry. Many people are trying to find their happiness in you, and their happiness is contingent on some aspect of your life. Some of my friends are only happy around me when I'm experiencing family drama. My parents' happiness seems to be contingent on me having a child and a wife. You have to get to the point where you're going to go after what's best for you, and deny everyone else who is trying to benefit from your present state of being, or the role they have created for you to play. So many people were trying to find something in me because they were too lazy to find it in themself, and I had to cut them off. They were holding me back and trying to keep me in my current state, so that they could continue to get whatever they thought they found in me. I had to tell them to find whatever they are missing in themself or God, and follow my own advice."-Marz

Conversation I had with a piece of trade over Thanksgiving Break.

P.S. Boys are so stupid, and I hate their freaking faces.

-Marz

Going Home

2007-11-20T12:23:00.000-05:00

This evening, I am returning to Philadelphia. I have not been home since I was delivered, by hand, to New York by my parents. My peers have been homesick. I am too busy enjoying life to miss Philly. But, I am anxious and nervous to see my friends, family, acquaintances and enemies. I truly miss my parents and hope that we can interact as three adults. I've forgiven them for all the nonsense they did to me: punishing me all summer, allowing their views of me to be depicted by homophobic ministers, not seeing me. I think they see me now, or will. My mother is definitely going to see my skull earrings. I can't wait to see her face. My relationship with my father is growing, slowly but surely. I'm interested to see if we can hold a conversation without me getting angry, or without him getting defensive.

This trip is going to be amazing. I have closure to obtain and people to let go; transgressions to forgive and new relationships to begin. People predicted I would be killed or contract something. Many think I just came up here to be "gay". Others still think I made my school up. I was so hung up on trying to prove these people wrong. But, I don't have to prove myself to anyone, nobody is that important. I know who I am. They will see who I am. They will say I've changed, and I will smile. If they don't see the change, oh well.

I'm excited. My high school alumni day. The Thanksgiving parade. Thanksgiving dinner. Black Friday shopping. Saturday parties. Sunday service.

This is going to be a wonderful Thanksgiving. I can feel it, and will read the person DOWN who tries to ruin my happiness.

-Marz

Adulthood Pt.1

2007-11-16T02:31:00.000-05:00

“Time’s a wastin’, don’t you take your time young man, keep on drifting, ain’t no telling where you’ll land.”-Erykah Badu (Time’s a wastin’ Mama’s Gun)

Walking down Fifth Avenue I don’t halt for the red light or the oncoming cabs. I miss getting hit. The collisions that allowed me to come back to reality. Those words that people chose to throw like daggers. Slashed me open and threw salt on my face. Made me recognize my place, taking the white man’s job: outsourcing. This is unreal. I am from the rough streets of Southwest Philadelphia. I live in the Financial District. My reality is currently unreal. I am thankful.

Running through streets, searching for myself, my new best friend, the happiness I know resides here. “This can’t be right. “ Switch trains, switch directions. I am on my way. New York is where I will become a man, a great man. Philadelphia made me a great boy.

“Marcus, I don’t understand why you don’t have a boyfriend or at LEAST some thug to mess around with? It’s New York. You are handsome, you style is SICK, you’re smart, and…it’s New York.” “ Do the rules change because it’s New York?” “YES!” We share a laugh, bond, friendship I cherish deeply. “The boys my age aren’t on my level. I am trying to run an empire, their life goal is to be called for Stars, Statements, and Legends. We’re all the same age, but they all think it’s cute to be stupid and a whore. I refuse to lower who I am to be deemed cute by some worthless male. I don’t have time for that nonsense. I can be a whore when I‘m smart with a master‘s. I can‘t be messing with some man like…you‘re age.” The shade goes ignored. “ So you’re saying you don’t see anybody up there.” “NOPE!! Unless, his name is Bachelor S. Degree I’m not interested currently. Right now my boyfriends are: Marcus, Jesus, My School, and New York; the four of us are very happy.” “Bitch, you wearing those damn glasses without the lenses again.“ “My glasses are cute, and you want them.” “True. But, you better put some contacts into your head and find you a someone.” “My happiness resides in me. Allowing it to exists in another is setting myself up for a life of misery.”

I am a father. Thirteen beautiful brown and black children who need to be nourished, loved, taught to read. I have so much hope for them. I did not know I had so much love within myself to bestow upon another. I am opulence. They notice my clothes, my books, my flaws; and love me in spite and despite.

