RE: [split] Will Barton’s Announcement Thrills Entire City of Memphis
What do I need to help. So, I guess it's perfectly alright for some dude to drop MLK in to a conversation about basketball. Surely, you have more sense than that. Watkins doesn't but don't you. The man spent his life working for civil rights for African-Americans and the poor in general and you think it's okay to just use his name, life's work, and subsequent death for the amusement of basketball fans. Not that it makes a damn bit of difference to most jacktards but I was almost 14 years old before I figured out what all this racism talk was. We didn't live like that.
My first best friend was a a dude named Henry, my mom's best friend was a woman named Emma. They were black. As time went on, Henry slowly started to pull away from me and act reserved when we got together. I didn't have a guess as to why until many years later. Then some of my other friends started to say stuff. I didn't know what they were talking about. In fifth grade my best friends went like this, George Scott, Bennie Jackson, Scott Noonan, and Brian Larson, two black, two white. Two very poor, like me, and two very rich by my standards. We were thick. We made the Rockin' Rockers and had nicknames. Monster nicknames. Time moved on and ...
Sixth grade hit, it was crazy to be around the older guys and very intimidating. Of course I played every sport I could, but I began to see lines of division. So, I did what I did best and that was joke and joke and joke so that nobody felt left out. I was a golden honor roll student and started to get teachers attention not for my antics but for my other stuff. This also presented problems as it seperated me from my friends. But I could see it, and the talk I heard became much more pointed and clarified.
By seventh grade, I understood but hated it. In fact, I started to become what I am today, a loner and an pwner. Everytime one of those numbskulls would bring something stupid up, I would talk them into a dizzied state and then hang them out to dry. Later that year, a dude named Keith Murphy ran up and put a hand full of red chile pepper flakes in my mouth and rubbed them all over my face. It burned like hell. But I stood, not like the other white guys he did it to who ran and cried and told the teacher, and I asked him why? He looked confused at first and then said that he was sorry. Everybody else he kicked their azz. Dude was like 16 in middle school.
By eighth grade, I was fully submersed in these math contests, spelling and the like along with playing basketball, that I was allowed to skip a year of the ridiculousness. I assume because people had seen how I would react and didn't see the need to initiate a fight which they would lose. Also, I was an 8th grader that had just hit 6'3 and was ahtletic which certainly helped my cause.
By the time I hit high school, I also hit joints. I escaped the BS by listening to some cool tunes with some friends and getting high. It helped. But guess what? Occasionally, one of the dumbies would bring something up and we would have to fight it out. I won. I was smarter, bigger, and had a stronger constitution than they. But I could see how messed up everything was, I hated it and this what started to form me. As crazy as this may sound to you, I hated the rich white dude up on the hill. He ****** it up for everybody and I knew it. I still feel that way. Luckily, my interest in women picked up heavy and that carried me through the next few years along with playing basketball, of course. But one night, I walked into Bruce Community Center, a place I had been to a thousand times before, after about thirty minutes of playing, some guys started to say stuff, getting louder and more agressive as time went on. They told me to leave. So I did. I blamed this on the dude up on the hill. He made me look bad. I still hate him for that. Always will.
At about 18, I went to friends house, their Dad was a local politician about to become notorious. We drank of some old aged spirits he had in some antique bottles, they were very cool. Not just a label and some whiskey but a work of art as well. We talked amongst ourselves for hours with me expressing certain issues and asking for answers where there were none. I was pointed to this bronze painted ceramic plaque of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And I was enamored, we drank more, talked, played pool. As I left, I was asked if I wanted it. I said hell yeah. I carried that thing with me for 15+ years. All over the country, to mixed reviews. I had a back pack with my writing, songs, a few tapes of music, and that plaque. I was proud of it. Every place I lived, it hung. I studied the man, became more and more enthralled and enhanced in the vision that he had. Impossible of a vision as I knew it was, still carried . A few years ago, it got broken for the nth time and really couldn't get glued anymore, just not enough of it left. I actually cried and buried it. I still miss it and can see it on the wall, though it is not there. And apparently, the message is not either.
Felt a need to say something. Left a lot of things out. To me, this is not a cheap coin to toss around. It was a man dedicating his life to what is right and not just simply to what the masses tell you to think, say, or do. He was a selfless individual who truly wished that the world would slow, get in the know, and grow from there. I agree but where does that go in today's hustle and flow. At one time, I aspired to be rich, so that I could give back. But I learned from experience, that once you're the man, you forget all of that.
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[split] Will Barton’s Announcement Thrills Entire City of Memphis
