TEN/SJS and Me

I was six when I had my first case of Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis/Stevens-Johnson Syndrome.

That’s quite a mouthful and I’m doubtful you’ll remember it or stick around long enough for me to explain it if I type it all out, so let’s just call it TEN/SJS, and say it was a whole lot of pain.

To start with, I don’t mean to bitch but to educate so you avoid my fate.

I’d just started first grade at an elementary school in Detroit that will remain nameless,

But is far from blameless.

My class went to the library for the time and this was the scene of the Crime,

Where my tale begins.

A kid next to me kicked me under our table, and I kicked him back,

And that’s when the librarian snapped and kicked my ass;

He bashed my head into one of the shelves and then made me stand up for the rest of the period.

The force of the blow caused me to black it out, but luckily—or not;

You be he judge.

During the police investigation, we learned this wasn’t his first act of aggression.

A neighbor girl saw what he’d done to me.

I’m happy to confess they removed him from the profession.

The week after the assault, I began having seizures and this bought my childhood life of leisure to an end.

After an EEG, they diagnosed me with epilepsy, and further tests revealed a cystic mass where my head had been bashed.

The week before I was scheduled for brain surgery, I got strep throat;

They put me on penicillin, despite a family history of allergies to it.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “He’ll be fine.”

I don’t mean to whine, but I wasn’t, am not, and still have an axe to grind.

I developed flu-like symptoms, a red, blotchy rash;

And soon my life was hanging by a thread.

Week after week, my parents took me to the doctors;

I grew weaker and weaker,

My fever soaring higher and higher.

Finally, when I hit 103,

my parents took me to Children’s Hospital.

By then I was whisper-thin,

Mouth covered in fever blisters.

They diagnosed me with SJS/TEN on the spot,

Packed me with ice,

And my heart stopped.

Forget what you’ve read about near death experiences;

There were no pearly gates or tunnel of light.

Instead, there was just me floating in a sea of darkness,

Empty all around like a tomb or the womb.

No sound until they shocked me,

Each time only regaining sight long enough to stare up into the bright lights of the triage room.

I’ll spare you the rigmarole of the blow-by-blow.

What I want you to know is this:

SJS/TEN is no joke.

I’ve been poked and prodded more times anyone ought to,

And my parents nearly went broke keeping me alive.

I lost over eighty percent of my skin,

Lay comatose for six months,

And then had to learn how to walk and talk again.

There’s more to my tale,

But I won’t bore you with descriptions of the hell

I’ve lived through.

Just know:

Penicillin allergies aren’t anything to fuck with.

Play with Words

Much has been said about what writers should feed their head—

Mostly authors who are dead—

If they want to make that bread.

Instead, write what you like

And tell the critics to take a hike.

Don’t write to trends because they’ll end before you even begin;

Don’t groan.

Set ones of your own.

Even if it never pays,

Write anyway.

Pay no heed to those who say you need to do x, y, and z to be a “real” writer.

Why be a follower when you can lead?

Whether an all-nighter or nail-biter,

Write in whatever fashion fills you with passion

And keeps your fingers mashing.

Whether absurd or a little disturbed,

Fuck what you heard and play with words.

I did not stutter or mean to make you shudder

With that curse in my last verse.

But it was a gut check for what comes next.

Be ye a devotee of Bradbury, Lovecraft, Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald,

Tolkien;

Or a fan of Rowling or King,

Play with your words until they sing,

Until they shine like the One Ring.

Make love to your prose

Until the juices flow

 And curls your toes.

Hear what I say,

You needn’t write every day.

But when you do:

Make sure you slay.

Give it all your heart and finish what you start.

Know the world needs your words,

No matter what anyone may say to the contrary.

When words have you flummoxed as though you’re locked in a box with a bunch of crocs,

Or you feel as though you’re tall as a mouse and there’s a pox on your house,

Know your quandary is very ordinary.

Persistence is the word;

Quitting’s for the birds.

Fuck what you heard

And play with words.

BLM

Black lives matter.

That this must be said, as white cops continue to beat and batter brown and Black bodies, piling up the dead of the latter, makes my heart shatter.

And that’s why I’ll always say:

Black lives matter.

You can go screw with your, “All lives matter.” palaver. 

