On my way out for work this morning, I thought to myself: “ One of these days, I’m gonna be happy.” It’s a phrase I’ve found myself repeating in my mind on and off this past year. Sometimes I’ll thrown in a “legit happy” to differentiate what I believe to be “true happiness” as opposed to the smile and the “I’m blessed and breathing” I throw in people’s faces so they don’t inquire too much about my life. You know, in fear they might see me a little too clearly. The truth is: I AM blessed and breathing. I find the best lies have grains of truth in them or at least some small morsel of truth you can convince yourself into believing is there because....well, once you believe it yourself, you’re no longer lying to others—you’re just sharing. So yes, I am blessed and breathing. I have my health, shelter, family and friends back home I love and, since moving to LA this past February, I’ve had the opportunity to live in the same city as my sister, aka my partner in crime. Saturday breakfasts and weekend movies galore! Happy, happy, joy, joy: blessings abound! Then, it happens. My other truth starts to grab a hold of me—the honesty that’s hard for me to take sans a melody. The HATE.
Growing up, my Mother always said: “You don’t hate it, you just don’t care for it” as if “hate” were some forbidden spell that shan’t be cast. Now, as a twenty-something trying to make sense of it all, I can’t help it. Abra kadabra: I hate LA. I hate my job. I hate myself for being a cliché and saying I hate LA without giving it a real chance. I hate that I made such a rash decision in moving 3000 miles across the country when one of the things I HATE about myself is the time it takes me to make a decision. I hate having to tread the line between being a good brother and taking care of myself by not forcing good ole me to attend the several events of my sister and HER people, which I often guilt myself into believing are MY people but then I head just around the river bend, over the river, through the woods, and realize: Nope. Those are, in fact, HER people and I don’t owe them my presence. Then, another U-turn as I’m struck by the family values that the ‘rents instilled and I accept that I do owe HER my presence. Then, here comes the hate again. I hate trying to reconcile these realizations with how I feel. Mind you, all of this mental traveling down the I-Confused and the Hate-05 takes forever and the traffic is a nightmare. Above all, I hate that more and more Black folk are being killed in the street without justice and I’m stuck in the doldrums of my mind seemingly more concerned about my own happiness than my contribution to the Black Lives Matter Movement. I’m the worst.
To make myself feel better—or perhaps it’s how I really feel, I’ve lost track—I remind myself that we’re better contributors to the world when we’re happy. I believe everyone is divinely appointed to something…or multiple somethings. I believe that true happiness can be found when you discover that divine appointment, your purpose, and you actively try and fulfill that destiny. Maybe you learn your appointment isn’t what you thought it was. Maybe you learn it’s exactly what you believed it to be. Either way, I think you will end up making the world a better place when you’re on that path. I truly believe we all have a purpose, whether it’s written in the stars or on a bus ad, it’s somewhere. Find it and tell someone what you found…Oop, just when I was about to get on my Shea Moisture African Black Soapbox, The Hate abc’d its way into my business again.
You see, I hate myself for chasing an adjacent dream; having identified what I believe to be my purpose and still pursuing opportunities that are in my field but not what I really what I want to do because they look good on paper. I hate myself for seeing the ink smear, realizing the words and figures I’ve spent years crafting don’t even look that good on paper…. and still, I’ve been doing the same thing over and over again…for like ten years. Sidenote: I love the ellipsis. Super side note: I LOVE Imogen Heap’s Ellipse. Okay, back to the hate. I hate that even with all of this knowledge, I still stay in toxic environments because it seems like the right thing to do. I don’t want to leave someone else in a lurch. I would put another’s needs before my own because, in my mind, that’s the right thing to do. That’s being a good person, right? Staying when you want to leave because someone needs to be there… Even though, you’re pretty damn sure they’d be aight. Maybe it’d be easier if I weren’t an artist? Maybe it wouldn’t? I don’t know. Or do I? Nope, stop it. I was ‘bout to make three rights and end up at the freeway entrance to the I-Confused again.
I just want to be happy because this sh!t is for the birds. At the same time, I want to be a good person; I must—not because I’m better than anyone else but because that’s all I know. That’s the type of man my Grandfather was, that’s the type of man my Father is, and that’s the type of man I want to be: A good one. And those futhamuckas made it through the STRUGGLE with a smile and a wave at times when, even with all that’s going on right now, it was a hell of a lot harder for a Black man to make it—like KKK encounters and getting jumped by a bunch of white dudes at a military school hard. Surely, I can deal with these Westside blues and my day gig, fulfill my purpose, and keep it moving with my moral compass intact, right? Ai yi yi, Zordon. I’m sending prayers up and out for every damn body. “I know I’m not the only one.” Word to Sam.