Snippits from the book "Perfectly Sane" An Arsenal of Verbal Expression Volumes I & II
I Want To Be White
Not because of texture of hair, or tone of skin, or color of eyes,
but because of your notability, I'm losing my piece of American pie.
I want to experience what its like to go in the elite wealthy areas
and not look and feel so out of place,
I want to experience what its like to be enraged when someone moves into my neighborhood
and I flee cause their of a different race.
Viewing others as peons, I want your power, I want your might,
I want superiority when you know you're wrong, but you think your right.
The thrill of being called every name in the book and to retaliate, you just say "Nigger,”
man how that word can tear one down,
no word in Webster's or slang on the street, that word is the pinnacle of verbal abuse,
and turns a smirk into a frown.
Or the feeling of pulling up next to a black man in a Mercedes Benz
you laugh and give him a grin,
you in your "Yugo" viewing him as a drug dealer, he's a doctor,
but you view him as lesser of men.
I want to talk to everyone as if they have a mental handicap,
and to tone down my frame of speaking to a rate of which is slow,
To speak to everyone who is not like me as if they don't speak and understand the English language,
treating everyone opposite me like a stupid Joe.
To not break ground, but the ground already be broken,
to not fight for rights but the right already be given,
and what do you know its in my favor,
to live my life to the fullest, to burn a cross,
to sign a million dollar contract for something "stupid,"
to have food prepared the way that I savor.
I want to give money in one hand and receive the change in the other,
not off the counter or on the floor,
What do I have the dreaded hand disease, with the dollar first then the change last,
I'm not finish I still have more.
I want to be able to have my own individuality,
but also be a part of other groups as well,
whether it be Irish, Scottish, or German,
we are all classified as white and we are doing swell.
Blacks just have one flag that covers all no individuality,
they are all clumped together despite your heritage, its all the same,
Despite forced unity they are not united, they have the red, green, and black flag,
but lose out on the American flag fame.
I want a salad dressing named after my nationality...
Racism is alive and well; I had dinner with him and Elvis last night.
Tomato In The Face
It seems like yesterday, I recall my adolescent years, one year in particular. It was a time in which my voice began to change, a time in which my thoughts rearranged and a time in which I needed no alarm clock to awaken. One day while at school, the older boys began to critique the breasts and behinds of their puberty stricken female classmates. I just sat there, both hands under chin and dreamt English class away. Sometimes I would snap back into reality, in between chapters, to express to my peers what I did last night and with whom. Always adding after my fabricated story, "Don't mention it to her because she's kind of shy!" Everyone thought that I was this or that because they could not prove my story was false, so I, in turn was the "make-out king of the sixth grade." That is until that fatal day that I will never forget. In the boy’s bathroom, I saw a large crowd of guys surrounding one guy with a tattered magazine. He raised it up and said, "Come here!" He showed me a page with an extremely sexually graphic picture. A man reclining, a woman on bended knees, covered with some kind of white substance. He asked me, "What do you think of this?" I said in a pompous voice, "That is just how I did it last night!" Everyone cheered! Then I put my foot in my mouth by asking the dumbest question I have asked in my life, "What is that white stuff all over the girl?" The room full of young boys became suddenly silent, and then they laughed me out of the bathroom. I was ridiculed all day, I actually did not know what that stuff was. Going home that day was a long walk, even though I lived ten minutes away. I never felt so alone and stupid. As I walked, I constantly repeated the dreadful occurrence over and over in my mind. When out, of nowhere, I happened upon two extremely well blossomed older girls who lived on my street (I will say neighborhood for legal reasons). We walked home together and pretty soon, I forgot about all my problems. We played all day and as the sun slowly began to set. We ventured into one of the girls backyard, where I noticed first, patio furniture and second, a vast garden full of tomatoes. They told me to sit down, I did just so. I would have done almost anything they asked. Out one girl came with a rope and exclaimed, “Let’s play another game, let me tie you up." Gullible me agreed, unaware of the plot they had in store. Around and around the rope went, her tightening it with her companion. They both must have stayed after in "knot tying class," for I could barely move. I recall saying, "Okay, now what?" One walked towards me while the other pulled my chair back. I laid there flat on my back thinking, “What in the world is going on?” Then the answer to my question was revealed. They unbuttoned my pants, searching for my penis as if it was gold! Upon finding it, thank God they were somewhat gentle, for I had plans for the little fellow later in life. I lay there, tied like a witch to a stake, with my flaccid penis exposed, what can be more humiliating than this? To put the cherry on my ice cream day, I started screaming, "Let me go!" I mean shouting, "Let me go!" To shut me up, they poured sand down my pants and grabbed the ever so ripe tomatoes from the garden and smashed them in my face. Then they stood over me chanting, "Tomader in the face! Tomader in the face!" (Translated: Tomato in the face.) Then they scurried off into the night. I still do not know to this day how I got out of that agonizing, torturing patio chair!