Until unarmed whites suffer the same plights and are killed at the same disproportionate numbers;

Until the media uses said dead as fodder for their reports, combing through their existence for any retort as to how this homicide was justified; because, despite the cops’ insistence that they feared for their lives, it’s plain as day that they lied,

Until the deaths of your brethren are used to divide and force us to pick a side between cops and criminals, a false dichotomy,

Until your race is constantly demonized and assumed the enemy,

Until you instinctively freeze when you see a police car, wondering if your name will be added to the list of the slain,

Until people have become numb to your pain and hand down yet another acquittal, then don’t be so little and belittle us with this insane refrain.

It’s beyond lame and takes the focus off who’s to blame.

As long as cops continue looking at us askew because of our hue, this will continue to be an issue.

As long as they keep playing god, slaying anyone Black or brown who even looks at them odd, then I will continue saying:

Black lives matter!

Phoenix

To all those contemplating suicide,

In this darkest of nights, know the world needs your lights.

I beg you, resist.

Too much blood has been shed from the wrists of those who did not Persist.

When all seems lost again, remember within you is the ember of a Hero: a phoenix waiting to be born anew.

Your head may be bloodied, but it is unbowed.

You are endowed with a warrior spirit.

Pound for pound you’re the toughest around.

What’s that sound?

Can you hear it?

It’s all the things you’ve left unsaid, the voice at the back of your Head telling you to get off the ground.

You aren’t dead yet.

You’re a phoenix, a titan, so keep fighting.

Though you feel like you’re in hell, and that nothing will quell the Storm in you, don’t do anything rash.

This feeling won’t last.

As Tolkien said:

“This too shall pass.”

Know this is not the end.

Your story is unwritten.

You hold the pen and can start writing again.

Though the world will continue hitting you with its lies and Negativity, depleting you physically, mentally, and spiritually; and Every day it feels like part of you dies, realize:

You are a phoenix.

Now rise.

An Ode to Melanin

Before I begin, listen to what I’m spitin’ before ya come at me with Who ya think I’m dissin’.

If you’re white, some of y’all are all right, but for the rest, hold on Tight.

When I was younger, I had a thing for Anglo boys. Redhead, Blonde, brunette, they all got my dick wet.

Yet, I never felt secure in my own skin when I looked at my Reflection, even though I had the complexion for protection.

Listen to what I’m laying down before you start clowning around. You’re not the enemy; I’m just not with that white supremacy, Which says if you’re African, then you’re subhuman.

So, let’s dig in.

It’s not a sin to have melanin; black is where it’s at, and brown is The talk of the town.

Screw jungle fever.

I don’t wanna be with ya unless your skin’s brown like a beaver.

 I won’t poke her unless she’s ocher; I don’t want no fellow unless he’s at Least high-yellow; I don’t want your number unless you’re burnt-umber.

If you can pass the paper bag test, then it’s for the best if I pass on that ass.

Let me reiterate: my anaconda don’t want none, hun, unless you can go in the sun without getting well-done, son.

This isn’t coming from a place of hate; I’m not trying to Discriminate, just trying to eliminate the fools from my dating pool Who are only into me because of the stereotype of the bbc, or who Think it’s erotic that they find me exotic.

Sorry, bro, but that’s a no-go.

No more will I be your chocolate-covered lover, your s’more whore.

I think it’s obnoxious, and if I’m being honest, I find it vomitous.

I’m sure by now some of you are riotous. In the interest of Verisimilitude, I admit my biases.

I’ve been hurt by many a jerk, but if you’re sans the racist attitude, maybe it could work?

And if you’re cute, that’d be a perk.   

An Ode to Joy

Joy is hope risen anew, being full of energy and not knowing what to do. It’s dreaming the impossible dream, screaming in ecstasy as You glimpse the great beyond. On a hot summer’s day, it’s a dip in The pond; It’s wearing new clothes that make you feel like James Bond; it’s Spending time with a person of whom you’re fond.

 Joy is the answer to the call of the infinite, eternal sea from which we All sprang and will return. It’s the balm on the burn that is life, a knife That cuts through all despair; it’s the wind rustling through your hair as You drive down the road without a care.

It can be found in the darkest of places and can raise us to the highest of Places, if we only we submit to it.

It’s a fit of the giggles when you blaze a spliff and get legit lit. It’s the Power of words to make you resist the urge to binge and purge or slit Your wrists.

It’s finding your island of misfit toys and not giving a whit about the Thoughts of some supercilious shit.

It’s that hit to your gut that knocks you on your butt and makes you say, “What?” when you see a hottie, that tingle in your body when you think Something naughty.