Five shots of Vodka, no effect. Horrible music. Ugly Men, inside and outside. Galang & Bamboo Banga. Train rides from Brooklyn past midnight are many things. Terrible Parties, Wonderful memories.

Bjork in Bobst. My life in practice, not romanticization any longer.

“I don’t fuck with the trade honey,” he said, “ I need a REAL man that can carry a purse and pump through the hood with some CLASS!”

My mother says she hears growth in my voice. My father is saying he loves me now. This is a wonderful experience. We have grown together, apart.

The New York bloggers are supposedly shade. Everyone is shade. I know I am. I remember reading them when I was 15, they seemed so shiny. Some of them lack a spark to make a faint glimmer. The others are brilliantly dazzling.

“Everyone possesses the tools to shine, some just like being thirsty rock-kickers”. What are my majors? “ Well, actually I have three right now, but they’re interrelated. The first is the covert pedagogy of white supremacy. Basically, I want to study how white supremacy is taught to children of color, and those lacking color, in covert manners. For instance, lately I’ve been looking at the messages that are in commercials. Every commercial break, at least five commercials come on and many have some sense of where everyone belongs. There is that one commercial telling fathers to spend time with their sons. Why are the father and son African American? Why is the father dressed like a bum? Why is there a lack of other ethnicities on television?

I also want to study the conceptualization of race and sexuality and the intersection of the both. I’ve been meeting African immigrants who have expressed that upon arriving in America they’ve conceptualized themselves as black. How does one conceptualize their race in America? In another country? How does one conceptualize oneself as gay? Queer? MSM? SGL? The Trade? Can we resist hegemonic perceptions and form our own identities? Is forming our own identities as a resistance to the ascribed labels useful?Third, I want to study pornography from a sociological and anthropological view. The other day I was watching one and the top kept calling the bottom boy. The production didn’t amuse me, but I found it interesting in the tops’ utilization of, “boy.” Both sex partners were black, and we all know that the white folk used to call African Americans boy as a derogatory term. Why in African American porns are the men these drug dealers, pimps, and robbers? Why do three Puerto Rican men who are “Straight” decide to start an escort service? What does that say about their mentalities that the only thing they are good at is fucking? What kind of world do we live in that would have Latinos living in conditions where the only jobs that are conceivable for them is fucking? Why do they have sex in train stations and alleyways? I saw some horrible Caucasian porn, and the two were lawyers. I’d also like to create a historiography of Pornography for men of color. These young children are so amused with Enrique Cruz and Tiger Tyson, but have the slightest clue about Randy Cochran and TJ Swan. A travesty. I still want to be a sexologist too. I have time to figure it out.

My friends says I should go into fashion. Photographer, Stylist, Model, Designer. It’s a bit too stereotypical for my taste.

I think I do want to pursue modeling. I look better than that man who got the ad campaign for H&M. I’d rather be chopped at open calls then know there is potential that is wasted.
At least I’ll know I tried.

My first novel is being written.

Self love is a constant effort. Every day I change. I lost fifteen pounds. I gained five back. I am giving up meat. I want to have a child. I’m going to dance. I cannot continue to love the person I was when I was fifteen. He is gone. I am no longer a size 44 waist. I am still a nerd. Even though you may love who you are, you must continue to love yourself as you change grow and evolve.

“I had to reintroduce myself to everybody I know: My mother, and my father. ‘Listen, yall never knew me‘. I want to introduce you to me. I’m just getting to know me, and you know what? Anything that’s not growing is DEAD, so we better be changing…I‘m changing because that‘s a natural part of life, we’re all supposed to change. Who wakes up and is the same way tomorrow and the day after that? Nobody is. Let the experience teach you and be real man. And there’s going to be warfare involved, because there’s some people who prefer deception, see. They say, ‘Ugh, I don’t like this new expression’ and I say, ‘well, what? You want two thirds of me to stay outside? I’m a whole person.” -Lauryn Hill

People search for themselves. We are always there, but afraid to truly encounter ourselves. Standing in front of a mirror, naked, I’ve allowed myself to face my fears. I am imperfectly perfect, perfectly imperfect.

“I realized the other day that I don’t care about being rich and famous. I don’t need a big house, and fancy car. Now, of course I need clothes, lots of clothes, shoes, and accessories; but I’m here to help people”. “ So basically, you’re going to be a social worker living on the street outside of Barney’s?” Silence. “And that is why I love you.”

