memories

Memories Live...

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Mortal Man

Memories Live

By: Dan Tres Omi

While I did not have a father, I had a diverse group of elders who made sure I stayed on the path I still continue to travel. They were stern and wise. They gave no quarter. They loved hard and disciplined harder. They were fathers and husbands. They were community leaders and they led by example. They were not perfect and it is their imperfection that made me realize that I could be better than them.

Upon their transition, I never imagined I would utter those words. However, they told me several times that we stand on the shoulders of our ancestors. That we are our ancestors wildest dreams: to be better than what they were on every conceivable level. That idea sounds far fetched. To some, this could even be sacrilege. How could we be better than those before us?

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Even as a child, I always wanted to be the parent that my Uncle Fe was. I never heard him yell at anyone. If one of us got in trouble, he would plead with us to do right. That always fascinated me. While other adults would yell, cuss, threaten, or provide corporal punishment, Uncle Fe would urge us to do right. Without any abuse, he made us feel guilty for screwing up. He was very encouraging and always explained to me how amazing I was and of my potential to do much better. I never wanted to dissappoint him. He showered all of his children with love and affection. I rarely saw that and was also amazed by him. He lost his battle with cancer and everyone was devastated by it. His standard as a parent has never been forgotten and while I have failed so many times, I shall always endeavor to meet it.

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Speaking through the voices of the spirits speaking to me, I think back in the day, I absorbed everything like a sponge. Took a plunge into my past to share with my son.
— Talib Kweli/Reflection Eternal - Memories Live "from the Train of Thought album"

I met Brother George when I moved to Norfolk, Virginia after being discharged from the Navy. He owned a book store on 35th Street. With a group of men around my age, we started a book/Black History club there. Many of us were members and leaders of local community groups. Brother George and I quickly developed a long relationship as mentor/mentee. My eldest son affectionately called his store “The Black Man's Store,” and always asked when we would return to it. Brother George was my plug for bean pies and he would call me as soon as he got a new shipment in. He knew me before I was married and watched my family grow. As he became older and began cancer treatments due to his exposure to Agent Orange while serving in Vietnam, he asked me to take over the store. I was honored but immediately refused. I knew that I could never fill his shoes. I knew that the work he did for our community was one that many hands had to do. When he passed away, a void was left in my heart. Our entire community was rocked by his passing. As a community activist, he made it clear that he was always willing to serve in whatever capacity he could. As community worker, I use his example as a mission statement.

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I met Baba Varner through my very good friend, Seko. The thing about the entire Varner clan was that they took me and my wife in as family even before we had children. Baba Varner was a life long activist and minister. Over the years, I have met several of his mentees, students, and congregants who he has had a positive impact on. Baba Varner was amazing. He had the best stories of growing up, going to college, and fighting for Civil Rights. He was strong in every way. In every aspect, I learned so much from him. I recall him telling me that he was upset that he did not marry my wife and I. I vowed to let him “marry” us on our 10th anniversary. He passed away before this happened.

All these men set several standards for me. One of their lessons was in their transition. They made me ask the question: "how do we honor the actions of those who came before us and are no longer here?" How can we do that when they have done so much? I remember both Baba Varner and Brother George telling me: make your community a better place than it was before you inherited it. That is and will always be our marching orders. In this manner, we will honor them and their memories.

Ase! 

This is Part Three of Dan Tres Omi’s story. Click the links below to read the others.
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Dan Tres Omi

Memories Live...

Son, Husband, Father, Teacher, Afro Latino B-Boy, Author, Capoeirista, T-shirt Model, Pro-Feminist, Hip Hop Diplomat

 

Keep up with Danny on social media...

instagram: @brothereromi

twitter: @DaTresOmi

podcast: Where My Killa Tape At soundcloud.com/dantresomi

medium: @DanTresOmi

 

Leave comments here to keep the conversation going, to offer words of encouragement or to share your story.

Slowing Down

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Mortal Man

Slowing Down

By: Dan Tres Omi

Trees bright and green turn yellow brown
Autumn called ‘em, see all them leaves must fall down, growing old
— Outkast - Growing Old

There was a time when I would drive three hours to another city, train Capoeira for a few hours and then play for another hour, get a bite to eat, and then drive another three hours to come home and get ready for work the next day. My body did not need any time to recover. All I needed was a good night's sleep and Monday was not a thing. What is Capoeira? It is an African Brazilian Martial Art that incorporates music, acrobatics, and fighting or “luta.” Capoeira forces the practitioner to use muscles he or she has never used before. One class is a full body workout. Keeping track of all of the movements and sequences boggles the mind.

