Why Don’t Jesus Rebuild Black Mothers’ Hearts?

insane mind
African Americans we have no reason to hold on to the American’ dream. We have no logic to pray our stock will champion self. For it is not, a plausible reason to adopt the culture of White Male Supremacy and consider yourself saved. My question since understanding religion at the age of 8 or 10 years old. Why is that White man on my mother’s bible? For the life of me, I could not grasps that connection. Nonetheless, she (pretended) to worship something that only supplied more fear and sorrow. My mother died a horrible death waiting on the White figure that did not exist. She cried and mourned herself to death….I felt hopeless almost like a villain or a death seeker.
*****
How could she pray and pray, yet nothing arrived but darken tears. The sun removed, the darkness soaks the faint attempt at dying by my hands. For surely, I had enough of this life, I began to mourn and behave like my deceased matrical. The storm whistling such a demise, yet, the summer coolness bleeds on my toes. I send this message to announce our evitable death while waiting for God. No such spirit would place the irony of our ways…or shall it. I run toward my mother but she’s not there. I hear her laughter, but she’s not there.
 ******
I describe her to my children and grandchildren. But, she’s not there. There is no light for the blind, no cup, that swells with water. My soul has never healed from my mother’s death. I am a lonely pot, unfit to find strength in myself. Yet, I remain drunken, an intoxicated brute incapable of throwing her bible about. She cried, so much to that book, I hate it then and despise presently. There are no blessings for Black mothers’ that cry in the night….None.
The Invisible Dragon

Introvert I AM

Recently, and all too often, I’ve being called aggressive, impolite, and mean.  I am neither these adjectives nor any other misguided labels (i.e., aloof, unapproachable, and misanthropic).  In the past, I have rebuked such attempts of my character with disdain and bewilderment.  Recently, I have discovered as I always recognized, my personality is not the problem, but the misinterpretation thereof by the misinformed.  NEWFLASH! I am an introvert, not a monster.

WARNING!  An introverted personality is not synonymous with shyness, fear of crowds, or one that shrinks in the spotlight.   As an introvert, it simply means, I have little patient for small talk, or extended time in social settings.  On the contrary, I can operate quite well in large settings; I can speak to large groups with ease.  Nevertheless, and this is important, I need isolation to recoup my energy.  So, I prefer to be alone than in a crowd to regain my inner power.  Again, social events are not deal breakers. But I will need time between engagements to maximise optimal energy levels.

In the last few days, I’ve watched a TED video and read some literature on being an introvert in an extroverted society.  I found the video ok, but I would recommend all to give it a go, so we could drop with the negative labels.

Just my 60 seconds…

The Invisible Dragon

My Mind is Not a Playground, It’s a Junkyard.

insane mind

I do not feel completely alone, but I’m just waiting.  I’m not sure for what.  This street lamp shines on me each night: It does not say much, or can it?  The sky also stares at me as if I possess a language.  Often for hours, we look at each other.  I don’t like it sometimes because it’s so patient, it boils me with solace.  I normally don’t use big words, but some people think it’s ok.  The water soothes my hot feet; I run but not long, my breath has numerous outside appointments.  I wonder when I think/write like this, has my mind broken or retired.   I think both at times; nevertheless, rarely do such thoughts make the pages.  Hold a second my mind is back.  I see its shadow.  Hmm, it’s dirty, “wash yourself, we’ll eat soon.”  My mind runs like an undiscovered stream outside Madison, that’s in Wisconsin.

Mrs. Jones tend to her garden; the stiff spring breeze shoves her physique about.   Once, a vibrant vixen, now she listens to Beethoven and her garden.  From my second floor, I scream!  Mrs. Jones!  She pretends not to hear me.  Mrs. Jones!  I only want her attention to corroborate my presence.  It is sad to live in your mind.  You’re not sure, if you’re alive or, I hate to say this…dead.   In your mind, you run constantly frightened and unaware of reality.  Mrs. Jones!  She can hear me, I know she can, she just ignores me.  My tomato soup is about ready.  I cook it each day at the same time.  The neighbors complain but this is a ruse, they want some.   No!  You had your chance; they scatter from my mind deep inside my consciousness.  They’ll be back for my soup, they always come back.

My dog stares at me as I dodge the cracks in my mind.  A motorbike’s rumble angrily snaps me back to life or fantasy.  I wonder about a woman who rides a motorbike without a partner.  Where is she going?  Does she have an appointment? I’m not sure.  What woman rides a motorbike alone?  Is this reality?  Hmm…the motorbike seems to be turning around, did she hear me thinking.  Hi, why do you ride a motorbike without a partner?  Her stare punches me in the abdomen; I stumble, but regain my balance to see her coming towards me. I run as fast as I can.  A woman who rides a motorbike without a partner seems nice but they scare me.  My dog barks out a melody that says she’ll catch me one day, I don’t normally understand dog talk.  Also, I don’t understand why a woman rides a motorbike alone.

I’ll take one mister, thanks for the ice cream.  It’s hot outside…I run to stay fit.

