You can cry all you want, until you're facing things
You can write a lovely song that no one will ever sing
You won't change a thing.
You can glad-hand or worse, grin to cast your spell
You can quote chapter and verse, and still be wrong as hell
You won't change a thing.
Catch me if you can, I'm falling like a star into your sky
You won't change a thing.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Obsoletely.
If I have any southern pride, it's very little, and deep into my subconscious. I hope it stays there. I love my heritage. I love my family. I love my home. But I'm not more "proud" to be from the south than ... not.
Being "nice" means absolutely nothing to me. When I looked up "nice" in the dictionary, I get words like "obsolete, wanton, dissolute, coy, reticent, finicy, delicacy, trivial, agreeable, socially acceptable, respectable, polite."
Not all that appealing, to me. "obsolete", "agreeable", "appropriate". In other words, "Adjustable to other people's fickle desires". I have no intention of ever again, being nice.
However.
I have to subscribe to the belief that there is intrinsic value in being a "kind" person. The difference is this. Being "nice" is meaningless. Being "kind" is being generous. Being "nice" is smiling and nodding in a conversation. Being "kind" is having empathy for someone while you're talking and engaging them to inspire confidence and trust. Being "nice" is socially acceptable. Being "kind" will get you into a lot of trouble.
You read that right.
I don't think it's because I'm from "the south". I think it MIGHT have something to do with growing up in church (though I must admit that most people in that world are anything but kind. Nice, maybe. But not kind.) But I have to learn to draw the line. Being kind is exhausting. It's involved. It's hard. It's not worth it to be kind to everyone. It's a great thought to try, but I'm learning that it's really not worth it. So here's what I propose...
Screw it. Be Kind. Just be a generous, kind, trusting person. You absolutely will piss people off. You will get hurt. You will want to stop being kind. Don't. There is no alternative to being hurt. You will be. There is no means of making everyone happy (which is what being Nice is for). When it's all said and done, there is only you. And you have to live with yourself. You have to justify to only yourself your actions. Your motives are clear as crystal to you. Your excuses are shot down when you give them to yourself.
Don't be fake.
Screw being nice.
If you can, with any energy you have, give. Be kind. It won't pay off, but that's not why you're doing it.
Being "nice" means absolutely nothing to me. When I looked up "nice" in the dictionary, I get words like "obsolete, wanton, dissolute, coy, reticent, finicy, delicacy, trivial, agreeable, socially acceptable, respectable, polite."
Not all that appealing, to me. "obsolete", "agreeable", "appropriate". In other words, "Adjustable to other people's fickle desires". I have no intention of ever again, being nice.
However.
I have to subscribe to the belief that there is intrinsic value in being a "kind" person. The difference is this. Being "nice" is meaningless. Being "kind" is being generous. Being "nice" is smiling and nodding in a conversation. Being "kind" is having empathy for someone while you're talking and engaging them to inspire confidence and trust. Being "nice" is socially acceptable. Being "kind" will get you into a lot of trouble.
You read that right.
I don't think it's because I'm from "the south". I think it MIGHT have something to do with growing up in church (though I must admit that most people in that world are anything but kind. Nice, maybe. But not kind.) But I have to learn to draw the line. Being kind is exhausting. It's involved. It's hard. It's not worth it to be kind to everyone. It's a great thought to try, but I'm learning that it's really not worth it. So here's what I propose...
Screw it. Be Kind. Just be a generous, kind, trusting person. You absolutely will piss people off. You will get hurt. You will want to stop being kind. Don't. There is no alternative to being hurt. You will be. There is no means of making everyone happy (which is what being Nice is for). When it's all said and done, there is only you. And you have to live with yourself. You have to justify to only yourself your actions. Your motives are clear as crystal to you. Your excuses are shot down when you give them to yourself.
Don't be fake.
Screw being nice.
If you can, with any energy you have, give. Be kind. It won't pay off, but that's not why you're doing it.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
Giant steps.
