08.20.08
What You Don’t See by Seattle
It was like any other day. I was on the train, swaying from side to side, clinging to a metal rod as people boarded and disembarked. Students, businessmen and women, people sneaking home after a late night with their significant, or non-significant others, and countless other conspicuous characters were all climbing into the chilled car. Looking to escape the thick, humid summer air. Nothing new. That is, except for this one older gentleman sitting in the front of the car that grabbed my attention. I couldn’t escape it really. After all, he was filling the chilled car with his random thoughts for all to hear. So for a brief second, I took a listen.
From the random sputtering of his unintelligible words, it didn’t take very long for me to realize that this man was incoherent. Either drunk, mentally handicapped or just demented. Regardless, I didn’t want to figure it out. So I let my gaze wander around the car. Only to see the rest of the passengers in the car completely enthralled by this man and his actions. They were intently staring, glancing occasionally or fighting themselves from taking a look at the growing spectacle. They just should’ve.
At the moment, I didn’t quite understand what was so captivating about the man. He was just like every other slightly off person that happens to step on the train early in the morning or late at night. That is until he did something that even I hadn’t seen before.
It could’ve been the coldness of the air conditioned car or the pollen floating in the air that day that caused it, either way the sneeze that this man let off left even me disorientated. And nauseous. It was as if he learned how to turn his nose into a faucet, but didn’t yet know how to turn it off. The amount of goo that erupted from this man’s nose was immeasurable. All hanging from his nose like a suspended Niagara Falls. If this is making you sick, imagine how it was to see it live and less than a foot away from your face. The accompanying blow and splat from the rocket he let loose on the subway car was just as appalling. I had never been so happy to be above it all. Or so I thought.
Suddenly realizing his stop was approaching, the questionable man wiped his nose, and the remaining contents, stood up and lurched at me, grabbing me for support. Never had I been so upset. He gets to leave the train while I have to deal with having all those dregs on me for the rest of the day. As do the next passengers, like the nice woman that grabbed me soon after he left, picking up countless germs as she held me ever so tightly. Only to pass them onto her friend as she grasped his hand to leave the train.
In the moment I couldn’t say it to her, so I’ll say it to you. Next time you’re on the train, be careful what you grab a hold of. You never know who was there or what happened before you.
08.07.08
Weak Men Beg. Real Men Rob.
The great Aaron Neville once crooned, “Everybody plays the fool, sometimes. There’s no exception to the rule…” And while that song may have been talking about relationships, debauchery and trust gone, it rings true in other places as well. Business, friendships, family… I could go on and on if I could think of other things to write. But this past weekend it wasn’t any of those situations, it was a common pauper. A grizzled, sunken eyed homeless dude who I caught staring longingly through a window at the food in the local bodega. To make matters worse, he was in a wheelchair and unable to actually get into the store himself. Shit, he might as well have been an African kid with a potbelly, tattered clothes and glassy eyes. I felt for dude.
Now, even though I have a tendency to spit hot fire like Dylan and can at times be more arrogant than the Louis Vuitton Don himself, your boy was raised with some ethics. I felt bad strolling in there to get some milk for a protein shake while he glanced on sadly. I may not be an avid churchgoer, or a churchgoer at all, but I remember the lessons of the Good Book. I know not to pass a needy man by. So after I made my purchase, I walked out of the bodega and asked the man if he wanted something. He immediately requested a 99 cent bag of potato chips. I was willing to make the dollar donation, so I obliged and grabbed the chips off the rack. In a brief moment of concern I said to myself; it’s hot outside and he’s sweating like a girl on ecstasy. Let me get him something to drink to go with these chips. So as I motioned over to the cooler to grab a beverage for the man, I looked over my shoulder only to see him sneakily grinning. Hard.
In disgust, I closed the fridge door quickly and his smile vanished. I briskly walked to the register, dropped a dollar on the counter and got the chips for the guy. Why? One, because I gave him my word and I don’t go back on that. Two, because the man that tries to play me always gets his. And as he snacked on the salty ass potato chips on that blazing summer day without an accompanying refreshment, I was content knowing that he was feeling as dried up as Brittney Spears’s career.
A close friend of mine once told me, that he has no respect for men who beg. That is the opposite of what a man is. He would have more respect for a man who tried to rob him because he was actively trying to keep his head above water. While I understand him, I’ve always been taught to help the needy. So I ask y’all, should I step over the next dude I see lying in the street or keep up my habits with the hope that one day I’ll actually help someone who needs it?