It’s the exhilarating thrill that sends chills up your spine when your legs Entwine, giving you all the feels. The kiss that seals the deal and lets You know this is for real real.

 Joy is the phoenix born from the flames of our will made manifest When we kill our ego and tap into our inner hero.

It’s shots of Jäger and Jack back-to-back on a Saturday night. It’s Dancing in the club, fifty-deep, and not caring that you’ll get no sleep. It’s ice cream on a lazy Sunday, lounging in bed all day and staying up All night.

Joy is that contentment when only you and the night are awake and only Your thoughts feel real. It’s the warm glow you felt the first time you Met and the spark you get when you kiss that you’ll never forget. It’s the Rush as you gush, busting a nut once, twice, thrice.

It’s the intoxication you feel when all you can think about is them, when Just the sound of their voice or the scent of their skin shoots you to Heaven and back again.

Joy is the simple pleasure you got playing as kid. Seeing the world t

Through eyes so innocent, where anything could become a toy.  Those Simple things that we took for granted because we young and dumb. What glorious fun could be had from a ball and a bottle. Those summer Days spent playing catch, football, and countless other games late into The night. Those blunder years when everything was still so new and Full of wonder before our innocence faded and we became broke and Jaded.

It’s the feeling that you aren’t alone, that it was ok to like other boys in That way; it’s coming home.

 Joy is finding a place where you fit and not giving a shit what anyone thinks.

If you take anything from this poem, know that joy is what you make of It.

Rules

There are rules for everything and everyone, some good, some bad, Some boring, but never ones that are fun.

“Don’t do that, it’s wack. Act like this and you won’t get dissed.”

“Don’t say that; talk like this if you wanna be cool.”

“You can’t love your same gender. But remember a serial adulterer Who habitually lies can be a contender for the Second Coming, if He’s not bumming guys. “

 Dress like this if you wish to get kissed; look like this if you don’t want To be dismissed a fool.”

We’ve become slaves to these rules, afraid to be called fools, and have Become tools of our own prisons, digging our graves deeper, the dirt Piling high, burying ourselves alive, because we’re scared to get hurt. But is it worth it?

We are given the illusion of individuality, in so far as we stick to the Guidelines of what it means to be an outsider.

“Don’t like that, it’s too mainstream; check this out, it’s legit lit.”

“Don’t think like that, you’re brainwashed by the powers that be. Here, Read this book on post postmodernism and see the plight of the masses, Then you’ll be just like me.”

“Don’t buy from Walmart, because their workers are paid slave wages,” she says from her multi-million-dollar mansion in a Country, lest we forget, built upon the death of millions who were Only three-fifths a Person.

There are even rules for having not rules.

“Only read books about anarchism and only talk to people who Believe In anarchism or you’re not a real anarchist.”

“Don’t confirm to anything, but don’t be like us, you poser.”

Rules were meant to establish order and instead have become tools Of control.

As for me?

I have a new goal: to be free.

See, I don’t need rules for how to be me.

So, I say screw the rules and do you, boo.

To All the Boys I Have Loved

One: hair golden as the sun. You were the best friend I didn’t know I was missing. Granted, the whole time we were hanging, I was wishing we were kissing. Though you never knew how my heart melted whenever I was around you, I’ll always remember you, boo.

Two: I was a fool for ever getting with you. We met online and that should have been a sign not to date your behind. It was fun at first, then it was the worst. I felt suffocated, then grew jaded as our love faded. I thought my heart would burst without you, but I ended things anyway. That’s when you became jerk, not respecting my boundaries or space. To this day, thoughts of you make me want to punch your face.

Three: you were a disgrace. You said you loved me, but now I see you just wanted the D. I could go on, but I’ll be quick. You thought you were slick, but you’re just a giant dick.

You make me sick.

Four: you shook me to the core. One look at you, and I was through. But I was crazy to ever think you’d get with me. I now see, I was a fool for breaking every rule when it came to you.

Still lovelorn?

Maybe.

Scorned?

Nope!

But baby, we could have been dope.

There are more, but I’m sure by now you’re wishing this poem would end.

To the one yet to come: Don’t worry, no hurry.

I’ve given up all hope of ever loving again.

Update and a Poem

Hey, sorry I haven’t updated in a while. I’ve been dealing with some mental health issues, but I’ve talked with my psychiatrist and am doing better now.

To make up for not posting, I’ll post a new poem every day as part of National Poem Writing Month.

So here’s the first one called “An Ode to Summer.”