He doesn't know it, but he's not so big. He tries to be. Big, I mean. He tries.
To be big. To be strong. To be unbreakable. He's not unbreakable. He's not even that big.
All my life, he's tried to be big. He's tried to get bigger, stronger, tougher, scarier, more fearless. He got there.
Now, he is so afraid of not being what he's worked so hard to be... that he's not. He's afraid, and that makes him small. He's concerned, and that makes him nervous. His nerves make him vulnerable. He's far too afraid to be vulnerable.
That side of him just isn't there yet. The side of him that takes the hit when no one cares how big he is. The side of him that breaks when he feels like he can't get any bigger. The side that wakes in a cold sweat after the dream about being small. That side of him is weak. Frail. Afraid.
There is a mouse in this Giant. There is a boy wearing the crown in that kingdom. There is a traitor in his army of one.
It's him. He's so obviously afraid of only himself. And of how small only he really knows he is. Still he tries. But I know, too.
There is a part of me that sees him as me. There is a part of me that wants him to be stronger. To be unbreakable. To arrive at the invisible place he's been going to forever. To be big. Part of me wants to be big like him. But the other part knows better. The other part knows that I can be. And that scares us both.
It scares him to think that he can work his whole life to become something that I could be in a year, if I wanted to. And I'm not that big. I'm just... not him.
The other part, though. The other part of me knows that if I did, I'd be just as scared as him. The other part of me knows that if I was ever as strong, as fearless, as unbreakable as him, that we'd both crumble.
I'd lose knowing that there's always someone out there bigger than me. He'd lose everything. He'd suddenly be small. Not to anyone else. Just me.
The one who needs him.
To Be.
Big.
To be big. To be strong. To be unbreakable. He's not unbreakable. He's not even that big.
All my life, he's tried to be big. He's tried to get bigger, stronger, tougher, scarier, more fearless. He got there.
Now, he is so afraid of not being what he's worked so hard to be... that he's not. He's afraid, and that makes him small. He's concerned, and that makes him nervous. His nerves make him vulnerable. He's far too afraid to be vulnerable.
That side of him just isn't there yet. The side of him that takes the hit when no one cares how big he is. The side of him that breaks when he feels like he can't get any bigger. The side that wakes in a cold sweat after the dream about being small. That side of him is weak. Frail. Afraid.
There is a mouse in this Giant. There is a boy wearing the crown in that kingdom. There is a traitor in his army of one.
It's him. He's so obviously afraid of only himself. And of how small only he really knows he is. Still he tries. But I know, too.
There is a part of me that sees him as me. There is a part of me that wants him to be stronger. To be unbreakable. To arrive at the invisible place he's been going to forever. To be big. Part of me wants to be big like him. But the other part knows better. The other part knows that I can be. And that scares us both.
It scares him to think that he can work his whole life to become something that I could be in a year, if I wanted to. And I'm not that big. I'm just... not him.
The other part, though. The other part of me knows that if I did, I'd be just as scared as him. The other part of me knows that if I was ever as strong, as fearless, as unbreakable as him, that we'd both crumble.
I'd lose knowing that there's always someone out there bigger than me. He'd lose everything. He'd suddenly be small. Not to anyone else. Just me.
The one who needs him.
To Be.
Big.
Spin.
She walks the way a spider spins it's web.
Each step spits her foot in front of her.
It lands, and grips down.
Her body leans back in rebellion against the momentum.
The muscles of her thigh contract and whip the rest of her into place, and she spits again.
I have to wonder, "Does she drink poison like the rest of them?
Does she know what she wants?
Does she sing loudly with the radio to a hairbrush wearing her curtains like a veil?
Does she cry when she's lonely?
Does she ever let herself get lonely?
Does she suck the nectar from her day like she's diseased, and laughter is the antidote?
Does she dress to look like that?
Or does she just look like that?
Does she want to be seen?
Does she want to say hello?
Does she want me to do that for her?"
