*shrugs* ...but she meant well

So, the other night my friend and I were minding our own black business on the streets of San Francisco. My friend was smoking a cigarette and I was arguing with my sinuses because the wind was confused about which direction it wanted to blow, and well, claritin only does so much when you stand downhill of said smoke. In essence, we were having the time of our lives post-birthday (not mine yet)-bottomless drinks-celebration.

Of all the weirdos that accosted us that evening, a well meaning white woman who obviously uses Pert Plus or V05 hair products says, OMG, you’re soooo cute! *pinches my cheeks in her mind* in my black direction. I look to my friend who confirms with the furrowing of her brow that I was in fact a whole grown ass taxpaying human being who was just called cute by a strange white woman on the streets of San Francisco.

While I resisted every urge to thrash her with the rage of every ancestor in my lineage, my dear friend decided to have an intervention with this individual. On the streets of San Francisco. There was a time when this would have been received and filed under “I JUST FCKN CAN’T EVEN” and went on with life. But that file has long since filled. It’s overflowing, so my thoughts were written all over my face  – I didn’t have to a word, yall #AintNoSmileBih.

So, let’s take a listen in on that there intervention:

1. The white person whitesplains that they didn’t mean to offend by whitesplaining that the "compliment" was somehow connected to their inadequacy. OMG I mean your hair is so cute. I could never get my hair to do that. It’s so dry and drab.

2. The white person describes the ways in which they aren’t racist and totally understand what they just did wrong, even though they just did it strongly and wrongly with authority. I know, I know…when will I get this through my thin unconditioned hair?! I’m totes the worst, right? 

3. The white person mentions the very white neighborhood they grew up in and the black friend that they had to inform you that a black person has signed off on them – so they’re cool. OMG Janessa spent the night at my house all the time. We’re BFFS! She’d kill me if she knew what I just did. I should call her. 

4. The white person changes the subject to talk about something else because they can’t handle your articulate articulation of their heinous offense. Right? Like who elected this president anyway? He’s totes the worst. (and here, we find my friend, irony)

5. The white person finally resumes their white business, which typically involves getting into some other color’s business. It’s sooo cold, right? OMG I should go! It’s so late!

photo: Wikimedia Commons

I have never been referred to as “cute” but another black person, or person of color after assuming my adult form. I’ve been told my shoes are cute, or that my outfit is hella cute – but never referred to as “cute” like you would a purse poodle. But white folks?? She totes purse poodle’d me. Like I was five years old and dressed myself for school in my Halloween costume cute. She wanted to pat the top of my head. I know she did.

I don’t get it. You’re white. I’m awesome. And you just HAVE to tell me about it. I did an amazing and extraordinary thing – combed my hair -_- … – and you are dumfounded that people actually do this because, well, we see what you don’t do with yours. In the spirit of my trying to get to heaven, here are some ways you can help me not want to curse you:

1. Say: Your hair looks great!

2. Say: I love your hair style!

3. *think about saying something to me, then smile and leave me to mind my black business on the streets of San Francisco in the wee hours of the morning while my friend smokes a cigarette and my sinus cavity fails me*

Look, I’m not telling you to not speak to me (I definitely advised you to not speak to me…It’s not you, it’s me). Many of the issues in the world today are a direct result of different people not speaking to each other (and listening actively, and understanding empathetically). I am definitely telling you to “don’t be stupid”. Let her be the example of being stupid and don’t do that.

As life would have things, there were homeless/transient people also outside on the streets of San Francisco. As they would walk by my friend and I would nod, or say hello, while we were being whitesplained. You know, the part where she is a genuine, caring soul, and just aches to heal the world and help others. We gave the dollar we had in each of our purses, so when there was a next ask for money, we’d respond that we didn’t have anything, and wish them a good night. Not once did she stop her whitesplaining to acknowledge in any way, any of these people, these humans, these individuals, these life forms breathing the smoggy air with her.

