My Teenage Years

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

SAT PREP

2007-09-04T09:14:00.000-04:00

Song: Greatest love of All “ I believe that children are the future.”

(There is something about classical before crack Whitney that brings me back to my childhood. I remember me at six asking for the Preacher’s Wife movie for Christmas, pleading with my mother that it wasn’t too mature. Singing, “I believe in you and me,” every time I had a comb, brush, pencil, etc. in my hands. Sigh. Crack is so damn whack.)

I scored well on the SAT. I personally would have liked to score better, perfectly. However, I digress and have accepted me score. The truly annoying aspect of my score was how everyone thought it was so amazing that a black male could score the way I did. I understand that since I live in a low socioeconomic environment, I attend a public school, and that other factors that should have made me miss the 200 points for spelling my name correctly were prevalent; but, they aren’t solely determinative of one’s capabilities. My classmates would say, “You scored so well, and for a black male you basically got a perfect.” The scholarship interviewers were amazed, “your scores are so amazing, and for a black male. Just…wow.”I guess I’m just extremely self-critical (I am) because I wanted a perfect. Also, I am glad that I showed a black male could score well on that horrible test.

This is my few tips that I’ve accrued from taking the tests six times. Different people at my school asked me to give them some pointers, and those huge books aren’t helpful all the time. Also, your parents are going to be no help whatsoever. If they took the test they have no clue how it is now. They’ll try to quiz you on analogies, and they’re not on the SAT. I had to combat several gay men who thought I was being shady because I didn’t want their help. “Are you trying to say I’m old? The SAT hasn’t changed that much since I took it 3 years ago. These shady ass young queens, I tell you.” But then they still thought the highest score to attain was a 1600.

STUDYING!

It is important to study for this test. The trick is that there really isn’t a proper way to study for this test. The SAT is created to trick you, unlike the ACT. The ACT is straightforward when they ask you what is 2+2 they want 4. When the SAT asks you what is 2+2 they want 22. (This is a joke, if that is a question on the SAT don’t put 22, because you will get it wrong.) There are three sections to study for: Writing, Reading, and Math.

Studying for the Writing part is oversimplified. Teachers and books will tell you to read the newspaper and write timed responses to articles that anger you or catch your attention. I think that is a great suggestion but it’s different when you’re comfortable writing editorials. However, the Writing section is the first thing in the morning. It begins at about 8:15, and you only get 25 minutes. It feels like your brain is pushed off the top of the building and you are just scribbling away trying to think of bigger words, trying to sound smarter. The writing section starts with this quote that seems basic enough, and then there is a question pertaining to the quote. The question, for me, was never inspiring enough to write an entire essay. Teachers tell you that you should brainstorm and think your essay out. You really don’t have time to brainstorm and make one of those spider web drawings. The main point is to take a stand because the question will ask you to take a stand on one of the points. Then, you must support the point clearly, and articulately. The biggest thing I had to watch out for was detracting from a statement I would write. I would write that I liked something, but then in another paragraph say that the same thing isn’t all that great, but still pretty great.

Your writing section is read and scored by two readers who give you a score from 1 to 6. If you’re a student you’ve seen those rubrics that teachers pass out before benchmark tests and they basically score your essay based on the same thematic. The essay is stressing because it’s rare that anyone writes a full 5 paragraph essay. However, the essay is only a certain percentage of your writing score. The remainder of the writing section is, “fix the sentence,” type questions. There are like 30 different ways to write incorrect sentences, pronoun verb disagreement, things of that nature. Also, there are these questions that are a simple paragraph and you have to choose which sentence is wrong, or is the paragraph copasetic. I had a problem of saying that each paragraph was perfect which brought my score down on the writing. These can all be found in SAT prep books. The BEST book to get to study for the SAT is Cracking the SAT. I have gone through SEVERAL SAT prep books, and this was the best for me. Also, it’s been surveyed as the best book to use. Everyone in my class used that book and there was one in the school library we would all fight over. These books can be expensive so go to your library to rent it out if you can. In Philly, certain libraries wouldn’t rent it out because they only had one copy; but, there were certain branches that had about 30 copies and they were happy to lend it out. Make sure you get a book with a disk, because the disk has interactive SAT prep with a timer and tells you what you need to practice.