Hi.
She walks the way a spider spins it's web.
Each step spits her foot in front of her.
It lands, and grips down.
Her body leans back in rebellion against the momentum.
The muscles of her thigh contract and whip the rest of her into place, and she spits again.
I have to wonder, "Does she drink poison like the rest of them?
Does she know what she wants?
Does she sing loudly with the radio to a hairbrush wearing her curtains like a veil?
Does she cry when she's lonely?
Does she ever let herself get lonely?
Does she suck the nectar from her day like she's diseased, and laughter is the antidote?
Does she dress to look like that?
Or does she just look like that?
Does she want to be seen?
Does she want to say hello?
Does she want me to do that for her?"
Hi.
She walks the way a spider spins it's web.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Talk to strangers.
When I decided to move to New York, I started telling friends about how much I loved this city, and how desperate I was to be there. I had experienced the city only on vacation, for one week, during perfect weather, with money to spend.
Everyone who had lived there, or lived there now, told me all the things that I should expect. They told me to expect to pay more for everything. Then I got here and there were Wendy's, Taco Bell's, and Pizza Huts all over Manhattan. So... pay more if you plan to live like a New Yorker. (this is obviously excluding rent... I'll get to that)
I was told to expect to walk everywhere. What I wasn't told was that by doing so, my total number of used shoes per year would go up by about 5000%.
I was told to expect New Yorkers to be rude by everyone who HADN'T lived here. I was told the opposite by everyone who had. What I wasn't told is that "being rude" has completely different definitions for those two types of people. For people who live here, there are so many people, every day, asking you to stop walking where you're going, just essentially to waste as much of your time as possible. Selling you a cd of absolutely horrible hip-hop. Talking to you about donating to the "help this gay guy get an apartment in the lower west side" fund. Taking a survey to ask how you feel about the Wakashu tribe in Burkina Faso and their plite. The thing is, I don't have time to stop. Honestly. Because...
I was NOT told to expect for EVERYTHING to take longer to do here. If you want to go to the grocery store and buy bread, you're going to stand in line. Not wait behind a few people at the register. I'm talking about Cold War Russia stand in line. I mean, you stand in line for everything. They didn't tell me that. They didn't tell me.
You.
Will.
Wait.
In Line.
For.
Ever.
y.
Thing.
Sometimes, the lines move pretty quickly, because the stores here are used to handling long lines all day. So there are employees at "Trader Joes" (the major grocery in my neighborhood) or "Whole Foods" who simply stand at the start of the lines (about 10-15 lines form at a time - each a few dozen people deep... all day) and just direct traffic. "Sir, you can head to register 27, it's the 4 one past the 2nd pole on your left." "Ma'am, go to register 13. It's the closest to the 2nd exit door on from the right."
I was told lots of things about the city that weren't lies. Weren't really misleading, even. It's just that you really have to be here to experience it to understand. You see, if you expect to stand in line for absolutely everything, you plan for it. You never go to the store just for bread. You go with a list. You make it quick. You go with a friend, who gets in line for you as soon as you get there, and you shop quickly so you're done by the time they get to the front. You also never go with a large list, 'cause you're gonna have to carry all of it home when you're done. 4 bags, no matter how full, is pretty much the max. I am very fortunate to live near Union Square (where both of the aforementioned grocery stores are), and I still have a 15 minute walk one-way. Carrying a bag of dog food on one shoulder, and 4 bags of groceries in one hand gets old after a block. I walk about 12. About 2wice a week.
Then we get to the prices of things. Let's break this down. When I moved here, I was coming from a place where I spent about 35% of my monthly income on "home" (rent, utilities, cable, etc...), and another 45% or so on everything else (phone, car, insurance, food, etc...) and then I'd use pretty much all the rest on "gear" (new computer, guitar, paying for recording costs, etc...).
In the city, if you want to live in Manhattan, you're not going to need a car. So after all the expences add up, you get back about 20% or more that you don't have to spend now. Then, you just spend the rest on rent, right?