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We have a saying in Capoeira: “if you get kicked it is your fault.”  So on top of just trying to keep up with class, one must be weary of a stray kick or two. It is definitely a young person's game. When I attend a breakdancing workshop or a Capoeira class, I am usually the oldest person in the room. One would think that at 44 and not yet a grandfather, this would not be the case. Most of the other participants are still in high school or old enough to be juniors in college. During a workshop, one does not have time to share your everyday struggle. Most of us paid good money to learn new moves or new approaches to movement and time is money. I surprise myself most of the time. I can keep up with my younger counterparts. I am not winded at the end of class. While my stretches aren't as deep and it might take me longer to get something down, I can make it to the end of class as easily as someone twice as young as me. However, when I get home and I don't take that epsolm salt bath, the rest of my week will be full of aches and pains. Twenty years ago, I never thought of soaking in a hot bath to soothe my body. Self-care was not even a thought.

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I remember Crazy Legs, “one of the most famous b-boys on the planet,” stating that the kids these days who enter the breaking cipher have “rockets up their asses.” When he initially said it, I chalked it up as an old fogey that was washed up. This is no slight to the mighty Crazy Legs. In his fifties, he is still as spry and fast as when he appeared in the movie “Wild Style” back in the early eighties. It was not until several years later when I battled a younger comrade, B-boy Squirt “I shouldn't call it a battle - he easily plastered me.”

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They say that many boxers who are in their prime and lose their first fight, go downhill after that. It is not a physical thing. They are at their peak. Boxing experts say it is a mental thing. Once they lose that first fight, their perception of themselves begins to diminish. Physically, they can accomplish all the things they need to in their field, but emotionally they start to see their shortcomings more vividly. Looking back to that battle with Squirt, I wondered if I was doing the same thing those boxers were. Maybe it is all relative. To the average person, a boxer is at his or her peak physical condition. They can still move faster and hit harder. They can run for miles on end. They can take way more pain then the average person. To another boxer, they can be slowing down. Another trained professional can sense when someone is beginning to fear that they are losing their touch. When one is younger, they feel invulnerable.

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As a young man, the dangers I might have faced were never even a thought. When I visit NYC to see family, I am reminded of all the dangerous things I did as a child. I ran across train tracks. I rode in the back of buses and jumped off when it was time for me to get off. I climbed fences and abandoned buildings to paint my name on the walls. I fought and ran. I traveled to dangerous places to party. Back then, I did not see the real dangers that I might have faced that many have and did not survive. Some of these things, I am afraid to tell my children and my students for fear that they might try it. A word we still haven't explored when it comes to aging is (doubt.) Is it the fear a result of doubt? Does it creep in and plant itself in one's brain? Should we ask is this how a dream is deferred? Is this what Langston Hughes was referring to?

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This is Part Two of Dan Tres Omi’s story. Click the links below to read the others.
 
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Dan Tres Omi

Slowing Down

Son, Husband, Father, Teacher, Afro Latino B-Boy, Author, Capoeirista, T-shirt Model, Pro-Feminist, Hip Hop Diplomat

Keep up with Danny on social media...

instagram: @brothereromi

twitter: @DanTresOmi

podcast: Where My Killa Tape At soundcloud.com/dantresomi

medium: @DanTresOmi

Leave comments here to keep the conversation going, to offer words of encouragement or to share your story.

Connect For

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Mortal Man

CONNECT FOR

By: Alvin L. Dillapree Sr.

Detroit is a city where you learn quickly how to deal with loss. Whether it’s your bike or a loved one, the emotions attached with loss are unpredictable. The acceptance or denial of these emotions come with reasoning and understanding. The flip side is that it can be conflicted by the mystery of the unknown.   

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The initial person’s death I consciously understood was a Barber. This is the man who administered my first haircut. I can still feel his voice like grip on my cranium as he orchestrated his symphony of craftsmanship. I think I was 6 years old when I was told he had been shot while in the barbershop during an attempted robbery. This changed how I viewed longevity. I no longer thought of grownups as immortal. Although I didn’t have a personal relationship with him, his death would prove to be profound in my life. His grip remained with me every time I received a haircut for many years. This was my first connection with reality.   

No one truly leaves you when they transition. It simply marks the beginning of a new journey you embark on with your team that you share a special connection with.  