I can hardly breathe or believe you’re lying next to me.
You are summer personified, your legs entwined with mine.
I’ll never forget your meteor-shower hair, your sunflower-scent
Your eyes aglow, fireflies dancing to a song only we know.
Your skin, caramel ice cream; your face, a vision from a dream.
Your watermelon lips, kisses so sweet they ought-ta be a felon.
Your smile, radiant as the sun shining on us as we strolled, hand in hand, sand beneath our feet.
While I could praise your booty–I mean beauty from here to eternity, this poem has come to an end.
But summer will come again.

Review: Beneath the Citadel

Introduction

Beneath the Citadel,” by Destiny Soria is a fantasy YA novel set in the city of Eldra, where everything is dictated by prophecies that always favor the council that rules the land.

The book opens with the main characters being sentenced to death for trying to sneak into the citadel, and picks up with their escape.

Characters

The main issue I had with the characters was a lack of development because you’re never in one character’s point of view long enough to get to know them. And this combined with a lack of distinctive voices for each character left me confused as to who was who most of the time.

Mostly my impression of them were–Newt is the contortionist with an abusive childhood, Alys is the brains of the operation, Evander is the joker/moral support, Cassa is the hot-head impulsive one, and Vesper is just a plot device so that the ending works out the way it did.

This wouldn’t have been so bad if we stuck with one character throughout the story, but no less than six characters get point of view chapters, and in each of them few if any new information or details are revealed, while the same information gets covered ad nauseum.

If the events being covered were more interesting, this wouldn’t have been an issue.

Overall, this would have been a far more enjoying book had Ms. Soria either limited the point of view characters or told the story from an omniscient point of view so there was no need to retread the same information.

Plot

The story itself sounded interesting, but it lacked in the execution. Because of the issues with point of view characters that I mentioned above, any momentum the story builds is wasted by the often-pointless shifts in the point of view character. That is, when we’re not forced to slog through chapter-long flashbacks of details that should have been incorporated within the story proper.

Moreover, for a story that bills itself as a fantasy, the world building was threadbare with concepts and terms thrown at you with few explanations until later in the book.

Moreover, it is yet another book set in pseudo medieval Europe. Seriously, give this a rest. There are so many other places you could set a fantasy.

The other issue I had with the plot was that it started on such a bang and then was uneven as hell. Things would happen and then because of the flashback chapters everything slowed to a crawl and didn’t pick up for several more chapters.

By the end of the book, I just didn’t care about the characters.

Conclusion

Overall, I give “Beneath the citadel” three out of five stars. It’s not the best book, but I’ve read worse. Check this out at your library if you insist on reading it.

JJ Interview 1

Introduction

Today I’ll be doing a character interview with Joshua “JJ” Giovanni, one of the main characters from my WIP.

Tyerone Johnson: Welcome, Joshua. Why don’t you start by telling us a bit about yourself?

Joshua Giovanni: First off,  it’s JJ or Josh, never Joshua. Second, why are you interviewing me? I’m nothing special.

TJ: That’s an interesting point that I’ll come back to later. However, to answer your question, I think potential readers would benefit from learning more about you, seeing as how you’re a point of view character. So, why don’t we start with the basics. What’s your full name and birth date, and what are your likes, hobbies, and interests.

JJ (Sighing and looking at his feet): My name’s Joshua Joseph Giovanni, and I was born April 1, 2003. I like comedies, telling jokes, and…

TJ: Something the matter?

JJ: That’s a lie. I don’t like telling jokes. I just do that because it’s what people expect of me.

TJ: So, what do you like, then?

JJ: I like anime, manga, comics, MMO’s, tabletop games, and sci-fi and horror movies. The cheesier the better. No one knows this, but I love science and technology, even though I’m not the greatest at either. But I try, you know?

TJ: Interesting. Why don’t you share these passions with your friends?

JJ: Because the last time I started talking about Zelda or Dragon Ball Z, my friends got quiet and looked at me like I was a freak.

TJ: Well, that’s not right. Don’t you have anyone you can be yourself with?

JJ: I mean, David and Jason are kinda cool with me geeking out occasionally, but mostly I save that stuff for my net friends.

TJ: It sucks when you can’t be your true self around people, right?

JJ: Yeah. I have a ton of “friends,” but none of them know the real me.

TJ: And who’s that?

JJ (cheeks flushing): I don’t know. Like I said earlier, I’m nobody special. I’m just a shrimpy, redheaded, gay wad, who’s all alone. It’s not even like people like me all that much. I bet if I just up and killed myself, no one would even notice I was gone.