For the reading section, you need to start reading a lot of boring things with big words in them. But, also throw in some interesting pieces with big words. For instance, I would use Larry Lyons blog for SAT reading prep. His lexicon is very magniloquent and vast. When you’re reading something that you’re interested in and there is a word you don’t know, or words you don’t know, you’re more likely to look them up. In one post Larry discusses the etymology of the word, “cunt”. He used etymology so often that I had to look it up to understand the post. You need to read boring pieces because many of the tests on the SAT are unbearably dull. The test is really made for Caucasian children, and as colored children we are into our Sistah Souljah’s and Zane’s. Out of my five times taking the SAT subject tests, I only remember one story that talked about a Puerto Rican family. The other pieces can be interesting. However, some of them are critical analysis on a piece of artwork, or something you truly just don’t give a damn about. Building your tolerance for literary bullshit is just a skill that must be learned. In high school, you are rarely given a book that you like. You are given books assigned by the curriculum that is created to inculcate an appreciation of Eurocentric ideas and beliefs that disvalue almost everything else. Senior year, many of the books were horrible. But, then the teacher would pick a book that I would LOVE!!!! (Brave new world is officially my second favorite book.) The first questions to ALWAYS bang out are the ones that allude to a word in the passage. You scan the questions and there are questions like, “In line 78 what does the author mean when he uses the word TOUCH?” You can find line 77 read until you get a quick understanding, and then answer. It’s also very useful if you read up on your literary terms. There are questions that asks if the statement was allegorical, or metaphorical. Did the syntax or the theme work to move you? All those terms your English teacher throws at you at once and expects you to find in the readings, “this is existentialism, read this novel” are all very prevalent.

For the math section I really think it’s an either you have it or you don’t. Personally, I excel at math, which I should seeing as my high school made me take seven years of math in four years (don’t ask lol). However, I would suggest getting an Algebra 1 textbook and just reading through it. I attended a school that was funded for new books and things because we scored well. (Which is screwy because the children with bad scores need new books also, if not more. I digress.) There were always old textbooks you could take home and keep. ( The teachers begged you to take them.) Many students aren’t adequate in math, because they are only taught certain sections of math. The teachers know that differential equations will be on the next benchmark test. They don’t want the children to score poorly, because it reflects that they are a horrible teacher. So, they ignore logarithms altogether, and teach differential equations until your fingers are bleeding from scaling the graphing calculators. In every math class I’ve been in, except the college classes. The teachers have just said, “Okay, we’re just going to skip chapter 7 and go to 9.” Or, “We’re going to do sections 10.1-10.4 skip to 10.7 and then do chapter 12 in its entirety.” Now, you’re happy because you think you’re doing less work, but, once you really look through you’re textbook you realize how much you’re really missing. The entire math section on the SAT is SUPPOSEDLY supposed to just be basic algebra. But, I swear there are a few calculus problems on that test. (Don’t worry yourself if you haven’t taken calculus, it really is just algebra that’s annoying.) Pay attention in your geometry classes, because they come in handy. Sure, it seems simple triangles, circles, second grade stuff. But, they help in higher level math. There are open ended questions on the test. It’s the best thing ever. You can put down whatever and you’re not penalized.

If you don’t know an answer on something, DON”T ANSWER. One of my teachers told us once that if you answer all the easy questions correctly and do moderately well on the medium questions and don’t answer any hard questions you can score a 1000. (I don’t believe this, personally, but still.) What I found extremely helpful on the math section is that the answers are in order. For instance, if the question is:
X+6= 15 the answers will be
A 3
B 9
C 12
D 14
e 15

Now, of course I could do this without having to substitute. But, this is a simple example. You know that if substituting C is too high that D and E are definitely too high. So they have to be A or B. Cutting down answers is extremely crucial. There are different tricks that will help different people, but I found this one very useful. If I put in b and b was too high or off then I knew it couldn’t be the other answers.