Maro Being Messy #polo

So, I’m on new technology again. Ugh. I got bullied by a #YAMP into joining Marco Polo. Then, I bullied some other people into joining it because why should I be the only one to suffer? I was okay with that being the extent of my polo’ing. But, because technology is far more advanced than me, er’body and they mama’nem on Marco Polo got a notification that my petty ass was “finally” on. It’s a celebration, bishes – I guess. *shrugs*

...and no, i don't have an iPhone #DriodNation

Anyway, I get polo’s and whatnot. And summa’yall get replies that look kinda like Tami Roman’s bonnet chronicles because before I realize I’m on camera (by my own doing) I have already assumed my natural form. My bad, yall #WhoRaisedMe?.

Well, my running-mate-middle-name sake sent me a polo. Scratch that mate part; she’s running #inspiration #goals, and also my middle-name sake. She sent me a polo (am i using that right? is it called a polo?), and we gotta work through this one together. Here is an excerpt:

“I love this. I love being able to like talk to you and stuff. I’m so glad we, you know, made this connection, years ago – and you know sometimes, it takes a while for things to come full circle or whatever, but you know, I’ve always felt like, you know, you had this thing about you, this positivity, and this, um, this really, this confidence and this “can do”, and that-that’s something that, I really – really like and I’m attracted to in people and so, you know, high five… *high five in the camera*”

She gave me a high five yall *insert thug tear here* She said I had a thing, yall #MamaIMadeIt ...and then she continued on with the other parts of her life that included the humans she deducts on her taxes, with the human she married, and their dinner plans. Because, I think she subconsciously knew that me listening to words like that might make a player like me feel emotional and whatnot. Which ain’t the best look, because we don’t do feelings with recorded proof.

I have all the questions now, for which I have to write an answer because that’s also my thing.

Do you know how people experience you? Like for real. The people you know, interact with, meet, etc – can you say, that you know for certain how they experience you? And, if you do happen to have that information (like I just got from her), do you experience yourself the same way? Are you the same way you are to people as you are to yourself? If not, are you better? Worse? And why? How do you feel about that? Are you even able to answer that honestly?

I think I know how people experience me, but not in a way that I hold in my conscious mind. Does that make sense? I get feedback from people who are in my life, which is typically like a B/B- or something. I get a passing grade, but I don’t feel like I’m on the Dean’s List or anything. Remember, the world could come undone and this could be our last minute on Earth and I would still never share my sweet potato cookies, so like, I’m not exactly the A student I think I am.  I own this about myself. I accept me, flaws and all. #ImmaTrainWreck

I absolutely do not experience me in the way my running-inspiration-middle-name sake experiences me. Positivity? Can-do? Confidence? Girl, bye. Something so attractive that I seek myself out? C'mon, sis... I’m not nearly as good to myself as I am to her and that makes me sad. She and I made a connection almost a decade ago, and well, I made the connection to me long before that. Look how I treat myself. I have to force mental and verbal affirmations of goodness, and positivity, and love to myself! I feel like I’m lying to me when I do it.

My first thought was to not believe her. Isn’t that crazy? Who just sends people messages packed with words they really don't believe (well, yeah some people do, but that’s another post…also #WhoRaisedThem?)? Sure she got Marco’s messy ass notification that I was on Polo like er’body and they mama’nem, but she definitely didn’t have to do a polo on me (i think i did that wrong). She’s a full-time woman, mother, wife, working professional, and running badass – who has the time when you have little humans to oversee and early morning runs/workouts to beast?

I feel so much gratitude for her though, and her words. For her being, for her life, and for the way she made a little room for me in it on her commute home. Maybe this was just a really long thank you to her, and to that #YAMP who made me get on the app. And that petty ass friend who sent me a polo reminding me about how I lament joining new technologies - because yall, I really don’t wanna get lost in the Matrix, have we learned nothing from Neo??? – but I always come around and I love them.

Maybe this was just a really long thank you.

…and homework.

If you are anything like me, then you’ve probably got some work to do because God ain’t through with you yet, on today (because i love you, Bethany). Find someone in your life who does that thing I apparently do for my running-inspiration-middle-name sake. Call them, send a polo, type a ridiculously long text (and pray they don’t respond back “k”), or do something archaic like tell them in a face to face encounter. Reveal to them the way you experience them, and how it makes you feel.