TJ: You know that’s not true. I’m sure your parents–

JJ: Couldn’t care less about me. I only see them two or three times a month max, so it’s not like killing myself would make any difference to them. Hell, they’d prolly be pissed they had to take off work to bury me.

TJ: Josh, aren’t you a Catholic?

JJ: Yeah, so?

TJ: Isn’t suicide a mortal sin?  

JJ: Yeah, but I’m going to hell for being gay anyway, so what difference would it make?

TJ: Okay, but wouldn’t you miss things like love?

JJ: I guess, but then who’d love me? I mean in all the stories I’ve read they make it seem so easy. You just go up to a guy, ask to hang out with him, you hook up, and then you’re a couple. But it’s not like that at all.

TJ: How is it then?

JJ (shuffles his feet and groans): Do I have to answer that?

TJ: Yes.

JJ: I have a crush on Travis, right?

TJ: Go on.

JJ: Well, I’ve kinda been bullying him for years.

TJ: And why would you do that?

JJ: At first, it was because the others were doing it and I wanted to fit it.

TJ: Mmhhm. Peer pressure can be such an insidious beast. Go on.

JJ: Then…things changed.

TJ: How?

JJ: The summer between sixth and seventh grade, it was like a switch was flipped and I liked guys. Then when school started again, to my shock, I found myself increasingly attracted to Travis.

TJ: Then why did you continue bullying him?

JJ: I know this is gonna sound messed up, but it was the only way I could be near him without people getting suspicious.

TJ: Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you need some new friends who wouldn’t care about your being gay and geeky?

JJ: All the fucking time, but I don’t want to be alone either, so…

TJ: Well, do you feel alone when you’re with your friends?

JJ: Besides David and Jason, yeah!

TJ: Then perhaps it’s better to be alone, than surrounded by people who only allow you to show one side of yourself.

JJ: No! I can’t go back to being by myself.

TJ: Why not?

JJ: Because then I’d constantly be reminded of how average I am. How I’m just a weak sauce, nothing burger with a side order of epic fail.

TJ: Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself? Aren’t you smart enough to get mostly A’s and a few B’s without studying?

JJ (mumbling): I guess.

TJ: And whether you like to admit it or not, you have a gift with jokes.

JJ: That’s only because I’m playing to a crowd that makes the people on the short bus look like Mensa material.

TJ: And aren’t you the one who suggested AP Prep start a robotics/STEM club?

JJ: Yeah, but it’s not like the administration even bothered to take me seriously.

TJ: I’m sensing a theme here. Tell me, do you think being in a relationship will fix all your problems?

JJ: That’s what always happens in all the stories I read.

TJ: Has it ever occurred to you that actual relationships are far more complicated than what’s presented in the media, and that no one should be burdened with fixing all your problems?

JJ (glaring): When you’re in love with someone, you’ll do anything to make them happy. Nothing will keep you apart from them. You’ll sacrifice anything and everything to be with them.

TJ: While that’s admirable, the truth is being in love isn’t a panacea. Just because you love someone and they love you, doesn’t mean you should be together, especially if you have psychological issues and emotional baggage to work out first.

JJ (storms off): Screw you!

Conclusion

Perhaps I pushed Josh too hard there? But what do you think? Would you like to know more about him? And if so, what?

Let me know in the comments.

The Man Who Cried MAGA

Introduction

For those who haven’t been following the Jussie Smollett case, several weeks ago, the Empire star claimed two hooded men wearing “Make America Great Again” hats assaulted him late one night, while he was on this way back from a Subway shop in Chicago.

 He claimed the men called him racial and gay slurs, made reference to this being “MAGA country,” fought him, and then poured bleach on him and put a noose around his neck.

However, in the weeks since he first made this claim, police have arrested two men in connection with this crime, whom it turns out were Nigerian extras on the show Empire and knew Mr. Smollett.

 Furthermore, these men allege Mr. Smollett paid them $3500 to fake the attack because he wasn’t happy with what he was being paid.

Now, I’ll reserve judgement until more facts come out about this case, but it doesn’t look good for Mr. Smollett.

IF He Lied

If this incident does turns out to be a hoax, then Mr. Smollett should not only serve jail time for making a false police report, but he should pay restitution, plus interest t to the Chicago Police Department for all the resources they wasted on his case.

