One Monkey: On Voting and Elections

I.

I can remember when I was a child,

Long ago, or back in the day

I heard my grandmother speak an interesting phrase.

Now I can’t remember the specific circumstance,

Or even her inflection,

But I do remember her words

Each one just so:

“One monkey don’t stop no show.”

I found it such an interesting bit,

That night I dreamed of the circus.  

Three rings, full audience such a scene

With lions jumping through hoops,

Elephants weightlessly dancing,

Acrobats flying aflame,

Bears juggling and singing,

And one monkey who wouldn’t budge,

 juggle, or flip, or dance or sing.

Mundanely sitting there on the sidelines

Impotent he had gone unnoticed,

He looked so silly, I laughed in my sleep.

And years later I woke up.

II.

October thirty first, two thousand and eight, 

Nashville, Tennessee.

Standing there on West End with several of my homies,

Having just enjoyed a meal, we shot the breeze,

In the breeze, triumphantly

Laughing like warriors and kings.

It was chilly, I remember because I only wore a hoodie and a tee.

Maybe in this weather I was trippin, but my gear said Obama,

So I figured I’d be cool.

Yea I was too,

So cool that some passersby made their way to salute,

They go:

Aye boy, you gone fo’ a nigger?

And at that moment,

The psyches of my compatriots combined with mine,

Into one singular dazed thought:

Nigga, what?

But when the shock had passed

And our brains moved on to reaction

They were gone—

And lucky the green light sent them down the street,

Cause otherwise we’d have “knocked they asses into next week.”

And instantly, as if by sorcery  

In that next second, our satisfied, expectant eyes

Shifted to third world glares,

And meekly we took it as our cue to leave.  

III.

In the car, still digesting what was thrown at me

I began to question, this America in which I believed

Had I been hoodwinked?

Was this reality?

That cowards could speak with such audacious cruelty?  

But more importantly I was appalled at my self esteem,

How a simple gust of ignorant wind

could send my tower of dreams crumbling.

It didn’t matter what happened that Tuesday

 cause in this black boy’s mind

It seemed Progress was already defeated.

But stubbornly,  

The divine in me wouldn’t back down that easily.

I fought that thing

Wrestled with it, all night long

And saw some things I did not want to see.

The moonlight shined and  

Showed a darker spectrum of my blackness than I’d ever known before:

From a fake revolutionary who wore provocative clothing,

To a drunken, clownish sellout [at an all white Halloween party]

who felt compelled to keep dancing,

To somewhere in between [maybe a pro athlete]

conquering the white girl and snatching for her panties.

All of this was ugly, and all of this was me.

IV.

That night in bed, still wallowing in some defeat

I began to question, this Change in which I believed

Had I been cheated?

Yes, I was deceived.  

The American Dream had never really been available for me.

 Outcast and all alone,

There I was

Stranded like an island in a sea of NO

 Again, this black skin was deemed unworthy

And washed away was all my hope.

Looking back in wise hindsight I say these words,

Don’t let nothing keep you from going out to vote!

V.

Don’t do like I did.

That’s right, I never did.

Vote, that is.

I wore my t shirts proudly.

And hailed him unashamed,

But there was no vote from Cory

Cause he was an unregistered absentee.

Nigga what?   

I know.

You what?

I’m sorry.

To my ancestors, brothers and sisters,

my wife, and unborn:

I’m sorry. Truly.

But if granny was right, then one monkey don’t—

Well at least I hope so…  

VI.

On that Tuesday

Thinking that I had some time

That they’d announce near midnight

I sat down with an epic movie

Hoping to prepare for a more epic future 

But my plan failed.

Two hours later I was disappointed

When I got that text

Hey! Where are you?

Don’t celebrate your president much?

What?

And I was out the door.

VII.  

Racing down the stairs,

Through the campus courtyard,

Across 15^th Avenue    

And trying to catch a glance

Of this moment that I was praying

And hoping

And waiting for--

While it was passing away,

Slipping through my trembling fingers…  

Out of breath I was too late,

Epic was gone and I had missed all of it:

From the last drops of smuggled champagne,

to the final words of a once  unreachable victory.

Still trying to catch up,

Scrounging for crumbs of this win

I felt grandma’s words

Begin to well up in my tears…

And then I couldn’t help but wonder

About those two silly marauders

In all their cowardly glory and their speed,

Passing by on West End several nights ago

Hadn’t their Mee-Maws ever told them, 

That one monkey don’t stop no show?  

VIII.

That sage old woman was right again.

History will not wait,

Time is not our friend,  

So we must use it wisely.

Let your voice be loud and bold—

You must, you must, you must go out and vote!