After all that, I needed no counseling or anything, believe it or not, I didn't even have a vendetta towards the girls; we sort of laughed it off!
The older I got, I began to dwell on those days, that day in particular, and to my amazement, I become aroused. Knowing full well that day lead me well on the path of masochism, and because of it I definitely know now what that "white stuff" was!
A Pained Adolescent Heart
"You can call me Dad!" replied my stepfather,
knowing in my heart he could never be.
I believe he wished I never existed,
but there I was, excess baggage for my mother.
He was the type of person who firmly demanded respect,
and the type of person who never really earned it.
His voice brought fear into my heart,
for he ruled the house like a tyrant.
I despised him, for he treated me as a slave and not a son.
If ever I did wrong, which was a rare occasion,
nothing more than the average adolescent,
he would pull off his dreaded belt and commence to whipping me.
What makes this whipping more so worse than others,
I now ask myself?
I was so very young,
and not in touch with my sexuality,
very afraid of exposing my body.
But, there I stood, nude, in front of an old man,
bending over as he whacked away at my fleshly soul.
I began to hate the sight of him,
I began to hate the smell of him,
and, in turn, I began to hate myself.
All the times in gym class,
I can still hear the laughing,
as my legs showed the repercussions of last night’s spilled milk.
The lashes exposed what was once flawless skin,
now in its place, blistering bruises,
and with each sore my self-esteem begins to disappear.
An old lady once said, "God don't like ugly baby!"
I guess it's true, for he died ever so tragically.
Never before have my eyes been so dry at a funeral.
Never before have I been a pallbearer for Hitler.
As his coffin slowly descends,
my self-esteem begins to rise with each downward motion.
In time my behind and legs slowly did heal,
though my heart and mind are still in need of repair.
As I descend deeper and deeper into a mental hiatus,
my mind ponders over thoughts of yesteryear.
Remembering how I desired you,
remembering how my cocoa-brown skin overshadowed your pale whiteness,
As my outer member penetrates your inner member,
the color difference makes it so erotic.
Skin that's not softer than mine,
skin that's not smoother than mine,
but just different, yeah just different.
As my orgasm begins, I feel the whole world is watching,
they all begin to applaud,
when abruptly someone screams out in detest,
“Get your hand out my pocket, Nigger!”
I guess they can't let go of that prejudice mentality.
As my orgasm approaches its end,
each pulsation brings me closer to reality,
I arrive at the conclusion that you are just like other women I have had,
Sweet, Nice, Wet.
There is no difference, other than the fact that you are white.
As I goodbye kiss her Newport tasting mouth,
I leave my evening of seclusion.
For I am afraid to show the world my
mismatched socks relationship.
I think of an old friend, who once said,
"Man you have the rest of your life to be with a black chick."
That statement stayed with me,
so begun interest in one, then two and so on.
I enjoyed every one of them, with no regrets,
Too bad in the end, I got burned... but I still miss their white asses.
Daddy often rocks her to sleep after she suckles her mother's breast,
daddy and mama care for her every whim and then some,
yes she is their little precious.
Tick, Tick, now she goes from crawling to walking,
Tick, Tick, now she is mother's little helper in the kitchen,
Tick, Tick, now she is carrying books to school.
Daddy always rushes home from work so he can hold his little precious,
Mother always biting her nails, praying she gets home safely.
All is well, here she comes, the aspirin for her parents’ pangs.
Tick, Tick, now she is getting phone calls from little boys at school,
Tick, Tick, now she is blowing out sixteen candles,
Tick, Tick, now she is going on her very first date.