I promise what happens next is nothing short of magic. It’s better than Disney. Trust me. I did the research. Waiting on my grade to post.

Walking Shoes.... On.

I'm a #CaliKid. Flip flops ARE walking shoes.

So there are times when I go for a walk. I know what you’re thinking – it’s a walk, but it’s for a run, so it’s really a variation of a run because there’s a race. Newsflash: There is always a next race... Most times, you’d be spot on if you saw me out in the streets. But every so often, I wander around the world in walking shoes (that were once running shoes).

Naw, scratch that. I wasn't that introspective. See, what had happened was, I went to the gas station, and well, the price of gas made me think about some things. Like, why would one drive to the store when it's less than a mile away and you're not in a hurry? When, not months ago, you paid someone what it cost to fill your gas tank (maybe a lil more) to run on that same exact street. Yeah, maybe you should walk to the store once...or more. So, I walk now, on occasion, to bring some balance back to my life and my checkbook.

The last two times I was out walking, cars driving by stopped me, to ask if I needed a ride. I did not know the driver, and was shocked at the gesture. I had to pull my earbuds out to make sure I heard what I read their lips saying. One time was a week day during commuting traffic. Who stops in that? The second was an early weekday morning, just before commuting traffic. I say again, who stops in that?

Black Women.

Both drivers asked if I was okay and if I needed a ride. I smiled and share that I was walking on purpose. Both gave me the you sure you not in danger, girl eye, but smiled and continued on their commute. Nobody walks during commuting hours on purpose. You could see it in the wave of their hands gesturing me to the empty front passenger seat. You know you wanna get in the A/C girl…it’s hot outside! You realize we can CARpool, in this here CAR. Anybody else stopping to ask me if I needed a ride, I would have felt some kind of creepy way. But them?

Made the walk all the merrier. I am relearning to love my city post-gentrifiers. I mean, there’s more of it to gentrify, which they’ll get too soon, but the real damage is done. It started long before the IKEA arrived. When Ravenswood High School closed, that was the real beginning of our end. But that’s a conversation for another time. The truth is, I really don’t feel all that warm and fuzzy when I lace up my running and/or walking shoes and pound (and/or pitty pat) the pavement these days. The street signs are the same, but the signs of life have changed.

I got a reprieve from those thoughts though during these two walks. That’s usually what’s running through my mind – where in the world am I? Could it be? I stayed away too long... In those specifically beautiful instances, I got a glimpse of the home I knew and walked around in it a little longer than I planned.

Also, I love Black Women. It's nice to know that we're not too busy trying to save this dying world to save each other.

Bear. Down. Y'all. #grrrrrrrr

Something I never do – call people when they are sick (and/or shut in), infirmed, or otherwise accessing their health benefits (should they have them). It’s like the worse call to get. You ever been really sick, and someone calls and is like, Hey, I heard you were sick! Are you okay?

I don’t even have to continue, right? You feel me, rogue. So, when it comes to the big sick(s and shut in’s) and totally infirmed, and absolutely accessing health benefits, I’m like a ghost. Don’t get me wrong, I take them to the Lord in prayer, and check up on them, but I ain’t sh!t, so there is always that. I mean, what in the hell do you say.

Aye dog, I heard you were sick. What happened? Awe nothing, I just got cancer and like a few months left to live. Really? That’s crazy?! I can’t believe it?! I‘m so shocked! I had no idea anything was wrong!

Right. That person probably had no idea that something was wrong, and well, didn’t feel like broadcasting it to the entire omniverse, but you found out, because that’s what people do, and it’s not wrong that you found out and want to show that you care, but what you intend doesn’t always have the impact you desired. So, with that, I keep the phone calls to nil.

The last thing I want to do to someone going through, is to have them comfort me. You know, the way I did some humans (being totally human) when they found out ole’Poochie was pressing a dying pillow. Everyone was so sorry for me. And wanted to hug me for them, not for me, because I really didn’t want to be touched, and it felt hella rude to give them a thizz-faced-heisman, so I hugged back. Because clearly they needed it.