Registering can be a hassle, filling out those papers wreck my soul. If you are in high school and plan on going to college or any type of higher education you should be registered on collegeboard, point blank. Once you register once on collegeboard for the SAT you will never have to do it again. Plus, you can get your scores earlier, and it’s just so much better. GET ON COLLEGEBOARD RIGHT NOW!!!! (I keep thinking of my classmates who took the test a good ten times and filled out that paper every time.) Make sure you keep up with the deadline dates because if you miss them you have to pay an additional 20 dollars. The test is already expensive at $40, but having to pay an additional $20 is insanity. The SAT people get you though. Many students are waiting around for a certain score. Some children just want an 800. The scores go up the day after the deadline for regular registration closes. You’re sitting around feeling like you scored a 900, and have decided not to take the test again because you have the score you need and why waste that money. You could buy some new sneakers. But, then you see that 710, and you have to take it again. You now have to pay the extra $20. (It’s a sick twisted game.) You could also wait to take the test when the registration is normal price for the month afterward, but afterwhile time is crunching and you need that 800. Which leads to the next point.

TAKE THE SAT EARLY.

I think everyone should take the test the first time in the beginning of junior year, if not earlier. Once you take the test, your brain is muddled and you’re like, “OMG, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” it truly wakes you up.

If you don’t have money to shell out for the SAT, because I definitely didn’t, talk to your counselor. There are fee waivers for the SAT subject tests and the SAT test. You can get two SAT fee waivers, and one SAT subject tests. Subject tests are tests on specific subjects: Literature, Chemistry, Spanish, Chinese, etc. If you’re poor, but not poor enough there are ways to work it. You just have to know what you’re doing and have enough cunning. I’ll just say everyone at my school got a fee waiver, even the snobby girl with the Gucci bag and Ugg boots. Learn to kiss up to the counselor, or find a way to get over on the government. (But, don’t’ get caught.)

In registering you get to pick where you want to take your tests. I have friends who decided to take their test with Da-Da whom they loved SO MUCH. But, Da-Da lived across the city and next door to the testing site. This test starts at 8: a.m. on a Saturday morning, and ends at about 1:30 that afternoon. Think of how early you’re willing to wake on the Sabbath (the real Sabbath lol) to drag your body to that horrible test. Also, think of the environment of the building. If you know there is going to be police sirens and shoot-outs and that the children are a little shifty choose a better location. I took my test at the University of Pennsylvania every single time. Personally, I thought that the academia would fall from the walls into my head. The location wasn’t too far, and I knew that the environment would be conducive to test taking. My friends went to the place up the block. Some told stories of a lax test monitor and that they were able to cheat. That was their cup of tea. Some traveled across the city, arrived late and had to go straight home. So choose wisely. I would also suggest going somewhere where you know someone, but not the entire room. It soothed me when I would go into the big auditorium and someone would see me from my school and we’d both smile, and mouth, “good Luck”. Also, during the break session having someone to talk about the sections with is soothing. (You’re not supposed to do that. But, again, don’t get caught.)