Seattle
07.21.08
Can You Help a Brother Out by Seattle Washington
Before this weekend I never had a problem with that question. I would drop some coins in the hand of whoever was asking and keep it moving. On those days I had an extra bop in my step I would drop a single if I had one handy and if I liked the gentlemen that posed the question. But for some reason, after hearing “Can You Help a Brother Out…?” again this past week; something changed in me. I tweaked. I was smacked in the face with a revelation that was always there, gnawing at my subconscious, and all it took was hearing that one question for the billionth time to push it to the forefront.
On this particular occasion, I was walking down the sidewalk on a balmy summer day and a middle-aged gentlemen was standing next to his 90’s Nissan SUV, searching his pockets for change to feed to the meter. Once he saw me, he quickly approached and asked, “Hey man, do you have change for a dollar? Can you help a Brother out?” Unfortunately, no balloons dropped from the sky, no streamers were thrown and no one ran out with an oversized cardboard check to celebrate the billionth time someone uttered that question to me. The only thing I was awarded with frustration, confusion and the immediate thought of “Why the fuck do I need to be reminded that I am a Brother in order to help you?”
So like a whorish girlfriend, that guy has ruined me for future experiences. I now am immediately turned off when I hear that particular question. Sorry guy in need, but that blatant reminder that we are of the same race is not really urging me to do anything for you, even if I do have 50 cents in my pocket. And just to clarify, I have no problem helping people in need. Actually, I’m often criticized because I’m that somewhat optimistic dude who gives money to homeless people. I also help blind people when they stray off path, rescue cats from trees, walk old ladies across the street and stop thugs from stealing women’s purses. One of those is actually true, but I’ll leave that to your imagination. So it’s not the asking, it’s the delivery. Why do I need to be reminded that I’m also Black to help you out? Man if you need change for a dollar, for a brew, a blunt or to catch that bus, just ask me. Keep it funky.
From what I know, African Americans are the only people to ask that question to each other. I highly doubt that in Africa, when two men see each other and one needs something he asks “Hey, can you help a brother out?” And maybe they do it behind closed doors, but I’ve never heard a White, Hispanic or Asian guy ask another dude of their race, “Can you help a [insert colloquial term for their race here] out?” Shoot, I know we’re always on the forefront for culture, but I don’t think America is going to pick this term up. Although I would’ve rather heard white suburban kids saying this than “nigga”, but that’s a different conversation.
So as of July 21st, 2008 I’m instituting a new rule, let’s call it “Seattle’s Law of Blackness, No. 1″. And it states, the “help a brother out…” question will from here on out be stricken from the Black man’s vocabulary. Why? Well, for a couple of reasons. First, if you’re truly a Black man you won’t need to ask me in that way, remind me that we’re both Black and guilt me into giving you something. Only pathetic men, of any race, do that. In addition, all shaming when it comes to race or ethnicity should be saved for the White man. You can say that’s “Seattle’s Law of Blackness, No. 2″. Second, if the man you’re asking has any moral character and is truly a Brother, he won’t need to be reminded.
A real Black man will help a Brother out because he is his one.
07.13.08
The Irony of Manliness, by Seattle Washington
What is the essence of a true man? Well, it may all go back to the most overused term for an attractive man – “the strong, silent type”. And since most parents want to bring up their son to be one that women will want, we’re raised to keep the emotions in and express nothing. Maybe another cliché term will solidify the point for you – “man up”. That’s definitely something I would’ve been told 20 years ago if I were to write this blog entry. It would’ve been considered male blasphemy. And to some extent I still am breaking a man law. But while Slim Jackson, myself and many other heterosexual male bloggers/writers are anomalies; we still carry the same upbringing as other males. Not to mention the same role models. We use those guys as paradigms for our lives, resulting in another generation of dudes that keep things like health problems, feelings and most of all emotional pain to themselves.
Truth be told, I don’t have any problems with it though. The strong, silent type gets the girl. Couple that with the gift of gab or better yet some good genes (as my man Slim has said) and you’re a regular James Bond. But like James, your dear Mr. Washington is realizing that he is much better at getting the girls than keeping them. Why you may ask? Well because while being the strong silent type only gets you the girl, or woman for that matter. After you’re finally in a relationship, the mystery man stuff doesn’t work. The sex appeal of a man who’s stoic, yet witty and good at intellectual conversation falls aside to demands like revealing your feelings and expressing what you’re thinking. Those are difficult topics, for any man. Even guys like me who are blessed with the gift, and curse, of gab.