Where am I going with this? I’m glad I asked, because I can go on and on. A sisterfriend messaged our circle of sisterfriends to tell us that one of our friends from grad school was in hospice. Our group chat is usually littered with memes. We used words to describe our replied emotions. Actual. Living. Words. Exactly – that’s how big of a shock it was. There was no time to type anything in a search bar or scroll through images.

Included in the message was an address to the hospice location. I looked at the group chat, then scrolled up to the address, opened up a google search, and typed it in. I located a phone number and dialed it. The woman transferred me to the actual location, and they transferred me to her room. It wasn’t until that moment I realized what I was doing. I almost hung up the phone, but the way my everlasting soul is set up, I don’t need no’mo’ red marks – so I stayed on the mainline (to tell’em what I wanted…which I wasn’t sure of, so there was awkward to follow).

My friend was resting which was a save for real. I asked that a message be passed along that I called to tell her that I love her (I improvised) and that she was in my thoughts and prayers (not the ones we give after school/mass shootings and such, actual ones). I shared a quick memory of always seeing her at conferences post-graduate school. If yall think I’m loud, let you get in ear or eye shot of her! That country accent will sail across the conference center, smacking you right in the heart. If love has anything to do with being remembered, then I was definitely loved by her – she always remembered me, smiling.

I ended the conversation with Thanks so much! Have a great rest of your day! because that’s what you tell friends and family and staff in hospice centers when someone is lying in a bed, yet holding on. I can’t be made after God’s complete image and likeness doing mess like that. Sheesh. My head hit my desk in horror. Father, God. Like, who raised me??

That evening I bought a card and printed a photo of us to send to her – my way of repenting for my awful salutation. That next morning I messaged my sisterfriends that we should maybe send some flowers from us, had to be like 8:30AM or so. Around 4:00PM that same sisterfriend shared that our friend had fought the good fight and ha[d] gone home to see her heavenly and earthly father. My God, today.



GRRRRRR! bih! GRRRRRRR!!

I’m not sure why I’m even writing this. Sure there are the obvious takeaways… Give folks they flowers while they yet alive *in my old Auntie voice* … Tell the people you love that you love them and mean it … Don’t wait on tomorrow, do it today … All of that stuff about living full and doing it well with so much intention. Like we did every conference meetup. There was a fun photo, bear paws, and a GRRRRR! because we absolutely, positively, always did it…like Big Bears! #UCA c/o2006 #DoItLikeABigBear #GRRRRRR

I just can’t help but wonder why I called her. It was specific, deliberate, and very intentional. It was so unlike myself. While it felt natural, it was completely uncharacteristic. I imagine the few people I told only believe me because I am so messed up about it. So many people who passed on before her, why was it that I called her? I imagine some will say it was for some greater good, or that I did some noble thing, or that it was a blessing to her. Even that it was for my own personal/emotional growth and development (because why am I not done with that already?!). Sure, all plausible.

I just don’t (won’t) believe it.

Who's Airline Is It Anyway?!

So, this is me. Living and whatnot.

This story starts at the end, because you need to know that to understand the other parts of it. I am sitting on the floor at the Delta Baggage Claim in San Francisco International Airport. I am waiting on a gate checked (for free) bag because I am no longer going where I needed to be.

How did I get to this spot? In the year 2018 of our Lord & Living Savior? Son las 1:52pm.

Glad you’re still reading.

It all started with this thing called adulting. It’s this thing where you have to be an adult the entire time, and when you start being an *air quote* adult *air quote*, then stop, it’s customary to get your life together. The most successful class of this species (actual adults) being an adult that consistently keeps their life together. The ‘okay’ class of this species (just about all others) fluctuates, but tend to right the ship pretty quickly. Then there’s me. The least successful; the *tantrum* ‘fine stop coming in here waking me up DANG I was just about to get up’ *pulls covers back over face* class, which has, well, no class.