I suggest wearing something cute, but don’t give too much. I know some girls thought the test would be on Top Model or something because they wore bustier and things of that nature. Your outfit should be you and able to detract from the other people, but shouldn’t be uncomfortable. Now, personally I am one that can wear skinny jeans and the most uncomfortable shoes because they’re cute and function appropriately. But, some other people can’t wear anything too tight because it distracts them. You’re wearing a cute outfit to get attention from the opposite or same sex. The first time I took the test I wore these monkey pajamas, and some flip flops and a head wrap, and brought a pillow. I got out my mother’s car, and this cute boy gave me the look up and down, and his face said, “you’re cute but, no boo, that outfit.” You should have seen me in the bushes changing into some jeans and getting myself together. From then on I wore something appealing. It was always a bit of a boost when I walked in with my diva flair. (I need to work on toning it down a bit.) My sunglasses on my face scarf around my neck, tea hot, and lips pursed. The girls would give me, “why are the good ones gay?” looks. The straight boys would stare like, “Yo, dude a blade”. I would move my pencils around so delicately on the little desk as if saying, “Why, yes dear I am in fact a blade.” (Blade is straight slang for gay, but its offensive. Hence “ Blades of Glory” titling) There is something about SAT morning that would always put me in this certain diva mood where I had to overdramatize EVERYTHING, and give so much for every little single thing. I wasn’t that bad every time. Really, it was only one time and I woke up that morning, and had a new cd with vogue beats on it. There is something about listening to voguing beats at seven o’clock in the morning that just wires my attitude for the entire day.

The night before the SAT sleep is required. I have taken the test on four hours of sleep and ten hours. SLEEP HELPS!!!! It’s stressful to sleep at times. The first time, I was up all night. I kept thinking, “This is my future. THIS IS MY FUTURE. IF I FAIL THIS TEST. IF I FAIL THIS TEST. OMG, I’m GOING TO FAIL THIS TEST. I’m GOING TO PASS THIS TEST. If I do poorly I’m going to be homeless. I NEED TO PASS THIS TEST.” Depending on your environment hysteria can be created around the SAT. Some children have people who are indifferent and they are more lax. I had everyone around me screaming and hollering about this is my future and I had to do so well. There were people telling me that there SAT scores were so crucial to their existence professionally. One woman told me, “employers asked me what my SAT score was well into my mid twenties.” There were different people telling me that it could detract from you getting into graduate school and certain postdoctoral programs, and a whole bunch of nonsense. I personally don’t know how far my scores will follow me in life; but, I did well for a black male so…

I would wake up with at least a half hour to waste, and just sit around and read a Nikki Giovanni poem. It’s good to eat something heavy for breakfast and something healthy that will help your brain. You should skip pop-tarts for today. I always made myself some baked fish with a side of linguine in a nice butter garlic sauce. (God, I miss cooking. IF ONLY I HAD A STOVE.) I would bring some snacks. You should bring something with a good amount of sugar to keep you awake, but not too sweetening. Also, something with fat so you don’t feel hungry. But, think healthy fats like nuts. Don’t bring a piece of chicken to the SAT or chips. Always remember your gum it’s been studied to help you remember things, and keeps your breath fresh if you have to talk to someone.

I’ll finish this later.

-Marz

Randomness

2007-08-29T11:58:00.000-04:00

Am I the only one that thinks that Common looks like a pedophile in this picture? There is something about that eye and the purse in those lips that just give me a little too much. He's giving thirty year old trying to get someone seventeen to validate that he's not an old queen. (I've definitely seen that face on a certain House father in Philly. Let me hush before I get slashed upon arriving home.)

I hate when the people here hail a taxi and they say softly after waving there hand, " taxi," as if the taxi driver can hear them.

Why do the men here have butt implants here, that's so Los Angeles?

They even get liposuction. I swear I would ask a man if his ass was real while on a date?

I don't know how to converse with my mother over the phone.

I don't know how to converse with anyone over the phone really.

But, she wants to know what's going on and what I'm doing very friendly like. She's not being paranoid and demanding an itinerary of my every move. But, I can't tell her I got my ears pierced or went to the Latex Ball.

I miss my gay family terribly. They all gave me heated lectures about being up here. "Don't get up there and get saddidy". "Study twice as hard as you party." "Don't let none of those men touch you. They all have venereal diseases. I'm serious, don't even let them touch you without a glove." They all piled me up with tons of condoms, lubes, dental dams. But, then, "You don't need to be using these. FOCUS ON YOUR SCHOOL WORK BOY DAMN!!!"