Hello Mister and Misses so and so, my name is such and such,
it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.
Mother says, "Oh, how mannerly you are!"
Daddy doesn't like it at all,
as he sees his little precious get goose bumps every time the young boy is near.
He says, "Just the thought of that boy touching her, the one we cradled and rocked to sleep."
Mother says, "He seems harmless, give him a chance. All will be fine in the end, you'll see."
Tick, Tick, now the girl is staying up late on the phone,
Tick, Tick, now her grades are slumping,
Tick, Tick, now she says she is going to the movies,
but always ends up in the backseat of the boys car.
My how small circumstances, as a once suckling chick-a-biddy, brings about vast changes,
as she back-talks her mother and says, to her father, "I hate you"
as he tells her to slow her relationship down.
"He loves me daddy and I love him, won't you please just let us be!"
It’s amazing how you can give your all for a lifetime to your child and a boy she just met,
can have her cursing her parents in one day.
The boy runs her life; she doesn't talk to her daddy anymore or even kiss him goodnight...
Tick, Tick, now she is seventeen and finally wants to talk saying, "Daddy I'm pregnant!
Tick, Tick, now daddy is afraid to say, "I told you so!"
Tick, Tick, now the boy is gone, leaving the grandparents to raise this bastard child,
as he starts this whole cycle all over again, with somebody else’s little precious.
Daddy grabs his head and sighs thinking, where did he go wrong?
What ever happened to his, little precious?
I’m Not Your Brother
Watching you walk in almost slow motion, you were the apple of my eye,
Watching you walk in almost slow motion, as you hold hands and kiss a ruff-neck, thief or bum.
Labeled your friend, your play brother, I think to myself “Hello I’m sitting right here! I truly care for you!” I’m not blind to your beauty and I’m not gay despite my Jeri-curls, can you please give me some?
But too tongue-tied, shy and afraid to tell you how I feel, I just stand there with the lemon candy, hoping that you will pick up on my vibe. Just my luck, strawberry candy was the flavor of the year.
Despite my flavor not reaching your sweet tooth, still almost every weekend we would party like its 1999. Then I’d drop you off, liquored up over some guy’s house. He‘d reap the benefits, from our getting high off weed, wine but often beer.
I would languidly go elsewhere to welcoming arms, and did what I had to do. Sweating trying to find my orgasm, your face would often make me cum, as I pulled the slot machine of lost loves and celebrities, while inside my current girlfriend.
Time passes quickly, driving down the one-way street of our relationship. Wanting to speed things up, I finally shout it out, “ I want you, I need you, give me a chance!” You didn’t, it was awkward and I watched our friendship come to an end.
Many years have passed and I haven’t talked to you much. But wouldn’t you know it, lemon candy is popular now! There I stand with a handful of treats, a car, home and a job with benefits. There you stand in an almost diabetic state, asking to suck on one.
I’m shocked as you bend over, ass-out saying, “Here, you always wanted it!” Now, I’m supposed to jump at this weathered, tattooed, stretch marked, floppy tits and loosey-goosey pussy? Yes, I did want it, wanted it then, but definitely not what it has become.
You can’t believe the once tee-strapped shoes, pleated baggy pants, Sassoon shirt wearing boy has become a man, a man you now want, but who doesn’t want you. You can’t believe it, so you just sit there perplexed, dejected and bare.
Fuck you bitch, fuck you in your ear! Am I bitter? Yes, I’m bitter, but the bitter has become bittersweet. Thank god there were just a couple of you. Thank god that I ended up marrying one of you…and the others, well I guess I don’t really care.
Dedicated to every girl in my past in which I wanted more, but they chose to keep me as a friend.