So, after finally deciding to take the covers off, I figured I should get my ish together. This is where the airport comes in. Sometimes you have to travel to do that. Like, you can’t always get it together where you live, you have to outsource zip codes and traffic patterns. Well, looking at the successful class of the species, I decided to grow up a bit. Booked a flight. Underpacked a bag (that right there was a win, no extended zip pouches for me). Got to the airport on time.

But, sometimes adulting doesn’t always coincide with friends and shenanigans. So it just happened that this trip fell on a YAMP event. What’s a YAMP? Well, it’s not the Tupac description, if that’s where your mind went to. Let’s just say we reclaimed the nearest hoodrat word to describe the hoodrat things we do with each other because we’re friends. And, well, friends leave friends when they have to be adults, but you pay the price. YOU. PAY. WHAT. YOU. OWE. LILLY.

So, their subconscious petty ass spirits joined me for my trip to the airport. They wanted to see how far they could take me. They know like I know it’s Black History Month, and the 9^th Eve prior to Black Panther, so I want to maintain my cool – but that’s not the way I’m set up. Wanna see what they willed to me?

Let’s go.

6:15am: S.A.T. (not the test); I sholl’am hungry.

I have time to get something to eat. I shouldn’t buy food in the airport, but you’d rather not see me hungry. I get a hot black tea with ginger and a toasted bagel with cream cheese. I get a couple of honey packets on my way to the pick-up area. The server, shortly after my arrival, late for my hunger, announces a toasted bagel with cream cheese. And like Allen Iverson slipping through defenders for the steal, Susan’s daughter Alice snatches the toasted bagel with cream cheese. I’m ready to pop off because T’Chaka didn’t die at the hands of colonizers and capitalists for this. But I say to myself, perhaps she was in line before me, chill out. Actually, that was Jigs talking to me, because I would have been like, get your reparations from Alice – it’s February. I chill though. More people get food. I get angrier…and Alice over there talking to Jessica about bangles and blue hair tint. I look up at the server like, WTF? She looks at Alice and Alice is like, Wait…uh…it wasn’t me …and the server is like, Effff man, this is not good.

No. This is bad. I finally got my food, but the spirit of S.A.T. was all up in that by default because nothing I ordered was on that Whole [there’s only] 30 [things in the free world you can eat] Diet. I hate people.

6:45am: T.A.T. Is we ready or are we leaving?

So, you know how people see stuff on social media and don’t know how to just scroll on by if they don’t like it? I’m not talking about the people who offer a different opinion or perspective in the spirit of conversation or true engagement to self actualize us all as Maslow intended. No, these are people who take way too many selfies. Or people who troll your posts because they see that everybody loves you so they want to be the 1 NEGATIVE COMMENT like that bootsy ass negative review of Black Panther. Or, well, hoteps. Cause negros hate being called hoteps more than they hate being called ashy, and frankly, we call you both. Anyway, I maybe text her that she was the hotep whisperer or something like that and they need to drink their hotep-ovaltine and leave me alone.

So it wasn’t exactly her, but it was the spirit of the hoteps for which she interprets that was like, oh, this bih ain’t leavin’ the city on our watch #effherplans. We about to throw some shade at her destination. Enter, LA fog. Grounded at the gate until further notice. If I had any idea hoteps knew people who could recreate ashy cloud formations like airbenders, I would have kept the ‘vegan bean sprout pies’ comment to myself. *hoteps sprinkling bacon salt in my wounds*

9:13am: Jigs. You dropped my mustard seed and I stepped on it. Faith is gone.

Now I’m at the Delta counter with my woes. Like all of them, because we had to get off the plane because this flight is cancelled. I’m in the line about to take off on this dude for trying to circumvent the sky priority rug we all in formation behind because, not today Satan. Not to-damn-day. The agent at the gate politely tells the man numerous times to get in line or go to the courtesy phones – he finally leaves her alone. I am avenged.

At this point, they broke out the free snacks, so I mean, I am upset, but I will be less upset after that ginger ale, Sherry. Thank you.