Sure. Except. You also need to have, on average, about 5 - 8 months rent ready. In cash. To get an apartment. You will NOT find a place for less than $1500 a month to live by yourself. Don't even look. You're going to move to Harlem, the Bronx, or MAYBE you'll find something in Brooklyn for that (again, if you're living alone). Not only that, but you need, on average, to prove an annual salary of about 40-60 times your monthly rent. That means if your rent is $1500 a month, you have to not only have about $10k to put down on an apartment, but then you need to prove that you make about $60k a year. Now, you'll make more money in New York, if you have the skill set to get a job here. However, if you don't move here with cash (which, I didn't), and your job doesn't pay for relocation (which, mine didn't), then you need what every New Yorker seems to have or have needed at some point... a couch buddy. You need a friend who will let you stay on their couch, use their shampoo, move their leftovers around in the fridge to make room for yours, tolerate your schedule, etc... for usually half the rent. (This, thankfully, I had - Matthew saved my life).
Now you're here. You've got a job, a place to stay, money coming in (and going out), and a plan (save, work, save, work, save, and save). I'm set.
Then I settled in. What No One told me about moving to New York are the subtle, psychological things that go along with it. The things that happen completely internally. The things that effect your mind. I was prepared for crowds of people being everywhere. I was prepared for loud traffic and constant distractions. I was prepared to see celebrities that eat at the same diners, and go to the same bookstores. But I wasn't prepared for the conflict.
What no one told me about New York was something that I really should have just figured out. That is: No matter what it is you want, you can find it here. Want sports? Everywhere you go, people are ready and willing to talk about the Knicks, the Yankees, the Giants, etc... Want religion? There are churches, cathedrals, mosks, synagogues, and temples everywhere. Want Entertainment? The best music, movies, art, and culture in the world finds it's way here.
What I really couldn't have gotten myself prepared for is the second part of that statement. The obvious opposite implication. That is: No matter what it is you are afraid of, you will be confronted with it here.
Afraid of conflict? People will tell you what they think, 'cause they don't have time for pleasantries when they're upset. They have somewhere to be, and they will tell you off in time to make their meeting.
Homophobic, Racist, aloof? There are flamboyant drag queens, strange "what is that?" couples, and (my personal favorite to see) Glamorous Gay Gangsters (think soft pastel colors of sports jersey's tied in knots at the stomach, drenched in Bling and Gold, talking ghetto with a lisp). There are truly intimidating thugs, built like GI Joe's, and constantly talking trash about violence to whomever is nearby. There are homeless people who will call you out and threaten you if you ignore them (but most of them are grateful if you treat them like a human). There is every cartoon-like character of every stereotype you can imagine.
Finally, there is the silence. What no one told me, and what I could not have possibly prepared myself for, is the simple majority of your day that you, out of basic courtesy for people around you (and they are ALWAYS around), are quiet. I work in an office where I share an open room with about 40 people. Not cubicles, just desks with the occasional dividing wall. I live with a roommate in a 13x15 ft apartment with a half kitchen, one bed, a futon, and a dog pin. You're never alone on the subway. You're never alone on the street. I find myself speaking about 1/2 as many words each day just because I'm simply trying "not to be loud". When I take a phone call at home, if my roommate's there, I go out into the stairwell so I can talk without disturbing him, 'cause there's no where else to go.
And somehow despite the constant crowds and the long lines, there is an unmistakable loneliness that hits you when you finally settle in. And that's where it breaks.
That's where you start becoming a "New Yorker", I think. When you learn to break through the silence with overt pleasantness and kindness and just ... talk to strangers. Standing in line at the grocery is the perfect time to talk to someone. It doesn't matter any more that they'll probably never see you again. You can see them now. So you talk to them. You talk about the weather. Because they're a human being, and if they've been here for more than a week or two, they feel the same way as you. They want contact. I want contact. I pine for community. I can't wait for Sunday so that I can make it to church and just connect with other human beings that I can count on to be there. I can't wait to go out so I can communicate with people, anyone.