Moreover, by lying about this incident, it makes it less likely that investigators will believe the victims of actual hate crimes, and more likely that people will carry out hate crimes based on the belief they won’t get caught, and if they do, they can just say their victims are lying.

He owes an apology to the Black community and the LGBTQ+ community, two marginalized groups with overlap that continue to be victimized.

By playing upon both racial fears and homophobia in this attack, Mr. Smollett ratcheted up the already tense mental states of people from these and other marginalized groups who have been on edge ever since Mr. Trump’s election, which combined with  his inflammatory rhetoric and support of white supremacists and neo-Nazis, has led to a sharp increase in hate crimes.

Now every marginalized person will have the worry at the back of their minds that if they are the victim of a hate crime, will they believed? And all because Jussie Smollett wasn’t happy with his paycheck and cried wolf.

Furthermore, if Mr. Smollett lied about this attack, he will have played right into the narratives some on the right have about liberals being unscrupulous liars who will say and do anything to denigrate Mr. Trump and his supporters, and then play the victim card when things don’t go their way.

Conclusion

I don’t claim to speak for either the black or LGBTQ+ communities. I’m simply stating my frustrations at Mr. Smollett’s alleged actions. As a queer black person, I could readily put myself in his shoes, and I know many others could as well, which is why the possibility of his lying is so infuriating.

If this was all about money, he could have taken many other routes that didn’t involve staging a hate crime.

He could have held out until the end of his contract with Fox, and then played hard with them, or he could have left Empire and joined a show that valued his talents.

Leveraging social media, he could have had his fans threaten to boycott Empire and Fox unless they paid him what he thought he was worth.

 Crowd founding a project starring him for Hulu, Amazon Prime, or Netflix is another route he could have taken.

Mr. Smollett could have also started a patreon account and shared exclusive demos and songs with his followers if he was so strapped for cash.

He didn’t have to pull this hoax, if that’s what this turns out to be. And he didn’t have to play on people’s fears in such a visceral and heinous way.

So if this is a hoax, then I say to him, “Fuck you!” 

Call to Action

Why do you think? Let me know in the comments, and share this if you liked it.

T

Review: Kindred

image by Stancu Alexandru via sxc.hu

Introduction

Kindred by Octavia Butler follows Dana, a black woman from 1976 who is repeatedly thrust back into the Antebellum South where she must save Rufus Weylin, the son of a plantation owner and Dana’s ancestor.

Each time Dana goes back to the past, her stays become progressively longer and more dangerous, requiring her to use all her cunning and wits to stay alive.

Plot

Overall, I thought the plot was interesting, if a bit melodramatic at times. Yeah, slavery was awful, but the scenes of Dana and others being whipped and severing other punishments felt like overkill.

I also didn’t get Rufus’s obsession with Dana. Sure, he may have been starved for attention and Dana saved his life multiple times, but I still don’t get why he wanted her around him all the time.

Maybe if Dana had stayed around and helped him following the first time she was pulled to the past, I could buy some bond forming between them.

The other issue I had with the plot is why Dana or Kevin didn’t buy a gun to go in her bag. While it was illegal for blacks, freeman or slave, to own guns in Rufus’s time, a modern gun would have been more effective than the knives Dana brought with her.

Characters

Aside from Dana, I didn’t get a real sense of the other characters beyond Dana’s impressions of them.

Rufus’s motives didn’t make sense to me at all, especially since he claimed to love Dana and Alice, yet treated them horribly.

Aside from Sarah and Carrie, most of the slaves on the Weylin Plantation weren’t developed at all, which doesn’t make sense because Dana’s stays lasted months at a time so she should have interacted with the others more.

As for her husband Kevin, I don’t see why Butler chose to make him white other than for the increased drama of them being a covert interracial couple in the antebellum south, and his whiteness saving Dana from being sold into slavery farther south because he passed as her master.  

Writing

I found Butler’s writing to be a bit amateurish, relying heavily on telling via adverbs. And when she did show us things this would be crippled by telling. Such as on one of Dana’s later trips to the plantation where she notes Sarah is old and then describes her hair streaked with gray and face weathered with age line.

I also didn’t like Butler’s tendency to spell everything out to readers when it came to how bad things where on the plantation.

Conclusion

Given all its fault I still enjoyed Kindred and would recommend it to anyone looking to broaden their sci-fi reading. I give Kindred three out of five stars.      

Living While Black

You throw on your favorite hoodie, gather your things, and go to the corner store to get a few days’ worth of groceries.