I'm up here on the white people's money, and I will NOT make myself look bad. Especially with all the effort I put into pimping myself to get the scholarships I accrued. CHILE PLEASE!!!! (Though, I did HORRIBLE at the Kappa scholarship interview. Since, I'm a gay youth leader in Philly they asked about my extra curriculars. My mind didn't filter and I did this gay thing and that gay thing. I thought they would scream, "Faggot get out". lol. You live, you learn. ACT STRAIGHT WHEN interviewing for a scholarship from a fraternity. Unless, it's one of these gay fraternities that are appearing at different schools.)

Nelly Furtado makes horrible videos. I have made the videos to her entire Loose CD in my head. I would be such a great music video producer. Where are the days of Thriller videos?

I'm so happy that Keyshia Cole, Missy Elliot, and Lil' Kim hooked up together. The three of them are like those really bangy girls in school that everyone is standing around like, "Keyshia, you should go talk to Missy you'd be such great friends". The three of them finally met each other and they all fit together SO WELL. (No shade.)

I don't advertise artists here, because there are few artists that need to be supported in today's music industry. Really, the only Cd's I think anyone should buy this year is Chrisette Michele's I Am. (Buy it on itunes you get more for your buck.) But, I purchased Talib Kweli's CD Eardrum. AMAZING!!!! Also, I think everyone should HAVE Rihanna's good Girl Gone Bad. i did not say buy, I said have. So hype the CD up to one of your friends and then borrow it and get it on your Ipod. (Definitely what I did.) It's a great CD to pump you up.

I've been extremely tired since moving. I could see if I went to a different time zone, however, I did not. I slept for eleven hours straight. Then, in the middle of the day came home for a three hour nap.

It's really hard to let go of the morals you're parents instill in you. Everyone predicted me going wild. I guess it's only the first week.

Nicole Scherzinger.....what is there to say? She needs to change her last name.

I want to get a little tipsy. I don't advise anyone under 21 to drink. I am not advertising underage drinking. But, I just want to feel it. Also, if i have traumatic experience i.e. get hit by a cab. Then, it will turn me off drinking. The first time I had drinks I drunk so much and didn't get tipsy at all. I was pissed. I had about as much alcohol as a gay man drinks when he's been dumped...on Valentine's day. (Okay, I didn't drink too whole bottles of vodka.) But, dammit other people around me were drunk one glass of wine and they were slurring and acting crazy. I felt so designated driver. I have to wait to get around people I trust before I can explore though. DAMN MY HIGH TOLERANCE FOR ALCOHOL!!! I have aunts and uncles and grandparents that can drink moonshine and operate normally. (DAMN!!!)

But, I read, somewhere, this is the time when I need to develop coping skills. I don't want alcohol to be a coping skill. Writing, screaming, cursing people out, exercising, and talking it out seem like good coping skills.

I'm going out tonight. Where? I don't know. But one day I'm going to wake up and be like 26 which is ancient in gay years, because 18 is like 30 in gay years...okay maybe 28. And, I'm going to wish I had my youth back, and then I'm going to go and wander around the streets looking like this...

No shade to Common. He's a good artist.

(LOL)

-Marz

First NY weekend

2007-08-27T17:14:00.000-04:00

This summer has been the worst summer of my life; and that speaks volumes compared to my other summers. Last summer, the clergy at my church were insinuating I was a prostitute and kept trying to convert me straight. In addition the summer my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and the summer I attended that horrible summer camp that left me utterly sexually confused. This summer I was grounded. I don’t want to recount too much of the time spent cooped up in the house. I would never want to relive it, and realized that I should NEVER do anything that could get me incarcerated. I need to go outside and be.

However, I am truly grateful for the experience. I learned tons about myself. I got to see a lot of my flaws and have come up with ways to fix them. I lost about twenty pounds. I look kind of anorexic and I can see my ribs at times. My hip bones and elbows protrude rather sharply; but I’m working on it.