I Didn’t Mean It Like That: Political Correctness
In this time of “political correctness,” the mission I assume is to make this diverse world a better place, but of course not all people abide by the rules. Now of course your eccentric hate groups will not pay attention to political correctness, I’m not talking about them. I’m more so referring to just plain old suburban and rural Americans that have just lived so secluded that they don’t get the latest information on what to say, how to say it, and what to do if you say it wrong. Many people have scrapped every dime to get to where they are. Some may have already been born in a comfortable to wealthy status and just remained planted where they are. They may consider themselves blessed living in a cookie cut dollhouse subdivision where everybody waves to their neighbors. Others who may live in the “boondocks,” may have vast acreage between their neighbors. Many of them rarely leave their country utopia and visit the city, therefore they may not be current on the cities pangs. The issues that make it to them or even their weekly newspaper just make them feel even the more so fortunate to live where they live. Their seclusion from the daily buzz words, pop charting music and fashion fare, puts them out of the loop, including receiving the daily “political correctness,” newspaper that has the new terms, new guidelines and new penalties. Many White people especially have never dealt with various ethic groups, the whole “White is right,” may be their creed. This does not have to be taken in a negative way, but their philosophy may just be that, the more things that you deal with, the more problems you will have to deal with. Their mission may be just to keep life simple. Black people on the other hand, we have always know diversity, as we have always, “got in where we fit in,” so to speak. Our introduction to political correctness was early on during slave times, keeping your mouth closed, your eyes towards the ground, especially if a White woman walked by, and to do as you were told! However “political correctness,” is nowadays aimed at pretty much the heterosexual White male. The way that the White male discusses and interacts with everyone opposite him, including his White woman. Respect, justice and equality are the goals that “political correctness,” gives to none white males as new classifications and terms, equal the “labels of the worlds,” playing field. What was once described as Colored, then became Negro, and then became Black and now African American! Whew! That’s a lot of name changes to keep up with and I’m Black! Funny...through all those name changes, the classification for Whites just stayed White. It was changed to Caucasian for a minute, but went right back to White in the end. As a White heterosexual male gets used to calling people “Coloreds,” and unbeknownst to them, the name has been changed to Negro, and they just may get their ass kicked if they are in the wrong neighborhood. If a White heterosexual male is used to calling people “queer” or “fags,” and unbeknownst to them, the name has been changed to gay or homosexual, they just may get flogged and their face scratched if they are in the wrong neighborhood. Non-white ethic groups always are current on the latest “politically correct,” terms, guidelines and clauses, because they are usually to their benefit. So is it possibly for White heterosexuals who are non-racist to make a faux pas every now and then? I remember being asked out to dinner by a manager after I received a promotion in which I had to relocate. Of course I accepted the invitation! Me pass up a free meal? Not possible! After several drinks and listening to a million of the manager’s war stories, he made a comment that made me sober up! “You know, this company has always tried to help, you know, ah..."Coloreds.” I thought to myself, “Coloreds,” who still says "Coloreds?” I remained calm, not saying a word, and from that point on I couldn’t hear a word that the manager was saying. This is the man that he and his wife recently bought an outfit for my newborn son! Was this person a racist? Why would this man invite me out to dinner to reveal his racist tendencies? Or was he just simply secluded in his circle of friends that he just didn’t know that no one uses the term, “Colored,” anymore! No one other than a Confederate flying flag, racist! Despite those who may differ, I really believe that this man was sincere in his conversation and meant nothing by the word, “Colored,” it’s probably all that he has ever known and sees no offense in using that word to describe Blacks. Growing up in the city of Cleveland, which my area was not that bad, but at times it was not easy. The drug trafficking, the booming car radios all odd hours of the night made for a "piss poor" morale in our community. In efforts to provide a better life for my family, when I relocated for my job, I vowed never to live in the city again, so I moved to the country. My goal was not to be the only Black person in the area! I just wanted a diverse country life environment. This goal was not easy, the best that I could find, in an area that I could semi afford had a two-percent population of Blacks in the county. Nervous the first couple of months, all for not because the majority of my neighbors received us well. Only a few, when I cut my grass or walked to the mailbox would not wave as they drove by giving me that look like “Is that a Black guy?” Moving to such an area to me means that I just wanted to live safely and comfortably, it does not