I’m grateful and humbled by my purpose on Earth.

“Some people may not understand, what it means to be a man, taking full command. Cuz we’re living in a world that’s oh so strange, boy don’t let your focus change, taking out the demons in your range. Living in a world that is oh so fast, gotta make your money last, learn from your past.” -Erykah Badu (Time’s a Wastin’ Mama’s Gun)

-Marcus a.k.a. Marz

I'm a freshman again

2007-10-22T10:50:00.000-04:00

“So many things I’m going through. So much that I wanna do. It’s starting to become so clear to me. Tomorrow ain’t really guaranteed.” -Amerie Why Don’t We Fall in Love

College, in my opinion, is not a place for the sane. Pulling all nighters in the library. Falling asleep writing a paper and waking up cuddling your textbook. Taking an extended bathroom break in the middle of class to run to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. These are a few experiences that I’ve become accustomed to my first semester in college. This added to becoming an adult overnight and living in one of the best cities in the world, if not the best, is definitely not a task for the mentally weak. Luckily, I’ve endured enough insanity in my life to survive my college years. This experience has been the most beautifully horrid, disgustingly wonderful, magnificently painful journey I have ever gone through, and I am so grateful for the opportunity. Every day whether I am crying walking down Fifth Avenue, getting catcalls walking through the West Village, or on the train to Harlem I take time to reflect on how far I’ve come and yet to go.

First, I had to overcome white supremacy that has been inculcated. White supremacy is taught very covertly, and I didn’t realize how covert it was until I arrived at my school. From the first day of orientation, I felt inadequate in comparison to my Caucasian counterparts. I couldn’t explain where these ideas came from. We would all be conversing and they spoke of living in a lavish town and attending a fancy New England boarding school. Many spent the summer in Europe, and have enjoyed white privilege throughout their short lives.

I have been taught white supremacy everywhere from public school curriculum to media images. Coming home from school I would declare, “I’m dropping out because I refuse to continue being taught white supremacy.” However, I lived in the hood, went to an all black school, and worked at a place with majority minority workers. My exposure to white people were the cops, teachers, and bosses and they held the power and frequently wielded it tyrannically. Having the ideology that Caucasians are better than I am did not really come into place because we interacted infrequently. I realize now that it's taught as a precaution. All the odds are against someone like me getting out. If one of us does manage to get out there are precautions in place to keep them mentally crippled until they return to what they know. I stepped foot in my classes and the only place I saw my face was in the reflection in the windowpane, and these feelings of inadequacy just appeared. It was like a dam that had been filled for years finally cracked open. Being an African American male is more pronounced than it has ever been for me. There is, approximately, one African American male for every hundred students. I know that I am just as capable as my classmates, and I am beginning to display this in class. But, it took a good two weeks for me to be able to say that.

High school did not prepare me for a college career. I feel like high school was a time for me to learn life lessons and lose weight. On my first day of class, my professor tells the class her name and announces that we need to purchase a 250 page book directly following her class. The class needs to have the book read by Thursday, and have a 6 page paper due the following week. (This is a Tuesday, and only one of my five classes.) It’s not that I am not able to accomplish this feat. I did. It’s just that in high school all we did was 500 word essays, and took a month to read one book. Adjusting to this new level of work is very difficult, but I will get it done. A six page double spaced essay is not a 3 page essay single space. (One of the most disturbing lessons I have learned so far. LOL) I get so disgusted when I talk to some of my friends who are attending HBCU’s and state colleges and they tell me the worst they have to do is write a 2 page paper, or annotate a bibliography.

I am not necessarily enthralled by any of my classes to the point where I show up an hour before class begins. But, they are definitely interesting. The class topics are: Migration to America in the 20th century, Performance Studies, Cultural Studies, The New York Public School System, and Personal Spirituality. I like my professors, and recently discovered that you have to have a healthy communication life with your professors. In my first dialogue, I basically had to inform them of my background. I felt like many of them assumed I was also from a boarding school and have rich parents. This is not the case. There is a gap I have to cross just to reach where many of my peers began college. I am capable, and will continue to build. My professors had certain expectations that I was not fulfilling, and they felt I was being rebellious because my work wasn't meeting their standards. I basically told them I'm going to give you what you expect and more. But, it's going to take me a second to learn the basic college writing skills. Public school taught me how to write to pass the standardized tests. Five paragraph essays do not suffice in college. Yes, I can tell a story and bring you to tears. ( I've done this twice in class so far. The professor was speechless.) A clear concise essay with an argument is going to take a while, but I'm going to learn.