The only time I was allowed outside was church and work. One week, church was cancelled, and I was inside from Saturday to the next Saturday. I only stepped outside when some crack addicts set the house at the end of the block on fire. My parents are very effective at playing mind tricks and inflicting mental abuse. I read a LOT of books during the punishment. The reading I found most interesting was about the conditions that prisons have to have to resocialize a person, and how my parents created those conditions over me.

I was freed. I was only given a week to catch up with all my friends that hadn’t already left for college. It’s saddening that I only had a week to hang out with my friends, and even that time was cut short due to me having to pack. Going back to the real world was hard, and it still is kind of difficult. I spent my summer in this deep meditative mode about my life. I would read a book (The 7th Harry Potter was awesome) listen to some Billie Holiday or Donny Hathaway I snuck in, and sleep. I’ve lost all touch with the current events of this summer, and I’m still catching up on like the Bridge collapse and Newark murders. I’ve lost all sense of fashion, music, art, what’s in and what’s out. But, I guess it doesn’t matter because I live in New York now. (For all those who want to know my school read it in QKOC’s latest blog. I met him yesterday, nice boy. I want to go shopping with him because we have similar body types except my hips are wider.)

My parents left me on Friday night. I felt bad that I wasn’t sad or upset. I smiled as they drove off, and haven’t talked to them since. (My mother is probably going insane, I need to call her.) I have resent harbored concerning them and I need to find a healthy way to release it, and I think I can. My first day in New York was filled with orientation nonsense. I’ve made a few friends, but I’m not making as many as I could. Many of the students are very wanna-be Sex and the city girls. Except Carrie can write something, and many of them seem kind of illiterate. However, there are some that are extremely intellectual and I’m happy I’m here.

I see why the men in New York cheat on each other so often. There are at any given time five gorgeous men in the vicinity staring and giving, “come-hither” looks. The men have been staring since I was moving myself into my dorm. I looked HORRIBLE, especially with only two hours of sleep. I was going to punch one of them for staring at me. (It’s that Southwest Philly in me. lol)

That night I traveled to the Latex Ball all by myself. Some of my friends from Philly were supposed to come with me, but they wanted to show up fashionably late. I played Janet’s Control cd to pump myself up, and some of Rihanna’s Good Girl gone Bad cd. The line was around the corner and I stood in line as the gorgeous and not so gorgeous men swarmed around. A Drag queen here, some young children there, and a man selling cocktails were the sights of the line. My first ball was very fun. I have been craving a beat all summer, and I got my beat and some. I think what I loved the most was the diversity. Some of the girls who attend my school went with their parents to the Latex Ball. That just floored me. (I guess because my parents would never come to something like that with me. Lip poking out, teardrops, oh well.) I stayed to the very end, not arriving home until 5. One of my favorite performances of the night was Shadiva. (The Little bandana girl.) This child was like six and she ATE the runway. I loved the creativity expressed, and the effort that was obviously put into the productions. I also see why there is hostility when someone is chopped after putting that much effort, time, and money into their performance. I have a lot of friends who are butch queens, and know about houses and balls. But, it’s definitely different first hand then hearing about whom slayed whom.

Sunday, I operated on four hours of sleep. I think I did well. I got my ears pierced and they burned like hell. But, they really add something special to my face. I’m always being called cute. I’m grown, puppies are cute. I need to do something to step me up to a new level of beauty, and I’m working on it. I met the QKOC, he’s cool. But, apparently I’m rude. (LOL) I’m glad we got along because I don’t usually get along with a lot of males, especially males my age. It took a while, because we didn’t click right away. But, it was very cute at the end.

After parting, I walked the midnight streets thinking of how I’m now grown, skinny, smart, and sex in the city.

So much to explore, so much to do.....

-Marz

New york

2007-08-23T17:00:00.000-04:00

my home
I'm here
God works wonders
life is funny
and finally I get to enjoy the laugh.

-Marz