I'm still in love with this city. But I feel the honeymoon ending, and I'm glad for it. I want to love it when the flame of being in love has burned out. I want to live here when I would rather be elsewhere. I want New York to keep me when I want to leave. But to get there, I've got to learn to perfect the art of talking to strangers.
Your friend and mine,
Meshach
Everyone who had lived there, or lived there now, told me all the things that I should expect. They told me to expect to pay more for everything. Then I got here and there were Wendy's, Taco Bell's, and Pizza Huts all over Manhattan. So... pay more if you plan to live like a New Yorker. (this is obviously excluding rent... I'll get to that)
I was told to expect to walk everywhere. What I wasn't told was that by doing so, my total number of used shoes per year would go up by about 5000%.
I was told to expect New Yorkers to be rude by everyone who HADN'T lived here. I was told the opposite by everyone who had. What I wasn't told is that "being rude" has completely different definitions for those two types of people. For people who live here, there are so many people, every day, asking you to stop walking where you're going, just essentially to waste as much of your time as possible. Selling you a cd of absolutely horrible hip-hop. Talking to you about donating to the "help this gay guy get an apartment in the lower west side" fund. Taking a survey to ask how you feel about the Wakashu tribe in Burkina Faso and their plite. The thing is, I don't have time to stop. Honestly. Because...
I was NOT told to expect for EVERYTHING to take longer to do here. If you want to go to the grocery store and buy bread, you're going to stand in line. Not wait behind a few people at the register. I'm talking about Cold War Russia stand in line. I mean, you stand in line for everything. They didn't tell me that. They didn't tell me.
You.
Will.
Wait.
In Line.
For.
Ever.
y.
Thing.
Sometimes, the lines move pretty quickly, because the stores here are used to handling long lines all day. So there are employees at "Trader Joes" (the major grocery in my neighborhood) or "Whole Foods" who simply stand at the start of the lines (about 10-15 lines form at a time - each a few dozen people deep... all day) and just direct traffic. "Sir, you can head to register 27, it's the 4 one past the 2nd pole on your left." "Ma'am, go to register 13. It's the closest to the 2nd exit door on from the right."
I was told lots of things about the city that weren't lies. Weren't really misleading, even. It's just that you really have to be here to experience it to understand. You see, if you expect to stand in line for absolutely everything, you plan for it. You never go to the store just for bread. You go with a list. You make it quick. You go with a friend, who gets in line for you as soon as you get there, and you shop quickly so you're done by the time they get to the front. You also never go with a large list, 'cause you're gonna have to carry all of it home when you're done. 4 bags, no matter how full, is pretty much the max. I am very fortunate to live near Union Square (where both of the aforementioned grocery stores are), and I still have a 15 minute walk one-way. Carrying a bag of dog food on one shoulder, and 4 bags of groceries in one hand gets old after a block. I walk about 12. About 2wice a week.
Then we get to the prices of things. Let's break this down. When I moved here, I was coming from a place where I spent about 35% of my monthly income on "home" (rent, utilities, cable, etc...), and another 45% or so on everything else (phone, car, insurance, food, etc...) and then I'd use pretty much all the rest on "gear" (new computer, guitar, paying for recording costs, etc...).
In the city, if you want to live in Manhattan, you're not going to need a car. So after all the expences add up, you get back about 20% or more that you don't have to spend now. Then, you just spend the rest on rent, right?