mean that I want to hangout with my White neighbors all the time changing my dialect to try to talk educated to prove to all White people that not all Black people are illiterate. I just want to walk out my house, grab my garbage cans and have my privacy. One of my over zealous retired neighbors just could not get the message! He and sometimes his wife would always pop up over to our house. I don’t know if they were sincere in their efforts, lonely, swingers, or just took pity on the only Blacks in the area, whatever motivated them it appeared to be their primary goal! They were always bringing something over, vegetables from their garden or homemade wine, sometimes nothing, just stopping over. At first it was fine, I thought maybe this is what white neighbors do. Then they started getting on my nerves, but I adjusted. One day I was outside cutting my lawn using my riding mower. My son was outside also, on the deck watching me and playing. As always my neighbor would come outside stopping my progress to chitchat. His wife comes out as we are talking and runs toward my son. She picks him up and just walks off with him, taking him to their house. The husband then invites me in to try some homemade wine. Me turn down some homemade wine? No possible! Prior to us walking toward his house, we stop and talk to another neighbor. The elderly neighbor looks at me and shakes my hand. The elderly man and I were left alone for a second and the man said to me, “Stop over anytime! You know, I always wanted a Black friend!” I always wanted a Black friend? The way he said it was like I was a Basset hound or something! Maybe he was a reformed racist or maybe the old man didn’t know any better! Joining back up with my neighbor and beginning to drink his homemade wine, I begin to worry of the whereabouts of my son. He finally appears holding the hand of my neighbor’s wife. My son runs toward me and reaches for my cup full of homemade wine. My neighbor looks at him, laughs and says, “None for you "Buckwheat!” “Buckwheat?” Did this mother-fucker just call my first born son, “Buckwheat?” Again, I remained calm, not saying a word, and from that point on I couldn’t hear a word that the neighbor was saying. This is the man that he and his wife recently brought vegetables and fruits from their garden to my family and me. Was this person a racist? Why would this man invite me over to drink homemade wine to reveal his racist tendencies? Or was he too, just simply secluded in his circle of friends that he just didn’t know that no one calls a Black person “Buckwheat,” anymore! No one other than a confederate flying flag, racist! I told a couple of my Black friends about this “Buckwheat,” incident, they all replied basically the same, “Man they would have still been picking him up off the floor!” A few weeks later my neighbor again asked me over to show me his new big screened television. I reluctantly went over to see it. To my surprise, one of my favorite childhood televisions was playing on the television, none other than, “The Little Rascals!” My neighbor exclaimed that he loves the show and has all the DVDs. Now, he probably in his drunken state just called my son “Buckwheat,” out of neighborly love. Now, I could have lost it when he said what he said and I would be in jail now, all for a misunderstanding! Black people are sensitive people, despite us enduring many tough situations that you would have thought thickened our skin. Many things, we will let slide, but some brothers, just don’t play that! Many people are drawn to the opportunity to socialize with different ethnic groups for it widens their perspective on things. But all partakers have to realize that each ethnic group has its own set of rules, their own set of games. White people for most part, play “Yee-Ha games!” Many drink hard and play hard with roughhouse type games! They hit each other in the nuts and kick each other in the ass, just playing of course! But you can’t play like that with a “down the way" brother! You hit him in his nuts and kick him in his ass and you might end up in a body cast, being fed through a straw! I don’t care how many drinks you’ve bought him! Most White people are living or at least want you to think that they are living blissful lives. Many of them don’t have “Black problems!” The “American Legacy Healthcare Advantage,” magazine states, “African Americans suffer higher rates of serious mental illness, such as depression, than do Whites. This difference is not due to any inherent mental defect in Blacks, but rather to socioeconomic and cultural issues.” Hence, “Black problems!” The huge credit card debt, the car that cost more than their home, Whites rarely overextend themselves. We Blacks drive to work fast because we are always right on time, or five minutes late! This is phrased as "Colored People Time!" And many of us apply those standards in everything that we do! Now I may be going off old stereotypes, but I always felt that there is always some truth to stereotypes. White people have their problems too, but again their not “Black problems!” All ethnic groups have their problems accompanied by years and years of engraved issues that they are dealing with. Because during these tribulations, kindness and sometimes caution, is necessary to avoid saying, “I didn’t mean it like that!”
Included are the following expressions: "I Want to be White," "Tomato In the Face," "A Pained Adolescent Heart," "Mismatched Socks," "Little Precious," "I'm not your Brother," "I Didn't Mean it Like That: Political Correctness" and "To Abstain."