Even though the store owner jacks the price up on everything, you still shop there because the closest grocery story is twenty minutes away and you don’t have a car.

And even if you did, you couldn’t afford the car payment, insurance, and gas because even though you work two jobs and a side hustle, you’re broke two days after payday.

On the way to the store, you pass a white woman; she glares at you, pulls her purse tight, and then crosses the street. It’s not the first time this has happened to you, nor will it be the last.

You shrug and carry on, but then a cop car passes and you slow your step, holding your breath until it drives by.

You pick up the pace until you get to the store, where you remove your hoodie, but the person behind the register still eyes you cautiously.

You ignore him, get your stuff, and add a bag of skittles and an ice tea to your order.

After paying, you’re down to twenty dollars until next Friday.

You go home to find a message from your mother saying your uncle Jules has died and the funeral will be in three days. It’s too late to request a day off from your jobs, and you couldn’t afford the greyhound ride there and back, so you ask your mother to take plenty of pictures and send them to you.

After eating a meal of over-processed food, you shower and change for work, then walk to the bus stop; you’ll spend the next two hours transferring from bus to bus before getting to your first job, working minimum wage at a big box store.

Your coworkers are mostly lower middle-class white people, and when they don’t think you’re in earshot, they let loose nigger jokes, only to be all smiles to your face.

You’ve been at this job the longest but have only received a twenty-five- cent raise. Meanwhile, Joe, who has only been there two months, was promoted to assistant store manager.

You shake your head but continue stocking the shelves until your boss tells you to go work the register because Leanne is out sick with another of her “family emergencies.” Given that it’s Monday, you surmise that said family emergency had something to do with her friends Jack Daniels and Natty Light.

She’s come to work hungover several times, yet when you came in a only few minutes late, your boss ripped you a new one and docked your pay for the day.

You force a smile as you ring up customers, ignoring their rude behavior and condescending attitudes because you’re not moving fast enough for them.

You get through your shift without killing someone, and thank God for small miracles.

You clock out, walk to the fast food joint across the street, and get two items off their dollar menu.

You finish eating, catch the bus home, shower, and then head out to your next job working sanitation engineering for a hospital. It’s just a fancy way of saying you’re a janitor.

You do your job without complaint, only to come home and find a past-due notice for your student loans.

Life wasn’t always like this.

You did well in school and had dreams of becoming a mogul Like Russel Simmons, Diddy, Or Jay-Z. However, you quickly found that if you weren’t willing to suck up to the old-moneyed white establishment and play the roles they deemed you were worthy of, you got nowhere.

So, you told your boss to shove it up his ass and quit.

But all those years of business classes didn’t go to waste; you’ve used your marketing skills to build a brand as the go-to weed dealer in the tri-county area, and you’ve been saving up to start your own medical marijuana dispensary, and selling weed on the side until then.

You know that if the police catch you, there won’t be any community service, probation, or house arrest. You’ll just be another statistic of the Prison-Industrial Complex.

But what choice do you have?

Even when you were hobnobbing with the upper crust in your $5,000-suits and custom-made Italian Leather loafers, people looked down on you and assumed you were a server.

You have ramen noodles and a candy bar for dinner. Afterwards, you turn on the news to learn white police officers have killed yet another unarmed black person.

Sure, people will protest, but yet again, the cops will get off. Assuming they’re even charged in the first place.

Not for the first time you wonder how a country that was founded upon the words, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness,” could treat you and others less than dirt.

Then you remember when Thomas Jefferson wrote those words he was rapping Sally Hemmings, one of his slaves, and that blacks were only three-fifths a person for the purpose of the census.

Like many, you thought the election of Obama would have eased racial tensions and marked an end to America racist past. However, all it did was give racists a convenient target to project their hate upon.

And now when you or other black people bring up things like institutional racism or the school to prison pipe line, you’re told you’re stirring the pot because if America was so racist why did they elect and then re-elect a black man president?

You shake your head.

One black president doesn’t make up for the centuries of slavery, Jim Crow, red lining, and the continued discrimination and bigotry against black people.

You turn the TV off and go to bed, hoping tomorrow will be better.

Conclusion

What did you think?

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Dragon Ball Meh

WARNING: The following contains spoilers for Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z, and Dragon Ball Super.

Introduction

I grew up watching Dragon Ball Z (DBZ) on Toonami, waiting week after week, and hoping that this time Cartoon Network would show the rest of the Frieza Saga. My classmates and I would act out scenes from the show while at school and try turning super saiyan. I collected DBZ trading cards, action figures, and video games, and I even wrote a bad self-insert DBZ fan fic once.

