To Have Cake . . .

2:47 A.M. Da Wee Hours …

A furtive monologue. 

A Heartbreaker‘s soliloquy .

I come here today with heavy heart and weary eyes. Over the course of the past few weeks I have been slotted with in-depth conversation about a relationship in the midst of my relationship with another. Even though, I am technically “single,” my loyalties lie with the woman I love. However, It is nearly impossible to simply choose when you care deeply for both. I would rather have both but regarding this individualistic monogamy-centered culture, doing so would be implausible.

I no longer feel the need to fuck just because. I don’t need to use a woman for sexual gratification in order to cope with low-self esteem or to “boost my head” as a good number of my contemporaries do. Fucking without a connection to the partner bears absolutely no significance to me. It has become commonplace. Sure, I may get curious and wonder what it may be like to tackle this female and that female over yonder, but beyond the physical lust there is not much sum and substance behind libidinous urges and acts. I suppose I am demi-sexual.

To Have Cake …

All-in-all, this has been a tumultuous year for me. Each month has come with its fair share of qualms and quandaries. However, as a realist, I am not one to believe that life is supposed to be milk and honey. Rocks and hard places have become familiar dwelling on my breezy excursions. Much of it is due to uncontrollable life instances, but much of it is self-imposed. That is true for us all, but few will admit such. It is not a self-serving lie. I do not delight myself in “feel good” rhetoric as the sycophantic sort have mastered. I refuse to make excuses for my lapses in judgment. I hasten myself to identify the problem and seek to never make the same mistakes again. 

“I desperately dig within to recover that sweet innocence that shined upon us
I loathe myself for every time I was moved by someone else’s loveliness
All those precious moments we have shared have been violated by temptation’s venomous kiss”

Decisions rash made under the pretense of being “that nigga.” The false belief that a life embellished with sexual promiscuity equals being “real.”Moral integrity in atrophy. Dichotomous thinking. The painstaking attempt of achieving duality in a world lacking the concept of balance. Shoveled my own pitfalls. Encouraged my own besmirching. The architect of mine own discontent; groveling in positions fetal cogitating my circumstance conjuring mitigating excuse back-to-back in rapid succession like a belt-fed light machine gun. An eye of fleeting providence. Its radiance flickering in indistinguishable patterns before me; indicating that the circuitry of my endocrine system has been compromised. Oftentimes psychoanalyzing and acknowledging the problem, yet refusing to fully come to terms with it’s perpetual onset.

… and eat it too.

Ain’t that’s what you ‘spose to do?

Circumspect / Circumvent intimacy. Although I covet wanting to move forward, I know the unintended repercussions that accompany such. I can no longer bear leading another soul down the path of emotional torment. My altruism won’t allow it.

Love Alaska, steps of Yetis that I patterned after. 

“You’re a walking contradiction…”

“I love you…”

“Fuck you, asshole…”

“I never really had a chance with you…”

“I love you…”

“Why would you open another door, when you haven’t closed the other?”

“When I hugged you I knew it was real ….”

Blow after blow after glancing – fucking – blow.

Perhaps I am just ruminating, Perhaps these conflicting emotions are warranted. As a man, it is inconceivable the amount of influence you can have on a woman’s life. Once they confide in you, their heart is pretty much in your hands. Problem is, even lending some of them even the slightest amount of your attention and time can result in them feeling as though they are obligated towards you being just for them. Shit is hard out here … either way – YOU WILL hurt someone, and oftentimes they won’t understand and say “you ain’t shit” because of it.

“I feel remorse but unfortunate events
make my world uglier this morning
Repentance hurts but not enough
Let’s start again tonight”

Black Fatherhood.

III XXIX MMXV

11:13 A.M.

My firstborn son, Aden (handsome) Omari (Swahili for firstborn; God, the Highest) Rogers made his inception into this chaotic oblate spheroid we call home. 5 lbs, 13 oz.

As of this post, he is nearing the 2 month mark. I finally got to see him in person this past Monday. The feeling is unreal. Euphoric in many ways. I had originally longed for a daughter (I still do) but I would have it no other way. I stare into his large round brown eyes currently, pacifier in his mouth, nodding off to sleep without a disconcerting thought. Devoid of apprehension. Solaced by the loving hands of his mother.

I hold purpose in these arms.

I haven’t been this elated since childhood Christmas mornings …

As black people, regardless of sex, little is expected of us. The bar is set extremely low. As a black father, absolutely nothing is expected of us other than absence. The bar is virtually nonexistent. A generally held and purported falsehood in the world is that black fathers are absent from their children’s lives. We are blamed for the high level of illegitimacy almost exclusively disregarding the fact that white people have the highest illegitimacy rate. The stereotypical belief paints us in crude caricatures as undisciplined promiscuous dogs in heat that spill their gametes – without regard – into unsuspecting women after “running game” – subsequently leaving them to fend for themselves after we “cut them off.” While this has some merit, it is hardly ubiquitous. It is conjecture. It is an inductive fallacy. It serves as cognitive bias for white racists and black women that harbor hatred towards black men. In other words, not only is it wrong – it is wrong as fuck.

According to the CDC, black fathers are just as present as father’s of other races, if not more. But of course, the propaganda machine known as the American media would prefer to reinforce self-serving stereotypes in order to keep the dominant society comfortable in their delusions. As a black father, I am one of the many defying these stereotypes.

Still further, there is a stigma regarding having children while young and out of wedlock. I will be 21 in July. Aden’s mother will be 22 in December. Most of this disdain comes from professing Christians. While they view the birth of a child as a “blessing,” it is in the same breath frowned upon. Yet, by the same token, they will adamantly claim that everything is “God’s Will.” It is never either or. It is always a conflicting contradicting self-serving response. I am no stranger to the self-righteous sort, so this comes of no surprise.

In addition to incurring judgment from others, having children is also frowned upon because of the perceived fear of rearing a child in this dangerous world. Understandable, but to live by such mantra is to be shackled and completely submissive to the whims of whatever the status quo deems ideal. I find that most people are reluctant to have children simply because they refuse to grow up and become responsible young adults. They are too embedded in daily hedonism. They refuse to prioritize accordingly, and would rather put it off until they “establish” themselves according to white standards. Many of these people have an external locus of control, and constantly seek excuses for why they can’t do something. In other words, they place their autonomy and fate into the hands of tentative and often arbitrary variables.

Foolish, to say the least, but I understand that most are not critical thinkers. They comply seemingly wholeheartedly with the status quo. They desire to belong. They fear being ostracized. Ridiculed. Demonized.

Despite the negativity behind having a child young, I have no regrets. I was able to create a life unblemished. I was able to create a legacy. I will continue to defy stereotypes. I will raise him to be much better than I ever was. Teach him things that I wish I would have known growing up. Give him the childhood I barely had. In short, be a loving black father.