I get my chance at “who wants to fly out today” bingo. There is a 1:22pm flight available on United Airlines. On who? I can’t fly them. Yall gate-checked my bag and my hands are in there. I need them if I’m going to fly United. I can’t serve a 2-piece like the one Kobe received when my hands are in my bag! Please, no. Don’t worry, we can reroute your bag. We got you covered. Covered with one of those blankets or the blood of the ancestors? I need to know which.

Then a symphony of keyboarding. Hey, yall ever see the movie Baggage Claim? It made me think of LaLa behind that counter. That bih was shoe shopping. I feel like that what she was doing. And this is why this moment is Jigs. It’s the pettiest part of the experience. ALL OF THAT TYPING and LaLa’s understudy didn’t even confirm my ticket on United. She literally did every step but the last step. You know what kind of petty that is? That’s braiding hair in the late 90s and not burning the tips of the braids. I hate Jigs above all others. May her next pedicure come freshly chipped. I hate yo guts *in my Dave Chappelle voice*

Break: While at the United counter trying to get on that unconfirmed flight, the gate agent was throwing HELLA SHADE at Delta. They never do these things right. They always miss a step. See the way my loyalty is set up, you can’t say nothing like that to me and get away with it. But, I wanted to get on the flight, preferably in a MMA free zone, so I was letting her live. When she actually got on the phone and confirmed that they indeed didn’t confirm my flight, my chest, Father God ♫ queues up toni braxton ♪

10:23am: Pearl; Well, since you still here, bih…minuswhale stay.

Minuswhale. I ain’t got it in me. I have been to the gate. On the plane. Off the plane. To the counter. To United. To Delta Special Services. To American. To Delta Special Services. To… Baggage Claim. It’s time to call it. Toe tagged at 11:38am. She wore an uninteresting outfit to the airport that day, with a chic hat and scarf and gladiator low top sandals. Minuswhale stay here because Pearl is somewhere in the universe with her tongue sticking out teaching imaginary me how to say ‘coon-coon’ in hoodrat. Tell them you want your bag sis. Go home.

1:48pm: Jigs, again. You musta’forgot I be watching your petty ass shady moves.

She’s right. I forgot. She, being thoughtful, texts me while I’m on the floor tracking my tears in the dirty carpet, to ask why I’m still at the airport. Had my bag gone to Los Angeles, expeditiously, sans me? I respond, of course not. The man at the counter sent them a message to get my bag. He confirmed the color twice. His name was Reginald, so he must be an upstanding honest citizen.

That negro named Reggie and he lie like a mug. My bag is successfully in another zip and area code trying to turn up like we did in days of old. My bag looked back at it, and was like, wait, where is ole girl at? She ain’t make it? Ole girl is me. No, I did not make it. Eff yo couch Jigs. Eff yo comfy ass couch.

1:52pm: Yenny. *no words* *wall slide into depressing slumber*

Yenny spent the entire night before that clutch ride to the BART this morning not listening to me or answering any of my questions last night when we watched Scandal and How to Get Away With Murder. I am so far behind I was like, when Liv wig get that strange? Where the baby come from? Annalise still walkin sideways, but she fierce. Wait, another baby? Why she need permission to see the baby? Yenny answered every third question with a grunt. She eventually stopped doing that. I looked her dead in her sleeping eyes and was like, I know you hear me! I’m using my outside voice. Hell, my inside voice is loud enough.

That poor lady at the Delta Baggage Services Counter. She didn’t deserve none of the L’s she took. But before she took them, that wall slide I did back into my depressed spot in the carpet was really saucy. She was talking to me and I coulda’swo I grunted. She was offering me lunch vouchers and everything. Lord, bless it all. Jesus, make sure when you out there chippin Jig’s fresh pedicure, make Kim from baggage claim’s shine like a diamond. Because, $15.00 lunch…

https://airhex.com/airlines/logos/

…before I try to make it to Los Angeles on standby.