I literally lost the freshman fifteen during the first month. I now wear a XS or XXS, and 30 waist, which is disturbing. I can feel my ribs and my spine, and they are starting to show when I'm shirtless. I’ve become that skinny toothpick bitch I used to hate when I was bigger. I have become a vegetarian by default. (Tofu is not as disgusting the way people detail.) I miss having something fried at least once a week. There is no stove top, so I cannot fry myself catfish or chicken. All my clothes are too big, but that‘s starting to be the look. In November, after I get my gym membership, I’m going to start a 3,000 calorie a day diet. (I’m going to love it.)

They say you don’t really know a person until you live with them. Most people have an assumption of that person beforehand. My roommates are very nice. I live with three other males. There are two rooms and two boys in each room, and we share a kitchen, bathroom, and living space. I don’t speak much with my roommate. When I come home from school I’m usually in a mood and don’t wish to talk about anything at that time. He’s nice though. He has his quirks, but WHO AM I TO SPEAK ON QUIRKY PEOPLE? One of the other roommates is rarely home, rather when he is home I don’t know until he comes out of his room. The other roommate is cool. He walks around in his boxers, and I definitely do not mind. (HEHE) Overall, they don’t steal my stuff and I don’t steal theirs. We respect each others space and stay as tidy as we can.

I was released from my punishment a week before leaving for college, therefore I was not able to say goodbye to any of my friends. During my punishment I went into deep thought every day. I realized that many of the people I did not get a chance to say goodbye to were poisonous. I needed to prune the unhealthy relationships from my life in order to grow. Those who I had healthy relationships with I told them how much I appreciated them and how much they truly meant to me. I did not get closure from my real friends because we departed incorrectly. The first week of school, I recognized that I was trying to find other people who reminded me of my friends to fill the void. I miss them all. But, I have let my missing them tie me down from finding new people to enjoy. They are all living their lives and thriving. They miss me and are thinking about me, but it’s not all-consuming. I have been SHADE to some of my classmates. Some of the boys are crusty looking and want a chocolate Mandingo fetish, and I’m not interested. I realize I can’t be friends with everyone so I’m filtering very selectively.

My parents are behaving well without me. I know they are flipping out, but they are retaining face very well. My father is starting to build the foundation for a relationship that is not so much father/son, but more man to man. THIS RELATIONSHIP THING PETRIFIES ME. I spent so much time getting over the fact we didn’t have a relationship, and coming to terms with that ideal. Now, he finally has found a way to hold a relationship with me. I just have to take things slowly, because he definitely is getting me open to quickly. He said some things to me in a touching e-mail. I clutched my pearls and walked through the street listening to Chrisete Michele's "Your Joy." I can’t allow this man to hurt me anymore or again. (Just when I came to terms with pleasantries being our only form of dialogue.) Mother is mother. I told her of my difficulties in class one day and she started to cry. She’s constantly questioning if I’m eating and being good.

Yes, I’m being good. (Whatever that means.) Everyone from home assumed my morals and standards would fly out the window and I’d become this porn model/drug dealer. I’m very focused. I feel I am too focused at times. But, I’d rather be over focused than at every ball, cultural experience, play, and party. I know that I want to be a little more fluid because I don't want to regret being so involved in my schoolwork at graduation. I’ve been to a few parties since I’ve been here and Priscilla does not know how to throw a good party. (Priscilla= white woman.) Getting ready for the party, truthfully, is more fun than being at the event. The two hours of trying on outfits, primping, dancing to M.I.A’s Kala cd. (It’s a must have for any party. You cannot listen to this cd without moving.) I get to the party and I gag, and am angry I put that much effort into myself.