Why am I telling you this? Because I’m not a casual fan by any means, nor do I look at the series through the lens of nostalgia.

Even as a tween and then teenager, I realized the series had a fuck ton of issues in terms of power level inconsistencies, how characters would spend whole episodes talking or powering up rather than fighting, how anyone who wasn’t a saiyan or part saiyan ceased to matter as the series progressed, and the formulaic nature of the show.

I say this not to shit on a show I loved as a kid and still enjoy as an adult, but to say I’m not some fanboy who hates Dragon Ball Super (Super) because it’s not DBZ.

Repetitiveness

The first major problem I had with Super, and one of the reasons I stopped watching it after the tournament between Chompa’s fighters and Bilis’s fighters, was the sheer repetitiveness.

The first twenty or so episodes of the series were just a rehash almost scene for scene of Battle of the Gods and Revival of F, and I was bored out of my mind.

Moreover, while the introduction of the destroyer gods and other universes seemed cool at first, upon second thought, this was just another layer in the already bloated celestial bureaucracy that makes up the Dragon Ball universe. The Destroyer gods are little more than souped-up, evil Kais.

Then there’s my issue with the Super Saiyan God transformations. How many fucking times is Akira Toriyama going to beat this dead horse?

Goku going Super Saiyan 1 for the first time, and then Gohan being the first person to correctly go Super Saiyan 2 are both iconic scenes that still give me all the feels to this day. But Super Saiyan God and Super Saiyan Blue are fucking weak sauce.

All Toriyama did was change the color of Goku’s and Vegeta’s hair and aura. Wow, what groundbreaking imagination.

And this leads me to my next issue.

Lack of Imagination

My main problem with Super was it rehashed the same ideas and concepts as DBZ. I already mentioned the issue of Super Saiyan transformations and how an old enemy such as Frieza was brought back and given a new transformation for reasons I’ll never understand. And yet again, Gohan lamented about not being as strong as the others because he stopped training.

Instead of having the series focus on this and the next generation of Z fighters, as was alluded to in the final episode of DBZ that featured Goku, Jr. and Vegeta, Jr. fighting at the World Martial Arts Tournament several years in the future, the show continued to focus on Goku.

Furthermore, the concept of super dragon balls, which are so large they’re the size of a planet, was just more of the same. First, there were the dragon balls on Earth that could grant any wish except bringing some back from the dead more than once. Then there were the Namekian dragon balls that didn’t have such restrictions, but could only resurrect people who died less than a year ago. Now there are super dragon balls, which are so powerful even the destroyer gods want them?

Come up with some new material, bro.

Then the repetitive plot sucked what little interest I had in the series out of me.

I stopped watching Super at the beginning of the Goku Black arc because it was just the cell saga with a few tweaks.

Don’t believe me?

Let’s compare.

Cell Saga: A threat in the future (the androids and Cell) prompts Vegeta’s son Trunks to come to the past to warn the Z fighters about it, only for said threat to follow him into the past and they must fight it.

Goku Black Arc: A threat in the future (Goku black, an evil version of Goku created when Zamasu, an apprentice Supreme Kai from universe ten, fused with the version of Goku from an earlier point in Trunk’s timeline) prompts Trunks to travel back in time to warn the Z fighters about it. Then Goku Black follows him and they fight it out.

And once Goku Black is defeated, it’s on to the tournament between the various universes where the losers have their universe destroyed.

From the spoilers I ran across online, this ends as you’d expect it. Goku and company win and use the super dragon balls to restore the universes that were destroyed.

Closing

This post has run longer than I’d expected it to, so I’ll stop here.

I’m not hating on Super for being a shonen anime. DBZ was the grandfather of all shonen manga, and when I was a kid, I could sit through hours of filler episodes waiting for the fights to happen and not be underwhelmed when, yet again, Goku reached a new level of power and crushed his enemies.

But I stopped watching Super because it, and shonen anime/manga to a larger extent, no longer entertains me. I’ll still watch old episodes of Dragon Ball and DBZ if nothing’s on, but when I want a jolt of action, I now turn on an action movie because they can’t afford to waste time with characters talking and then powering up for an hour.

Call to action

What do you think?

Are you a Dragon Ball fan who feels the same, or do you vehemently disagree?

Let me know in comments below.  And if you liked this post, please share it with your friends.