Hashtag MyDick

I've been a great dad. I've been a shitty father.

I've abused alcohol and I've spent months with sober mind.

I've been accused of not being serious enough and I've spent weeks in dark depression.

I've been brave: I once got out of my car to confront a cop that was shining his flashlight too long in my kid's faces. I've been completely stupid: I once got out of my car to confront a cop that was shining his flashlight too long in my kid's faces.

I've been irascible and irrational and I've been calm and the voice of reason. (I have so!)

I've been eloquent - writing and delivering a friend's eulogy and I've written crass blogs entitled: Hashtag MyDick.

Inconsistencies abound.

The one constant, however, whether I'm drunk and silly or hanging with my kids or being creative is my Blackness. My skin defines me before I say a word. My skin tells you to lock your car door as I pass - fly ass suit be damned! - or to clutch your purse and stand closer to your boyfriend as I board the elevator. Sometimes I don't even notice anymore. When I do notice, the first thing that goes through my mind is smacking the purse out your hand then smacking the shit out of your boyfriend because, #Karma.

My skin tells you to shoot me as I reach for my license as ordered to.

Paul Mooney did an interview where he spoke about such daily indignities. Being a Black gentleman, standing in line for First Class and being asked if you realize what line you're standing on: "Do I look like Stevie Wonder to you? Of course I know what line I'm standing on!" Then he ended his mini-tirade with the admission that he's tired.

My skin keeps me tired. Dude, seriously - I'm fucking tired. Most conscious Black folks are tired. Most conscious Black folks with children are fucking exhausted.

How I wish to live in Cam Newton's or Lil Wayne's World where racism no longer exists. What a Camelot or Shangri-La place that must be!

I fear my social media feed. I deactivate my account every so often because, #Mentalhealth.

I don't want to see today's fresh video and the new sorry soul whose name will forever be hashtagged. I dread having to witness the police account then seeing the video of what factually happened. I fear seeing that it was a woman. Or a child (Black boys have the shortest childhood of any race on earth and are apparently considered men by 11!). Or a man whose only sin was his car broke down on his way home from a college course. I fear having to see the victim's past being paraded about as if it's relevant in any way. I fear the insanely insensitive comments "if only he had listened to the police...yada yada,..Black on Black crime... yada, yada...insert bullshit.. yada, yada." I fear seeing a Black mother cry while being consoled by helpless male relatives. I fear and expect I'm next.

I fear the calmness with which I just wrote that I expect to be next.

It's 2016 and folks are marching and protesting like it's 1956. The words Malcolm X and James Baldwin wrote are just as true 50 years ago as it is today. There's no time to be 'splaining things to folks. Either you get it or you don't. One less Facebook "friend" is one less Christmas present I wasn't getting anyway.

Irascible and irrational? Maybe. But we're not falling for the banana in the tailpipe. Heads that have been sleeping are no longer turning a blind eye. Some athletes and entertainers are discovering the monetary leverage they wield. We're far from Camelot, but things seem like they're about to get really interesting.

#WOKE.