I attended my first funeral at the age of 8. It was for a 10-year-old boy named LaDon. Our families were close. LaDon was struck by a drunk driver while at an ice-cream truck. Every time I see the (stop traffic sign) on an ice cream truck I think of him. I wondered where LaDon was after he departed this life form? Why was a young boy taken away from this world so soon? While riding in the funeral procession to the cemetery for LaDon, the route went directly pass my mother’s place of employment. Ironically she was off work waiting at the bus stop. My cousin and I were the only two people that saw my mom that day. My mother worked to provide for an only child all the luxuries of the wealthy on an economy based salary. She did well. I knew of no other lifestyle as a child. I seemed to be having the perfect life despite the outside world's perception. August 30th 1980, my connection with that exterior world would collide with the interior.

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Starting the 3rd grade can be intimidating. Add the fact that you come from a single parent home, you have very few positive male figures in your life and you live in an urban city during one of the most traumatic times involving drugs and violence. By the way, the only person you depend on - day in and day out, has just been killed at a bus stop waiting to go to her place of employment. I would delay the start of school for about a week. Crazy as it may sound, my biggest worry was that I wouldn’t be able to take the brunt of a mother jokes from other students. Once I got back into school I noticed some people who thought I needed sympathy at this time. I didn’t like this treatment. My mother was gone and the pain of that couldn’t be forgotten soon. But I didn’t want pity. I did, however, understand that now I was more special than before, my story had just changed a little, that’s all. The "knowing" that things always work out for me assisted with the transition to life without my physical mom. I now knew that she was present in a different form. I could feel her connection with me when things became challenging in my life.

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My mourning period would be brief. Less than a year later the man I knew "or didn’t know as my father," passed away. No funeral, obituary or grieving process for me in reference to my dad.  I was informed of the news one day after school and had to immediately move on with life. To my knowledge he had already been buried by the time I was informed. Despite our relationship being what it was - I did feel sad due to the lack of connection with my dad. My psyche changed after my father passed. I now somehow felt stronger mentally. I approached life with the purpose of molding my chaotic clay into a brilliant piece of artwork. The unknown memories of time spent with my dad were now the jet fuel that would propel me to ensuring my own families future happiness. Supreme inner strength and family members support helped me graduate Denby High School in 1990. I proudly served my country in the United States Navy for nearly a decade. 

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In 2008 great events took place in the world. We saw the country do something I never thought was possible; elect a black man into it's highest office. My written article was featured in the popular barber magazine - (Against the Grain) and my son; Alvin Jr.  officially became a member of planet earth. I can honestly say that the past nine years watching him grow have been phenomenal. I now know how the dots connect to some degree. I had to go through all the lessons of pain and loss along the way to arrive to this destination of great appreciation and fulfillment of life. I understand that death is a necessary tool that teaches "it’s not the ending that connects you, it’s the journey while happy that does." No one truly leaves you when they transition. It simply marks the beginning of a new journey you embark on with your team that you share a special connection with.  

 
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Alvin L. Dillapree Sr.

Connect For

Born February 17th 1972 in Detroit Michigan to Margie Dean Dillapree. Alvin Lee Dillapree Sr. has compiled a list of passions that include writing, photography and videography. A graduate of Denby High in Detroit. He went on to serve in the Navy and establish the foundation for the man he would become. Thought provoking and direct are a couple of adjectives that describe Al. Humbled to be the senior writer, managing editor for Against the Grain Magazine, he also had the honor to produce, write and host multiple online radio shows (Barber Sports Talk), (Politics Beauty), (Dream League Show). He was a judge at the 2012 Bigen Barber Competition in Detroit. He was the host of the Barbers Roundtable in Atlanta Ga. He introduced the Barber educational team: (D Elite). He studied Media Arts at Macomb College. The most rewarding of all activities is being with his family.

instagram: @aldillapreesr

facebook: Al Dillapree Sr.

Mortality.

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Mortal Man

Mortality. 

by: Matthew Vaughn

 

11/26/17

Sitting diagonal to a queen two moons past comfort, I try not to breathe too heavy. Afraid I may frighten her into forever, I speak softly, but with bass enough to be felt. I have never met this beauty, but she is fairly familiar with my face. I am told I resemble Her brother, my grandfather. I find this to be truth when a smile awakens to the mountains of Her cheekbones and a whisper is screamed into my spirit, “How are you doing?” I recite a half truth and tell Her I am well, feed Her hand into my own, and watch as Her wisdom dances still. We share a brief kiss of the eyes, mine, drifting above Her brow to the grey coils wrapping towards a crown.