Oh, that's adorable how you thought the story was over? You obvs don’t know the way my life works. So, like my socks and pannies are already in LA. I gotta at least try one more time, right? I go back to Special Services. Get a standby ticket for LA (with a confirmed seat the next morning) and get back in line because *not surprised* you have to go through security screening again AND chug that free ginger ale you got from Sherry’s non-confirming the United ticket that your bag was probably on. The attendant at the entrance, after asking if you could move up in the line because you have 50 minutes to get to the gate and there are exactly 50 million people in front of you, tells you next time, get here 2 hours before your flight.

And that’s how you got the link for the GoFundMe page. I need bail.

Clearly, I didn’t make the standby flight. Obviously, I am still at SFO. I have literally been up 12 hours attempting to get 300+ miles down the road.

Hating life is an understatement.

Those Yamps tho?

#bruh #ItsGoingDownTonight #TonightItGoesDown #InDMsFMsAMsAndPMs #ImStillHereTho #TheyGettinThisWork #YellowCardsAreTheLeastOfTheirProblems

It. Is. Finished. #ISaidWhatISaid #NoKapNoNFL

Had I known that Superbowl LI (51) was going to be the last football game I watched, I would have spent the day watching that (because, superbowl party) and  also replaying the Cowboys win over the 40-whiners at Levi Stadium. I was in the stands that day, in the sea of blue fans making waves over the red and gold. Because, America’s Team. I would have enjoyed that game in HD. I would have also really enjoyed seeing Colin Kaepernick kneel in HD too. Because poetic justice is more than just a movie.

I survived an entire football season, without watching a single game. I know that there are those of you who probably believe I capitalized on those “accidental” views. You know, walking into a restaurant, and looking towards the bar seeing the game on. Visiting a friend on football day (basically, Sunday – Monday – Thursday), as they are glued to the surround sound and replays. Watching some of my favorite sports shows (Highly Questionable, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption) and getting that itch to just click over to the game, just for a few minutes, because I just want to confirm who I agree with, even though I usually agree with Bomani anyway. But, confirmation.

None of it. I did not exploit not one of those instances or any others. I actually walked right out of some of the restaurants and friend’s homes. I said what I said. No Kap. No NFL. Nope. 

My life was football from August to January. Sure football went into February, but by January, I was winding down and accepting that I would have to wait another six months to live again. I had to accept some ugly truths (also a movie) about myself:

1. Football is my only hobby from August to January. Sure, I do things, but it’s scheduled around football season. And, if I have something planned with you and someone invites me to something football related, I may or may not remember to inform you that I am no longer coming. You’re probably texting me asking if I am on the way as I’m raising a glass of beer that NaShaun/KRD is nowhere to finish – so I’m texting him/them about the beer. Not you.  

2. I’m super sociable because I can open conversations with football. Did you see the game? Are you going to the game? Who did you put into the game #FantasyFootball? Without football, I have nothing to contribute to a conversation. What is there to talk about in the world besides football?  

3. People who go to Superbowl Parties just for the food, ‘fun’, and commercials are awful people. It’s like bringing a bottle of wine to a baby shower and all the other attendees are pregnant. Like, why are you even here? Nobody is interested in what you have (well, interested maybe) but that’s not what this party is all about. The most interesting thing here is the game, not why you don’t watch football. Who sent you?

I have loved football my whole life, just like the Pearson kids. It was Daddie’s thing that became my thing, then this beautiful thing we shared. We could sit for hours watching games. Then watching commentators talk about the games. And critiquing everything because we know more than every NFL referee, ever. Without ever being trained, we are literally always right.

I didn’t wear a single NFL related shirt in my collection. Even packed away the Cowboy earbuds from Alicia MaKeykey – a surprise birthday present from an admitted Giants fan. I will never understand how we make it work. Hell, we talked trash this football season and I hadn’t watched a single game. I kept the Cowboy flip flops in the rotation because I refuse to protest comfort, they were a gift from my Naija sister-friend, and this pedicure is gonna get these stars because Lord knows I need it. All the rest of it though, new shirts from the Dallas Pro Shop and a never worn necklace, all of it packed away in a plastic tub, in the closet.