It all began after dating a nymphomaniac, I was turned out at a young age. After that relationship, I followed in my sexual teacher's footsteps. I played the anytime, anyplace game for a couple of years. I became more out of touch with myself, not only physically, but spiritually. The sex really got out of hand. I could not control it, or my mind, so I sought spiritual help, so to speak. The bible says not to fornicate; I did not know what that word meant. I never heard of it before. The definition said the following: fornication - to refrain from sex until marriage. I wanted to do what is right. I do believe in God and do love him, but no sex before marriage? That is like telling a three pack a day smoker to quit smoking tonight until further notice! I began fasting two to three days out of the month, thinking if I can abstain from food a little--which is natural and I am a big eater--it will build my will power to abstain from sex, which is natural too. The first year was hard, let me rephrase that, it was extremely difficult. There were times I felt my head was going to explode, not only from sexual frustration, but also from mental frustration. We all know after having an orgasm, you feel so mentally relaxed. I had no mental outlet. I also gave up "getting high" which was a major outlet for me. I was not a "junkie," but I did escape from the world every now and then. Sometimes I thought to myself, "Is religion the only reason you stopped having sex?" The truth is, maybe seventy percent of it was for spiritual reasons, the rest of it was that I worshipped sex, and I had lost respect for women. I looked at them as nothing other than a sexual outlet. Realizing this I lost respect for myself. Besides, the whole "orgasm thing" rubbed me the wrong way--that I'll always get mine, they may not get theirs. I sometimes didn't care anyway and that warped my self-esteem. Sometimes I felt like doing the whole nine yards with foreplay, and sometimes I just wanted to get my "rocks off"--no kissing, no nothing, just sex, but "No!" To satisfy them, you have to peck the neck, caress the breast, swirl the pearl, I mean "gee whiz!" we only have fifteen minutes before your parents get home. When you refrain from sex, you have to refrain from everything--sexual jokes, conversation, and all that hanging around "the boys," stuff has to cease, for all men talk about sex at least twenty-two hours of the day. Also, no pornography, I know a guy who just laid a book out for me to see it. I glanced at it for a third of a second and turned away. But due to my photographic memory, I came up with this saying, "When it comes to refraining from something, what you glance at for one second could very well be engraved in your mind forever." I have living proof of this and this is something that I inserted in my book at the last minute. Anyway, I had this girlfriend and we were very, very active sexually. When I told her that I wanted to stop having sex, she laughed. Then after I told her my reasons why, she not only stopped laughing, but also said that she would stop too and that we would help one another along the way. Her intentions were good…to bad that they only lasted for about a month, and then she began testing my will power daily. Though she may have shaken me vigorously, I did not fall off of the “no sex,” horse! One night though, I lost it, not literally but mentally. She had a sister not much younger than her, she and I were cool. She would always come and talk with my “reluctantly celibate,” girlfriend and I. This night I noticed while she was sitting there that her erect nipples were pointing threw her thin undershirt. It was evident that she was not wearing a bra. I thought nothing of it as I have seen her like this before. After talking to us, the perky vixen walked to her mother’s bedroom, who was not at home at the time to watch television, this was not out of the norm. My girlfriend and I were discussing the bible, which we often did, but she rarely listened. I needed to take a piss break, so I commenced toward the bathroom that is near her mother’s room. I always play with my girlfriends sisters, I was like their big brother, so en route to the loo, I stopped in my girlfriend’s, mothers bedroom where her sister was, who I thought was watching television. Turns out she was not watching television, but the television was watching her, she had fallen fast asleep. I walked closer to wake her up from under the covers and she turned over still sleep and exposed her voluptuous, perfect, nude, breast. When I say voluptuous, I mean voluptuous, when I say perfect, I mean perfect, and when I say nude, I mean nude! I began to drool profusely and my eyes fell out of their sockets. I walked out of the room immediately, but it seemed like I was moving in slow motion. After all I had not seen a pair of breast in months, which really felt like years. While in the bathroom, I prayed to God to cleanse my mind and my thoughts as I pissed toward the ceiling. Out of breath, I rejoined my girlfriend and we continued in our conversation, but this time I was not listening. All of my hard work, all the progress that I had made, within an instant I was back to square one. The images of those breasts were and are to this very day engraved in my brain. So again, my saying is true, "When it comes to refraining from something, what you glance at for one second could very well be engraved in your mind forever."