My mind is exhausted, Mrs. Jones continues to ignore me, my neighbors pretend not to like tomato soup, and a motorbike ejected a woman onto me.  The street light dims the alley lights up, and I look at it from the second floor.  I’m as lonely as it appears, but I make things up.  I create stories when I’m uncertain, afraid.   I write like this when I’m not sure about reality.  I see a man walking toward the tavern, why does he not have a tie about his shirt and suit.  If it’s one thing I think about is why do a man not have a tie about his shirt and suit.  He turns…and stares at me.  I run.

The Invisible Dragon

(unedited and unsupervised)

Set my Brothers Free: Young Black Men & Depression

By The Invisible Dragon

Young Black males, as suicide victims, were unheard of growing up in 1970’s.  However, presently, according to the American Association of Suicidology, suicide rates for African-American males ages (15-24) increased 83% in the early 80’s and 90’s.  More importantly, most suicide victims suffered from depression at their end.  Suicide has become a statistical reality for many young brothers.   The sad fact that young males are killing themselves is startling, but the communities’ silence is worse, even tragic. As a result, Black communities face stinging charges of being callous, insensitive, and more importantly, mis-educated. It is my belief; the silent epidemic on Black men and depression must be shattered.

Black men rarely speak about their mistrust of organized healthcare.  One reason for the silence is the mistrust they possess toward the health care profession.  The Tuskegee Experiment is just one example of gross malpractice levied against Black males throughout American history.  I, personally, refused to use White male doctors in the past and frankly all male physicians.  Often, they gave me a sense that my health issues were not as serious and that intestinal fortitude was in order.  In the hood, reputation and the cool pose is everything Black males risk isolation and marginalization if they have a mental illness label.  Despite, whys and wherefores, we must face ourselves and shed the current fear to face depression.  Young Black males suffer from mental illness; we better admit this and speak up.

Unfortunately and fortunately, Black males do not attend church in large numbers.  One reality they face is Black Churches dis-empower them by suggesting only the blood of Christ heals.  Young Black males are inundated constantly with this message from female relatives, girlfriends, and wives.  Usually those loaded theme suggestions fall on deaf ears. Nevertheless, I sympathize with anyone who attempts to sound the bell about males and mental illness. However, in contrast, depression is not a headache that’s erased through pray and aspirin.  It is important Black Christians not marginalize depression anymore; it’s real, get over it.  In addition, we must refuse to endorse the religious-based mythology, “Only the blood of Jesus heals”.  We need the Black church to become a responsible partner in healing our young men.    

If one would solve a problem, the study of the problem is a prerequisite.  In urban communities, often, Black males lead a life of isolation and sequestration.  My own view, education on mental illness is a valid step to our miscarriage concerning mental illnesses.  More directly, to break the silence we must seek education as the only solution.  Although, a controversial issue has been whether depression is real, this by the way is crazy.  The collective illiteracy about affective disorders is the result of such careless thinking.  The mis-education of mental health is important because half-truths may disable the men and communities, rendering them impotent in life endeavors.  Thus only, data driven information will pardon communities and free young brothers.

It is no secret, in urban communities; countless Black males inflicted with mental illness, live in virtual darkness. Sad and disheartened, they routinely live emotionally disengaged existences.   And, we do know, if depression deepens without medical intervention hopelessness may become a reality.  Haeffel, Abramson, Brazy, & Shah (2007) define hopelessness as being convinced the future holds bad results and all efforts are futile.  Our refusal to seriously engage men about their mental health ultimately hurts Black families, children, and communities.  As well, to continue endorsing cultural mental illness mythologies are an even more egregious assault.  We have a responsibility, and duty, to educate ourselves and communities on mental illness:

Shall we not set ourselves free?

Strangers Live Inside

Well, hello, long time no see. I would say so,

Where have you been spending your time? Here and there, working at the school…

(The Tao is an inescapable torch that does not burn.)

The early morning possess supernatural powers. I absorbed the darkness in the winter and spread the sunlight in spring. How does one find himself in himself? How do you begin a journey on a road that has ended? I love being in a transit state of nothingness…where I walk in silence and stillness. I struggle to explain the concept and thus I mumble incomprehensible with text.

I love text in many forms written, verbal, or imagination. However, mostly; I love text alone deep within the bottomless pit of reflection. I do not want to argue or develop discourse where it’s rejected nor considered. No, my superpowers are not great at all, in fact; one would not even notice my presence without a shout. I live and die daily within a formless world as I assess my evolution to my originality. Does this make sense? I think it does, surly a kindergartener understand the quest for eternal play.

What type of musing is this? I don’t know. I discovered it while asleep as I was awake. By the way, I think a quest is not about discovery as much as, wait a second…I had a thought. “Anyhows”, (Yes, a phrase used in many cultures) damnit…, I lost my thought again. Hmm, I was going somewhere but without failure I’ve arrived. How does one find what is not missing? I’ve tried several times to leave the Tao behind.

Will life be defined? No, I think not, only the individuals who need form to explain the unexplainable remains searching.

Hey where have you been, long time no see.  I would say so,

(All grammatical errors are purposeful)

The Invisible Dragon