Worst party so far:

Brooklyn rooftop with a beautiful view of the Brooklyn Bridge. The wind is howling and it feels like it’s 30 degrees. I’m wearing a thin Super V neck. Not a normal V neck, or a deep V neck. The bottom was right above my abs, with shorts, and Nikes. I’m freezing. There are only three songs being played on repeat, all slow Billy Joel songs. Ugly boys, ugly girls, and I came with a group of freshman. Some of them are cool, but the majority are losers. Cheap drinks, but my tolerance is so high it doesn’t matter. A nice flavored Hookah pipe with four pipes. A hookah with four pipes is like a drop of Vodka: what’s the point? Ten Priscilla’s start crying because the boys won’t look at them and they‘re drunk. They began to discuss and vent their insecurities. I’m rolling my eyes thinking, “GURL, GET OVER YOURSELF.” I’m a second from catching hypothermia and shivering violently. The cops appear on a rooftop filled with minors drinking. Thank God, I got on the elevator a second after the cops dispersed. I didn’t even know they arrived until I got outside. I walked over to a bodega and bought some Jalapeno chips, and just looked like a butch queen on the corner. The worst five dollars I have ever spent. (The doorkeeper to the party couldn’t count so I got in for four and bought a shot that did absolutely nothing. THOSE WHITE PEOPLE WOULDN‘T EVEN LET ME GET ANY OF THE TEQUILA. I NEED SOMETHING STRONG TO COPE WITH THIS HORRIBLE PARTY.)

I’ve been keeping it slow after that one because I definitely almost went to jail. Also, when I punched that cop car in the West Village. These cops almost hit me, then swerve in front of me and wait forever at a stop sign. Patience is not my virtue. I punched the car as it took off, and didn’t realize I put so much force into the blow. “CLANG,” “You think that’s funny?” the cop asked, as I pumped down the street praying he didn‘t shoot me. The NYPD does have a reputation.

I haven’t been very boy crazy. My mentors told me to leave the boys alone, and I half listened. "I promise I won't mess with anyone until second semester," with my fingers crossed behind my back. I understand what they were saying now. I realize I don’t have time to nurture even an unhealthy relationship with drama, bullshit, and lies, let alone have a healthy relationship. Now, this is New York City, and I have been tempted. They are EVERYWHERE: the train, the street, the supermarket. It was like this in Philly. But, the boys are drug dealers so it wasn‘t as overt. Also, many of the boys at my school have a pre-jaded outlook on finding a boyfriend. They’re so naïve and hopeful. (Makes you say, “AWW, ain’t dat cute.”) I still have that, but I hang out with cynical older men, so it‘s buried. Also, in New York they talk to you. They walk up, approach, and speak. VERY NEW experience, compared to some of the Philly boys who will stand around and emote. (“Did you say the way he pursed his lips and fluttered his eyelashes? He wants me.” )

I’ve grown so much in the last two months. Although, I’ve had my doubts about coming to this school and city, I’m glad I did. I am free from the bondage of my parents, my environment, the cult, etc. I have acquired many virtues that I lacked and let go of a lot of bullshit that wasn’t mine to begin with, but I retained for others. My main goals now are living MY life and not being dependent on others to be the catalyst in my happiness, and soaring onto sophomore year. (Which, by the way, begins next semester. All those college courses I took during high school paid off.)

-Marz

The Difference a Year Can Make

2007-10-01T08:48:00.000-04:00

College Essay #1

My mother once said that bitter and sweet water couldn’t come from the same fountain. She was metaphorically referring to how one’s heart couldn’t be both righteous and evil; solely one had to prevail. Moreover, I had to make the decision which one I wanted to choose. I, being the difficult child that I was, said, “Well, what if it just needed some sugar, and ran low every so often,” offering the paradox at hand, and naively stating the components of humanity. The concept that certain things couldn’t be their opposite, or coexist, sounded a bit odd to me.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my life. How I’m bound for greatness, but I’m from the less than humble ghettoes of Southwest Philadelphia. Abandoned houses that shelter abandoned souls pollute my street, alongside the ignorance that seems synonymous with being African American, or lower class. I’ve been proving to be quite the antonym.

One weekend, I rode the trolley and three boys began debasing me with homophobic epithets. I glared at them with glances that were once thrown at me, when I said I wanted to be the first Black President. I remembered that roomful of family members laughing and saying that it was impossible. They also expressed they wouldn’t want it to occur because I’d probably be assassinated due to my high level of pigment. Those same eyes, which are obviously genetic, glanced at these teenagers and saw them as futureless. Later, I thought about how wrong it was to think that they would probably be the three out of our collective four to be incarcerated. I began to revel in my self-growth that the degrading terms, which once caused violent turmoil within me, produced an indifference of spirit. I continued writing my research paper for my college Psychology class, while the calamity and downfall of the black community sat in the back of the trolley yelling with voices untouched by puberty. Repentance came with a simple prayer, which also included wishes that the boys do something positive with their lives.
I curse genetics.

