The first 14 years (get to know a brotha)

Let’s see…I am a complicated man. No one understands me but my woman (who am I kidding, she thinks I’m an asshole, and she probably won’t be around much longer if she has any sense at all). I was born in this great nation’s capital, and spent the first half of my life in the gulliest of the city’s quadrants (Southwest). I was raised by my mother, but I didn’t turn out gay like she expected. I earned my keep by mimicking Michael Jackson for my mother’s friends, and I made a little money by catching pigeons for Chinese restaurants (aiight, I made that last one up, but my mother did appreciate my mean Moonwalking game). My father wasn’t around, which doesn’t happen much in the inner city for some reason. Just kidding. I don’t think I grew up with one kid that had their Pops around. I didn’t get a chance to see a father in action (in real life) until the age of 10, when they pulled me out of Amidon Elementary (go Warriors) and put me in the whitest school in America for free (The Potomac School, which was out in the ‘burbs in Northern VA). Naw, seriously…they even had a Maypole. We didn’t have Maypoles in SW.  But anyways, they put me up in that joint free of charge, much to the dismay of my Conservative friends that were paying $10,000 a year for their brat ass kids to go. 

But yeah, everybody had a Dad! Wow man! For the first years of my life, I thought that every black woman somehow made babies on their own after ummmm 1975. Negroes had daddies back in the day, but I assumed that somehow science changed things for my generation. They had some reason to believe that I was smart, so they dressed me up in some bullshit uniform (oxford shirt and some khakis) and sent me on my way to  learn how to get into an Ivy League school (which never happened). Fuck. I could’ve been selling rocks like my friends.

This was first time in my life that I spent extended amounts of time with “Da Man” and his offspring. I learned alot of their logic, which was much different from the logic in SW. Apparently, “Da Man” and his offspring look down upon black people that beat them up for saying shit like:

“Hey, Outblandish can I touch your hair. I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks like pubic hair!”

Where I grew up, thems was fightin words (no questions asked), and you were looked down upon if you didn’t put your shoe on a muhfucca for saying that your hair looked like pubes. Needless to say, I was asked to leave the school  after a couple of years because I was getting into too much shit with “Da Man’s” offspring. Plus, the roaches in my house used to eat my homework, somy grades weren’t all that great either. Soon thereafter, my mother somehow moved us to the ‘burbs. No, not the white ‘burbs where the whitest school in America was. Don’t get carried away folks! My mother handled her business, but she wasn’t Jesus. No, we moved to the suburbs east of the city (PG County to be exact). It is supposedly the best county in America for black folks, which doesn’t say much for the state of black affairs in America. It’s worse now then what it was when I moved there in ‘93 though. I think most of the county is fucked to all hell, but what do I know (I pretend to be bourgie very often, which often screws with my view of black people and niggas). PG County has been the setting of many of my stories, and for that I’m extremely thankful. 

I’ll post (maybe next week) about the last 14 years of my life…stuff like being in love with a lesbian, breaking my leg and temporarily becoming a semi-promiscuous connoisseur of heterosexual (and lesbian) sex. I like to think that I have given up my whorish ways, but who am I kidding.

-Contradiction