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Tears of another elder cause a chaos in my chest. I witness the pain between two weeping rivers of remember when and a future without. A loss of hope engulfs the hearts of Her lineage, a gain of understanding sweeps them with purpose. Traveling word informs me, she is given the remainder of the week. Directly into the ear of my mother, and to the lip-reading eyes of my grandmother, “I'm ready to go,” is Her calling.

 

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I write this story without a drop of sorrow, not because I am strong, but because I was only awarded with a moment, and, fortunately, a living and mysteriously nostalgic one. Death often attacks without consideration for those outside of its grasp. It usually does not wave goodbye nor express its love one last time. But it is one last time that we get. Whether or not we know it is then is for the moment to reveal itself to passing truths. This year, a year of unexpectedness, my first year at a college and my first year losing a friend from college, a year which my father's mother volunteered mortality and was denied in her effort, a year which my mother's mother shivered at the mere mentioning of such… as we still await her results, I have learned how troubling the acceptance aspect can be. This is, however, a glorious reflection on the light we have casted in whatever amount of perceived time we are here. It is intentional in both the process of mourning we endure, in whatever way that may be, and the clarity and lessons learned following. Although mortality is on its way, we can still live with enough purpose to enjoy and be enjoyed in everlasting life. In the hearts of our homes. In the memory of many spirits. In the love we spread which lasts, without conditions, into eternal.

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Alexandria Austin 9/16/96—9/26/17

Shirley Williams 4/8/37—11/27/17
 
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Matthew Vaughn

Mortality.

Student + Spirit + Poet + Tree + Maroon Arts Group + Member of Underdog Academy

instagram: @MatthewVaughnUA & @underdogacademy

twitter: @MatthewVaughnUA & @underdogacademy

inquiries: underdogacademy937@gmail.com

website: uapoetry.com

Be sure to keep up with Matthew on social media and please leave comments on this page to offer words of encouragement, to share your story and to keep the dialogue going.

I Had a Life Taken Away From Me

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Mortal Man

I had a life taken away from me

By Leroy Bean

 

“Looking at my phone with a blank stare

as it mirrors my sentiments 

With a blank note pad

Cursor 

Just blinking at me

Waiting for the right words to be thought

To be said

To be written down

But the music it plays

Drowned out in the background 

Echoing almost

Like my thoughts 

Not quite able to make them out

But I feel them

An idea

Growing outside the boundaries of my mind

Controlling me 

Forcing ocean storms from my eyes

Stone petrified for long moments at a time

But the scary thing is 

You can't hear someone else's thoughts

And society doesn't value expression enough

And the idea

Of suicide 

is solitary confinement 

Surrounded by walls of your demons

thoughts of escaping suffering 

An idea that can barely be expressed

Just a feeling

And we underestimate feeling too much 

With the strength it can give you

And the weakness it can infect you with

But with enough

Love 

And 

Compassion

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It can become the cure to someone's day 

Or lifetime

Their breath 

and existence 

We miss yours already

I remember your smile 

Your goofy laugh

Your innocence when we played as kids 

I wish 

my reach extended past the limits of time

To reclaim the memories 

To experience the feeling again

I just seen you

I had faith

Between our eye contact 

That space

There was a connection 

Your face 

It told me something 

I felt something

A glimpse of those memories again

The world of oblivion we lived in

Ignorant to the demons that could tear us down 

They were just monsters under the bed

Under our consciousness

 

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Some of us become aware the hard way

We get scared

Cornered by our fears

Distracted from people who love us 

Standing in the peripheral 

We are here for you

Speak to me 

It's okay 

Express yourself

Cry and flood away your trauma

Please continue to check in on the people you say you love and care for

Dive deep into introspective conversation 

Don't be afraid of the darkness in the abyss when you get there

You are life

And light

You are love 

And Mark 

I hope you still feel

That we love you.”

 

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This poem is about my first close encounter with DEATH since the beginning of the destruction of my masculinity control system.

I’ve always been the type of person to think a lot; always confined to my own mind. Being a male, I locked my emotions and fears and feelings and unhappiness all up there with me. It drove me crazy. At the age of 22, for the FIRST time in my life I had somewhat of a “heart to heart” with my dad about how our disfunctional relationship has been affecting my life and the life of his other two sons. The conversation wasn’t really equally open on both ends. I realized I couldn’t force my Dad to change his mindset, but I could fix mine. It’s been over a year since I started chipping away at this wall of masculinity. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve had to struggled with in my life so far. To realize that I had an unhealthy relationship with MYSELF and I had to start over. To realize that I had been living in a prison this entire time, but only I could let myself out. To realize that I had been crippling myself rather than making myself stronger. I was suffering...