Cause like my grandma always said,

one monkey don’t stop no show.

(Untouched)

Full of dirty clothes
The worn suitcase rests aside.

Still full from the journey,

Both it and the sleepy traveler

Wait to unpack it all.

Thoughts Approaching the Finish Line

I’m heading back to Nashville with less than an hour left, and for the first time I’m not that excited. Usually when I’m approaching Nashville, I’m completely thrilled because I know that fun times will ensue. But today is different. This moment is bittersweet because heading towards Belmont means that the 40/40 trip has come to an end.

It seems like just a couple days ago I was on a plane headed for Nashville in order to embark on this “trip of a life time.” Even then, this academic excursion seemed like something that would not really happen. I kept thinking that I was dreaming and that someone would soon wake me and inform me that I wasn’t really going anywhere. But the fact of the matter is that never happened. I, in fact, have been across the country and have seen more than I ever expected to see and done more as well. I sat on the same steps of Central High School that the Little Rock Nine once ascended towards integration. I saw my first Broadway show in New York City and I was completely enthralled despite the fact that I didn’t have an actual seat. I saw extreme poverty coupled with infectious hope on the Navajo reservation in New Mexico. I caught a glimpse of the ugliness of oppression while Memphis. I ate awesome seafood in Seattle. I saluted Abraham Lincoln at his memorial in D.C. I watched All American fireworks in Boston on the 4th of July. I floated lazily in the Atlantic Ocean and loved the briny taste.

It’s interesting because I expected to have a clear idea of what it means to be an American when I came back from this trip, but I don’t. I honestly think that I had a better idea of what I thought it meant to be an American before I left. Now I don’t know. There are so many different parts of the United States with such different people that I’m not sure I can say these different people and cultures are united by anything. But maybe I’m just still overwhelmed. Maybe when the dust in my mind settles a little more I’ll be able to process everything a lot better. But even if I can’t process everything, I firmly believe that this trip has been worth it. The fact I am now questioning what I knew to be certain before shows me that I’ve been impacted by this experience. And that impact will continue to manifest for weeks and maybe even months to come. Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe it’s just the beginning.

The ever-evolving Theme Song

It’s interesting how much music is such a part of the American culture. Since day one I had been thinking about a particular song that that might serve as a theme song of sorts for me on this trip. It’s evolved over the course of 40 days several times.

Before we even left I posted John Legend’s Green Light on my blog. I liked it because the chorus was about wanting the green light and being ready to go, and while we were still at school that was my thinking: I was “ready to right now”. It made sense in my mind for a brief period. However, the fact of the matter is that song is referring to courting a woman, and while I could be ultra artistic and say that the woman in the song represents America for me that is not true. It didn’t really fit my journey.

Once we were finally on the road I noticed that a particular song kept playing on the radio. It was “Boom Boom Pow,” by the Black Eyed Peas. Whenever time this song came on while we were driving Chris, Rashina, and I would get so excited. And by excited I mean that we would bounce and dance so much that our van would shake. If there were days when our group was separated into two vans and the three of us weren’t together, we would call the missing person and tell them “our song” was on 98.5 of 160.3 or whatever radio station it was. Those were such great moments because no matter what the previous situation, that song would evoke such joy out of us. It was almost a routine. As soon as the song would come on everyone in the van knew what to expect. And after a while it became infectious; so much so that I caught Dr. Stepnick singing “I’m so three thousand and eight, you so two thousand and late” once or twice. However, as much as I loved this song, I felt there was more to be said about what the trip meant for me, and that’s when a Gnarls Barkley song came to mind.

As we left our bus (aptly known as Big Mama) broken down on the side of the road in Florida, our “rescue bus” was filled with mixed emotions. I myself had mixed emotions but rather than acknowledge them, I decided to retreat to my music. The first song that I came across was “Going On” by Gnarls Barkley which is composed of upbeat psychedelic music coupled with the following lyrics:

I’ve seen it with my own eyes-How we’re gettin’ otherwise -Without the luxury of leavin’ -The touch and feeling of free is -Untangible technically -Something you’ve got to believe in-Connect the cause and effect -One foot in front of the next -This is the start of a journey. -And my mind is already gone -And though there are other unknowns- Somehow this doesn’t concern me.