The pastor says that science has been the downfall of our souls.

He especially hates the creation theory and its man-made constraints on an omnipotent being.

For, the idea that I can become something from nothing, from a place barren of any hope to even an institution of higher education, would go against the law of conservation of mass. Unless, one takes defeat and turns it into hope for the future, moreover, triumph. Unless, one takes all the negative words thrown and strews them along a laundry line holding his existence by a fickle safety pin and begins to pick and choose the words. Construe them until the original meaning is misconstrued. I’ve worked arduously to alter the battering of my soul, and create it into self-preservation.

I wear glasses; the doctor says I have astigmatism. I also have an astigmatism albeit, beyond those held in my vision. I have scars from my childhood, from my father’s childhood, from his father’s childhood. I have scars from slavery, from what I was taught, ended 150 years ago. I have scars still from the thorns Eve poked into her womb hiding in the bushes after eating that cursed fruit. However, it seems as if the stigmas and scars have penetrated the minds of my people causing internal bleeding. The stigmas have affected my people for too long. I decided, after being told I couldn’t be inaugurated, that I would live devoid of stereotypical limits.
After exiting the trolley, I had to take my glasses off to blur the oppression. I had to let my stigmatism take control, because seeing past the stigmas to the truth of the ghetto is quite depressing; and, always worse than any stigmatized news camera could capture for the ten o’clock news.

Sometimes, I wonder why I have turned out as well as I have while living in my deleterious environment. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve even turned out better than anyone. Sometimes, I feel wrong about placing myself in the upper echelon of this nonexistent hierarchy.

Yet and still, I am constantly pushing, thriving, and progressing: creating within myself something positive, from something negative, and turning oppression into motivation. I must conserve mass, for there isn’t much to go around because times are hard. I wish I could have more positive mass, but I have to work with what I’ve been given. For, I am a bittersweet fountain, the ending the beginning didn’t see.

HMMM.....

-Marz

A Dialogue

2007-09-24T19:34:00.000-04:00

This is a conversation I’ve been thinking about lately that I held with one of my friends from Philly. I miss him also. Every time he saw me he would spin me around and look at my outfit and read me or approve. “I like that shirt, and those pants, but I don’t get what you’re doing with the shoes. OH WAIT, I see the belt. I SEE IT!!! GOOD JOB!”

M: I have said this before and I’m going to say it again. I don’t understand how gay men, but specifically gay black men, and then again, young gay black men can approach another ask their sexual role, penis size, if they have a fetish or fantasy, and just go have sex after some fake ass conversation that they have as the prerequisite so they don’t feel like a whore later; but, refuse to ask their HIV status, or status on just having, say crabs.

A: Well, if you know they’re lying about being a top or bottom why continue on to ask their status they’re going to lie anyway. Like, look at him over there. (Points to this piece of trade corner boy.) He claims he’s a top, but not with a scoop in his back like that, looking like he got scoliosis.

M: I guess you’re right. But, many of them don’t do it because they feel like the boy will lose interest, and that’s so dirty that you would want someone who wouldn’t want you if you inquire about their HIV status. I would run from someone who didn’t ask me.

A: Whatever. You just use a condom and slay these boys DOWN!!!

M: Horrible (as I laugh)

(Another boy walks up)

S: You always talking down about synonymous sex like you better than someone.

M: That’s why I don’t have it dear, because I’d wake up the next morning with someone like you who calls it synonymous. …I know what I want, and I'm waiting. I’m young. I have time to be a whore. I have time to cheat on someone. I have time to go to a sex party, go to an orgy. I have time to get my piece of trade, or my voguing butch queen. Sex is great. And if you want to have sex with everything that walks go have fun. I'm not here to judge you, just make sure you're safe. And, if I do judge you who care? I just don’t understand why these young boys are in such a rush and a blindrush at that to get some. It's not going anywhere. We're already at 46 percent... I have to do something to help them.

A: Oh God. (As he eats some of his cheesesteak.)

M: I’m gay male Oprah chile get in, or get out! (Laughs)

P.S. Thank you to everyone who voted me Best Teen Blog again. ( Everyone trying to call me try during Top Model I'll be home then. LOL)

-Marz