Sure. Except. You also need to have, on average, about 5 - 8 months rent ready. In cash. To get an apartment. You will NOT find a place for less than $1500 a month to live by yourself. Don't even look. You're going to move to Harlem, the Bronx, or MAYBE you'll find something in Brooklyn for that (again, if you're living alone). Not only that, but you need, on average, to prove an annual salary of about 40-60 times your monthly rent. That means if your rent is $1500 a month, you have to not only have about $10k to put down on an apartment, but then you need to prove that you make about $60k a year. Now, you'll make more money in New York, if you have the skill set to get a job here. However, if you don't move here with cash (which, I didn't), and your job doesn't pay for relocation (which, mine didn't), then you need what every New Yorker seems to have or have needed at some point... a couch buddy. You need a friend who will let you stay on their couch, use their shampoo, move their leftovers around in the fridge to make room for yours, tolerate your schedule, etc... for usually half the rent. (This, thankfully, I had - Matthew saved my life).
Now you're here. You've got a job, a place to stay, money coming in (and going out), and a plan (save, work, save, work, save, and save). I'm set.
Then I settled in. What No One told me about moving to New York are the subtle, psychological things that go along with it. The things that happen completely internally. The things that effect your mind. I was prepared for crowds of people being everywhere. I was prepared for loud traffic and constant distractions. I was prepared to see celebrities that eat at the same diners, and go to the same bookstores. But I wasn't prepared for the conflict.
What no one told me about New York was something that I really should have just figured out. That is: No matter what it is you want, you can find it here. Want sports? Everywhere you go, people are ready and willing to talk about the Knicks, the Yankees, the Giants, etc... Want religion? There are churches, cathedrals, mosks, synagogues, and temples everywhere. Want Entertainment? The best music, movies, art, and culture in the world finds it's way here.
What I really couldn't have gotten myself prepared for is the second part of that statement. The obvious opposite implication. That is: No matter what it is you are afraid of, you will be confronted with it here.
Afraid of conflict? People will tell you what they think, 'cause they don't have time for pleasantries when they're upset. They have somewhere to be, and they will tell you off in time to make their meeting.
Homophobic, Racist, aloof? There are flamboyant drag queens, strange "what is that?" couples, and (my personal favorite to see) Glamorous Gay Gangsters (think soft pastel colors of sports jersey's tied in knots at the stomach, drenched in Bling and Gold, talking ghetto with a lisp). There are truly intimidating thugs, built like GI Joe's, and constantly talking trash about violence to whomever is nearby. There are homeless people who will call you out and threaten you if you ignore them (but most of them are grateful if you treat them like a human). There is every cartoon-like character of every stereotype you can imagine.
Finally, there is the silence. What no one told me, and what I could not have possibly prepared myself for, is the simple majority of your day that you, out of basic courtesy for people around you (and they are ALWAYS around), are quiet. I work in an office where I share an open room with about 40 people. Not cubicles, just desks with the occasional dividing wall. I live with a roommate in a 13x15 ft apartment with a half kitchen, one bed, a futon, and a dog pin. You're never alone on the subway. You're never alone on the street. I find myself speaking about 1/2 as many words each day just because I'm simply trying "not to be loud". When I take a phone call at home, if my roommate's there, I go out into the stairwell so I can talk without disturbing him, 'cause there's no where else to go.
And somehow despite the constant crowds and the long lines, there is an unmistakable loneliness that hits you when you finally settle in. And that's where it breaks.
That's where you start becoming a "New Yorker", I think. When you learn to break through the silence with overt pleasantness and kindness and just ... talk to strangers. Standing in line at the grocery is the perfect time to talk to someone. It doesn't matter any more that they'll probably never see you again. You can see them now. So you talk to them. You talk about the weather. Because they're a human being, and if they've been here for more than a week or two, they feel the same way as you. They want contact. I want contact. I pine for community. I can't wait for Sunday so that I can make it to church and just connect with other human beings that I can count on to be there. I can't wait to go out so I can communicate with people, anyone.
I'm still in love with this city. But I feel the honeymoon ending, and I'm glad for it. I want to love it when the flame of being in love has burned out. I want to live here when I would rather be elsewhere. I want New York to keep me when I want to leave. But to get there, I've got to learn to perfect the art of talking to strangers.
Your friend and mine,
Meshach
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