And you can stand right there if you want- But I’m going on- And I’m prepared to go it alone- I’m going on- To a place in the sun that’s nice and warm- I’m going on

And I’m sure they’ll have a place for you too oohoohoo

Anyone that needs what they want, and doesn’t want what they need -I want nothing to do with -And to do what I want -And to do what I please -Is first of my to-do list- But every once in a while I think about her smile-One of the few things I do miss -But baby I‘ve to go -Baby I’ve got to know-Baby I’ve got to prove it

And I’ll see you when you get there-But I’m going on-And I’m prepared to go it alone-I’m going on- May my love lift you up to the place you belong-I’m going on- And I promise I’ll be waiting for you oohoohoo

As I listened to the song, I couldn’t help but think how fitting it was that “Going On” would play as I was left the bus, headed for Nashville, because it was one of the first songs that I listened to my first night on “Big Mama.” It was an interesting moment of coming full circle. Then as I began to listen to the lyrics more I began to realize how much they spoke to this trip for me. The song is about moving on, which is what this trip essentially was about. I began to think about how much “moving” had been taking place: moving on to new experiences and new things everyday, literally moving on to a new place everyday, learning more about the American culture, letting go of fears and misconceptions, and also letting go of the familiar. This trip has been such a leap of faith, and that’s what the speaker is talking about is when they refer to “the other unknowns.” I had no clue of what to expect, but I knew that I had to move on. And for the most part, I have done it alone. Granted I’ve been with eleven other people for forty days, the truth is that each of us has been on our own personal journeys for the past forty days. We each have different perspectives, even on our shared experiences. And we’re not done moving. We must still move on after these 40 days, because there are papers to write. And not only that, we all have lives to live. Some of us have graduations to move on to soon. Others have more school. Others more trips to take. We all have our separate paths. We all have to move on from each other to see what life has for us next. And maybe we will all reunite one day; there’s a chance, just like the hope of reunion that the speaker in the song mentions. The only way that we’ll know is to put one foot in front of the next to see where life takes us. So I’m going on.

Moments of Recognition

Considering the fact that it broke down, our last day on the bus was pretty uneventful. We all just sat around and relaxed, partly because we were in the middle of nowhere but also because we all needed the time to relax. For about two hours I retreated to my bunk to watch a movie. I thought it interesting that I would wait until my last day on the bus to use the personal DVD player in my bunk, but I honestly hadn’t had much time before that.

I settled on watching Vicky Christina Barcelona, which some may consider a “chick flick”, but I didn’t care. In the end I was surprised. It wasn’t that much of a “chick flick,” and it was actually well done. I thought that the acting was great. I was impressed with Scarlett Johansson’s performance and as well as her counter part, whose name I can’t remember. I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before, and actually wasn’t sure if I had seen here somewhere before. Regardless I thought that she did a great job of holding her own up against such august cast mates like Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem.

The writing is what really caught my attention though. Prior to watching the film, I had talked with several people who mentioned that they didn’t quite enjoy the writing, so that made me pay closer attention, I was pleased. There were some scenes that were a little far fetched, but I think that the unrealistic moments fit into this story well, because it’s as much about people’s fantasies as it is about their realities. The main thing that I enjoyed about the writing was the concepts of triangles and parallels that I kept noticing through out the film. This made me take notice of what the writer was actually trying to do. By the end of the movie Vicky and Christina have both changed significantly, despite the fact that they are still in the same situations that they started in. But I digress from my main point

As I watched the film, there were several moments where I began to think about how cool it would be have their situation: to be young, carefree, traveling and expanding one’s cultural horizons. Then I would remember that I am their situation. I am young. I am carefree. I’ve been traveling across the country. I am expanding my cultural horizons. And on top of that I won’t have to deal with jet lag when I’m done. This trip has been awesome, because I have been to places that I may not have ever gone to. If it weren’t for this trip I think I would have ended up like every other college student who goes abroad before really understanding home. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with traveling abroad, and I still think that you have an opportunity to understand more of what America is like, but it’s from a different perspective. Now when I go to Spain, I can be more confident in my American culture, while embracing Spanish culture because I’ve been there and done that, and I know what it means to be an American.

St. Augustine- Beach Prose

As we walked back towards the shore, I heard someone say, “I hate this.” They just happened to be talking about coming out of the water with nothing on but a bathing suit, but those few words made me think of something very different. Suddenly it seemed so poetic to me that on one of our last days we would encounter the beach.

The beach of all places had come to represent this trip at that moment for me. You get dressed and ready and head for the water. You walk through what seems to be miles of sand until you hit this body of water that looks like it wants to envelope you. It’s cold and overwhelming at first, but as you go further and further away from the safety of the shore, you get used to it all. Used to the tidal waves, to the brine, to the temperature and the threat of sharks that may come. But then as soon as you get comfortable, and as soon as you start to really enjoy it, it is time to go. And so you walk back to the sand smelling of brine and clenching your teeth from the chilling winds hitting your salt water skin.