Why curse? Well because if I’m a writer with the gift of gab then it must be easy for me to get in touch with my feelings and whisper them ever so gently to my woman’s ears as we lay in bed together. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t. So in essence it’s a catch 22. Being one way to get the girl we want and then flipping the script to keep you. Imagine, for sheer hilarity, that you knew a guy who divulged his feelings, deep emotions and showered women with the thoughts from his beautiful mind. Sounds promising, right? Well, I’ve seen that guy, and I’ve seen women clown him for being too open. They either run for the hills or show their appreciation by getting banged out by some dude who barely grunts to her let alone expresses his thoughts. Trust me, despite my eloquence I used to be the grunting dude.
So with all of that in mind, what’s Seattle to do? At the end of the day I’m still a dude trained to be strong and silent. And ladies, I’ll tell you it’s hard to reprogram that after so many years. You may understand. You’re allowed to express your emotions freely. And I doubt you like it much when we say, “stop being so emotional”. Honestly, it’s your right and as I get older I just expect it and accept it. You could say that it just comes with the territory when you want to be with women. And I appreciate it, somewhat, because that’s what makes you what you are and in essence a true woman. I’m just asking that you give us the same respect. But, that’s another topic and another entry…
Who in the hell is Seattle Washington?
Seattle Washington is a young Chocolate brother in a Milky world, fighting his way to the top. He plays the game like Jordan and Pippen in their primes and only bags the finest dimes. Keep a look out for future entries from Mr. Washington.
06.24.08
The Last Stand, by Seattle Washington
Introducing the writing of another articulate black guy to my readership…hopefully you will appreciate his perspective and candidness. Don’t get your feelings hurts.-Slim Jackson
The Last Stand, by Seattle Washington
For some of us it is fast approaching, for some of us it is here and for some of us it’s already too late. Some of us have been chasing it down since birth, others avoiding it like it was death itself. And now people are arguing for the right to do it just as much as people argue over when to do it. What am I talking about?
Marriage.
It’s a widely known practice that’s about as puzzling as my intro. No one quite knows what to do once you get into it, but they damn sure know how they feel about it. Me? Like many men I’m conflicted. On one hand, it’s tough enough being a boyfriend. I consistently take a beating, my freedom is slipping away and I’m losing my mind because I have more pussy (cat) thrown at me now than when I was single. Honestly ladies, it’s like those damn AXE body spray commercials. On the other hand, I don’t want to be that old dude in the club. And no matter what any dude tells you, that’s always in the back of his mind.
That thought was reinforced this past weekend when I saw one in full action. A sixty-year old white man was chillin at a lounge I frequent dressed in slacks and a striped button down. Unfortunately for me he decided he wasn’t going to button the appropriate amount of buttons, so his aged taco meat was showing as well as his tight ass gold chain. And I don’t mean tight like it was hot. No no no. I mean tight as in it was going to pop off and fly in someone’s drink if he turned his head too quickly. On top of all that, he was accompanied by a thirty something year old Asian woman who was an escort. Just to clarify, I’m not hating. I’ve seen a sugar daddy in action, shit it’s still a back up plan of mine, but this was far from it. She was definitely an escort. He was paying for the pum pum. And that’s not good in my book.
So, what am I left to do? I’m far from ready to settle down, put up the white picket fence, have a few golden retrievers running around the yard and be tackled by some kids calling me daddy. Shit I’m still thankful, yes thankful; I didn’t have any calls on Fathers’ Day. (Shout out to the Black Men doing their thing though! What up Pops!!!) But my lady, like many others, has a biological clock and now that it has started ringing somehow I need to wake up. So far I’ve been successful in treating it like any other clock. I’ve hit the snooze, rolled over, put the pillow over my head and gone back into blissful sleep. But that isn’t going to last very long. I’m going to have to get up and face that new day when it’s “we”, not “me”, when I have a miniature billboard on my ring finger announcing my status and the only alone time I will ever have will be when I’m at work and when I take a shit.
I’m not ready for that. I like my freedom. Shit my ancestors fought for it for years! I’m not ready for the last stand. But what other choice do I have? The Washington name, and good looks for that matter, needs to carry on. I guess all I can do is go out on my terms. At least that’s what I’ll tell myself.
And as I write this, my girlfriend calls. I swear you girls have a 6th sense… To be continued, hopefully.
Who in the hell is Seattle Washington?
Seattle Washington is a young Chocolate brother in a Milky world, fighting his way to the top. He plays the game like Jordan and Pippen in their primes and only bags the finest dimes. Keep a look out for future entries from Mr. Washington.