I had to dig into the back of the closet for this Superbowl weekend, because some friends have 2 – for – 1 events that include birthday parties. As much as I knew I would actively avoid the game, I didn’t want to be a complete distraction. I wanted to be able to hide in plain sight, like the Assassins. For people to be able to say they saw me, when in reality, I had been in a corner with my purple journal and green pen, writing to save my life.

When I got dressed though, I forgot I even had it packed. I wore an army green “Nah.” shirt, a present day interpretation of Rosa Park’s fateful protest because she was sick of Jim Crow’s sh!t. Without intentionally trying, I stood out like a sore thumb. Are you watching the game? Nah. I haven’t watched any football this season. Before I even realized what I was saying, I was saying it with my chest. I will refresh your drink. Help you use this bougie ass refrigerator in Pop’s house. I will wash these dishes because I don’t want to do it later. And, I’m gonna be one of those awful people who come to Superbowl parties for the birthday and the commercials. Then I am going to go upstairs, because heeeyyyy, First Wives Club is on! Why do I love this movie? I don’t know why, but I do.

A friend told me that she was proud and inspired that I was able to ‘fast from football’ as I did. She did not know anyone in her life who loved football as much as I, that was able to completely give it up. And all the other things. I didn’t just fast from football, I fasted from football related things. All of my sports shows. Many of the Happy Hour places, where everybody knew I wasn’t gonna drink all of the beer. My schedule, no matter how busy work made me, I never missed an appointment.

Sunday – Jesus & Football, all day.

Monday – Happy Hour and MNF.

Tuesday – Sports Shows and Fantasy Football.

Wednesday – Sports Shows and Fantasy Football.

Thursday – Happy Hour and TNF.

Friday – College Football.

Saturday – College Football.

…because there is enough football to do it every day. But when you have a strong moral code like mine (she says) you will fill your days with other things than, let’s say, our morally ambiguous friend (most Giants fans totes are) at the table that night. Then she asked the question that everyone is asking us protesters, are you going to watch next season? What if Kaepernick gets a job in the NFL? Are you waiting for that?

kaepernick7.com/million-dollar-pledge/

Answer: It’s past whether or not Kaepernick gets a job. He did what he was supposed to do. He made us think about the state of the football union and decide for ourselves, just like he will decide for himself. Football seems to be the thing Kaepernick is passionate about. Just like my being petty. If he wants to play football and goes back, I hope he makes it to Canton one day. I will definitely watch that Hall of Fame speech.

For me and my house? (this is still just me) I don’t know. I still have my football allies and antagonists. I am a Cowboy fan because I am from the republic of Texas and am fiercely loyal, but not loyal enough to side with Jerry Jones. He has race issues he needs checked. I am glad that the Patriots lost, but I am not happy that the Eagles won. And dammit, why did the Giants have to make that dirty dancing commercial? Now I can’t have the time of my life anymore. See how they ruin everything?!?! The NFC East is just too big a burden to carry, saints.

The problem? There is no untelling (that’s a book). I have sight beyond sight now (that’s a cartoon). Whether or not Kaepernick makes his mark in the NFL, I have planted my knee in the gridiron already. Like I said before, I always knew the NFL was problematic. I mean, even if you didn’t know, you have to wonder why there are so many Cowboy fans for summa'yall to hate all over the world? Sure, there are bandwagons, but it’s more than that. If you dig deep into the intersections of race and professional athletics, you’ll find the Dodgers there and a whole host of other skeletons too. The NFL is not going to change.

I changed though. Literally took six months to do it, but the job is done. I just wish that damn Patriots vs. Falcons game wasn’t my last view of something I loved so much. All of the amazing games I have seen in my lifetime, and I am left with “Eh…”

But that’s the way of those things we loved so much, isn’t it? We knowth not the day, or the time. We aren’t ready. But we figure it out eventually.

Seeing that people are talking about a baseball strike, my strong moral code is shaky. Life is still asking too much of me. If I have to one day give up basketball, make sure my room in Arkham is padded.

Please.