How interesting is it that three people walking so close can have thoughts that are so far from the others? Coming out of our oceanic wilderness her thoughts were the on difficulties of transparency while, while mine were centered on the pain of goodbye and his were on God knows what. Probably something equally as polar. We will never be here again. We will never be the same people in the same place and the same moment under the same circumstances again.
How much of my experience I would have changed if I could? Probably not much, but no one can ever say for certain. It’s so important to live each moment fully, because you never know when it’s your last.

Mm Mm Good…

Charleston, South Carolina is revered for its "genteel " elegance and southern tradition. But also on the opposite side of that, Charleston is also known for the grass roots culture of the Gullah people. And while I was impressed with the charm of downtown Charleston, I admit that my rendezvous with Gullah culture left a far sweeter taste in my mouth than I expected.
As our class shuffled into Gullah Cuisine, a restaurant located in the Mt. Pleasant part of Charleston, I held a certain level of hesitancy with my excitement. The only thing that I knew about Gullah people was what I got from that Nickelodeon TV series that featured a big yellow polliwog, so I was excited to learn more about the culture—I just wasn’t that excited about eating the food.

Pearce had called ahead to inform the restaurant that we were waiting and Kesha was there waiting for us when we arrived. It was her family’s restaurant and she had instructed them to reserve the large dining area for us. We settled down and she introduced herself as well as the culture behind the restaurant. She quickly explained that the Gullah people were slaves from Sierra Leone who remained near the beaches of South Carolina after they were emancipated. She went on elaborating on the grass baskets that they are known for and the origins of Gullah cuisine. Like slaves and freed slaves after that, the Gullah people were often force to use scraps to make their food from, and from these scraps, or undesirable vegetables and meat parts Gullah cuisine was born. It soon occurred to me that this sounded similar to the origins of soul food, which is what I grew up eating.

As Kesha went on, she mentioned that Gullah food was very rich and that a lot of it was seafood based. She mentioned several dishes we could try like broccoli casserole, yams, collard greens and succotash, and I was heading for the buffet. These were all foods that I was familiar with. I loaded my first plate with BBQ pork, yams, macaroni and cheese, succotash, collard greens, okra and a huge roll. And I devoured all of it. I wasn’t the only one either. After everyone in my group sat down with food, our room was completely silent because everyone was eating, and this is always proof of good food.

As I continued to work on my first plate I took a sip of sweet tea and felt joy come over me. It occurred to me that I hadn’t felt so much like myself in a long time. And then I also realized that I hadn’t had soul food, the food I grew up on, my comfort food, in a really long time either. It actually hadn’t been since our day Little Rock. Vegetarian food, Thai food, Sushi, Polish food, Italian food, Indian food, Mexican food, and even organic foods are great but there is something about Soul Food that woke up a part of me that had been sleeping.
After noticing Pearce’s second plate, and my empty first plate, I knew it was time for more. And as I walked back to the buffet I noticed that I had an “extra pep in my step,” and I just assumed it the presence of food in my belly and it was the food; this particular type of food that was feeding my body and soul.

My second plate consisted of seafood casserole over white rice, broccoli casserole, more macaroni and cheese, more yams and another buttery roll. I decided to take it easy though, so I switched from sweet tea to water. That didn’t help too much though because halfway into my second plate I started to get full. But I didn’t force myself to finish, I just sat back and “took a break” while Kesha continued talking to us.

As she continued to talk about her family I couldn’t help but think how similar it sounded to my family. My family doesn’t come from the Gullah culture, but I wondered how central some of their ideas about family were in the black culture as a whole, and also cultures across the world. Hearing her talk about her grandparents and their experiences in the South made me think about my grandparents, who were also from the South and I could feel pride rising up inside me.

It was interesting because Kesha talked a lot about being proud of where you are from. She encouraged all of us to be proud of where we are from and that made me think of where I am from and how that shapes my identity. Kesha said she had the best of both worlds because she grew up in Jersey, but spent her summers in Mt. Pleasant, and that resonated with me. I realized that I have been blessed in that way as well. I grew up on the South Side of Chicago but because of my grandparents I also have southern roots. I looked back on my childhood began to appreciate every family reunion and every plate of greens and cornbread (that I hated as a little boy) I had encountered. I picked up my fork and I continued to eat MY food, because it was mine and it was already apart of me.

When we left Gullah Cuisine that day I was thankful. I was thankful not only for good food that fed my soul, but also for the Gullah experience because it presented this picture of pride in oneself and one’s family that I hadn’t seen before so clearly. Is that part of what it means to be an American? To be proud of where you come from? As I sat back in the van with a belly full of food, I knew for sure that Gullah culture was something worth digesting.