Tuesday. 3.2.10 12:51 am
“Dad, I want to introduce you to someone,” Cyra says to her father upon our arrival. The two of us, having met nearly four years ago in some random class when I was a freshman and she was a senior, have had an ongoing lunch date ever since I returned to San Antonio from D.C. Our affinity for one another has blossomed through these weekly meetings, leading to multiple (half)-joking discussions of marriage and spending a life together watching anime, playing video games and making peanut-butter and chocolate hued babies (my words, of course. I told her we could make beautiful reeses pieces together.)
“This is Jonathan,” she says to her father while beaming. Placing her hand in mine, she raises our intertwining fingers to reveal a ring on her second-to-last digit. "He proposed!" she says with a grin. "We’re getting married!”
Her dad, an Iranian who was a part of the mass exodus of Persian descendants after the 1979 revolution, glared at me as I stood there, mouth agape and eyes searching the room for any weapon he could hurl at me.. “He’s going to Harvard next year,” and with that, her dad's expression softened a bit before she fessed that she was only joking.
It’s like my get out of jail free card.
More on this story later.
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Tuesday. 2.23.10 2:10 am
Wednesday. 12.2.09 1:01 am
Thursday. 9.3.09 11:32 am
"Where does it stem from anyway? The bitterness, I mean."
As our trek continued from the Capitol building to home, I purposefullyslowed my pace and turned my head toward her.
"Do you know what it feels like to be feared solely based on the color of your skin? What it's like to be walking down a street and watch fuckers fervently cross to the other side just so that they don't have to walk beside you out of fear of what you'll do to them?"
As the words erupted from between my lips, my mind's eye returned to certain instances in my life when these events occurred and the feelings that came with them. They evoked, and still does to this day evoke, a perverse response from within. It's scathingly offensive in that it makes me feel as though those with faces remarkably more pale than my own view me as a feral animal who is not just capable, but likely, to strike at them once they're within my reach.
Without raising her head or turning to face me, Samia liftedherleft hand from her side and brushed back an ebon strand out from over her eyebrow and back underneath her hijab. "Yes. I do."
Those three worlds shook and reset the etch-a-sketch world view I believed to be absolute in that they provided me an insight into a paradigm outside of my own. No longer do I feel the perils I go through as an African American man are exclusive to those who generally look like me. With that revelation, a lot of the bitterness I felt began to temper, if not altogether subside.
Part two soon.
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Random thoughts: Part ???
Wednesday. 7.29.09 10:40 pm
Monday. 7.27.09 11:09 pm
“I see you, Jon, I see you,” Rob chimes in with a grin. “You’re spitting more game than John Madden right now,” and with that he inches forward on the coach that sat across from my seat and reached out to me fist first for a fist bump. I obliged.
Moments earlier I was engaged in what now seems to me had been a daily practice: hitting on Samia. “You and I would be great, Samia,” I told her moments before. “I’ll be the chocolate to your peanut butter and we could do the Reese’s thing no doubt.” Although her mouth turned at the corner with a smirk, she still rolled her eyes as Rob cheered me on. The three of us were sitting in the living room of at around 2 AM on Sunday morning.
“Seeing me” was something Robert did well. My first impression of him, and just about all of the other people in the program, was positive. As the only other African American in the program, the two of us often engaged in discussions about race and ethnicity and our place in the world. Rob is a man I admire a lot for reasons soon to be dilvulged in this hear blog. Most of our conversations about race included Samia, and most of those ended up with me hitting on her.
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