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This poem is about my first close encounter with DEATH since the beginning of the destruction of my masculinity control system. He was a childhood friend of mine. Our Mom’s were friends, so we were really close. We had lost touch over the last few years; felt like forever. One random day a few months ago, I stopped in Third Perk Coffeehouse and I happened to see his dad across the street. He comes to talk, tells me how he has been, and that is son is on his way over. I was excited, I hadn’t seen him in years! When I saw him I was happy. I couldn’t wait to link back up when we had more time, to talk to him - and share what I’ve learned - and hear what he’s learned - and discuss music - and share my poetry with him - and find out what new talents he has developed! 

So many more things I wanted our friendship to experience, but I guess there was only time for that one. 

I gave him my number because my phone was dead at the time. I heard he had been through some things, so I really wanted him to hit me up. I’m big on sharing wisdom and communicating. Maybe some of my experiences could help him.

About a month goes by, I wake up to a phone call from my mom, telling me that he had committed suicide the night before. The disbelief that fell over me was overwhelming. All I could do was cry...and wonder why. 

Why couldn’t he express what he was going through to get help? What was holding him back?

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After hours of asking myself unhealthy questions, I decided to write this poem about how I genuinely felt. I had a week before the funeral to find a way to process these new emotions I now have the ability to, sadly, only recognize. I found that it was easy to distract myself and have fun and feel better. But there were these moments... between breaths, where the world seemed to slow down and the background noise was low and distorted... I would drift off into a montage of thought about him and memories that we shared, hopeing he really found something more peaceful, his family and realizing that, per usual, I can’t open my mouth and say any of this. Just stuck in my mind. The farthest I got was, “...I had a friend commit suicide.”

 Then remained silent long enough for the recipient of my awkward sorrow to feel uncomfortable and say “I’m sorry to hear that.” because I didn’t give them enough communication to adequately give me the response I needed. 

The day of the funeral arrived. I’m happy with the connections and impact he made while here in our reality. Stuck in my mind, not really able to speak much. His mother asked me to do a poem, luckily I had started writing this poem before she had even asked. I thought I would let that speak for itself and for me. Still, I was incomplete. Until the end of the funeral when I released everything haunting my body thru tears, in my mother’s arms, and comforted by my women. An intimate embrace that felt so healing. Something a lot of men have never experienced, including myself until now. Vulnerability seems to be more haunting than the thing that makes you feel vulnerable in the first place. 

It wasn’t until a few days after the funeral where I sat down with my woman and fully expressed myself and talked about the descriptions of my emotions and thoughts 

with another human being. It felt freeing! After 23 years, it only took me a week and some change to express some serious mental trauma. I’m doing better but the effects of masculinity still has its holds on me. But we must acknowledge our fears and trauma and demons, in order to get passed them.

 
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Leroy Bean

I Had a Life Taken From Me

Leroy is a author, spoken word artist and member of Underdog Academy.

Author of The Love and Theory of Womanology, "book and CD available on amazon."

host of Underdog Academy's Broken English 101 podcast available at: soundcloud.com/be101ua

instagram: @hxc24_ & @underdogacademy

twitter: @HXC24

facebook: Leroy Da'Vaughn Bean & Underdog Academy

snapchat: @xCaptainPlanet

tumblr: hyerpoetry.tumblr.com

and also at uapoetry.com

Survivor's Guilt

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Mortal Man

Survivor's Guilt

Dan Tres Omi

Maybe cause I’m dreamer and sleep is the cousin of death Really stuck in the scheme of, wondering when I’mma rest.
— Kendrick Lamar on "Sing About Me" on his "Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City" album

We called him “Conejo” which means “rabbit” in Spanish. He was dark skinned and lean. His muscles only came out when he sprung into action. He was fast and could jump high. I recall watching him touch the top of the rim at the basketball courts at P.S. 100 in the Soundview section of the Bronx. He was nice with the hands. Conejo was way better at everything than we all were. He could run fast, play football, baseball, swim fast, outbox anyone, and slick talk his way out of everything.

If one of us got into a fight, he would coach us through it and we would win. Today, when I watch a youtube video of how to do a particular acrobatic move for Capoeira or Breakdancing, I imagine Conejo doing this in 2017. Back in the late eighties, he was that guy. If you needed tips on how to jump higher or lift more weights, you went to Conejo. He was very encouraging. You wanted Conejo in your corner when you were down. He had the right words to tell you. When I would strike out at baseball, he would not berate me. Conejo would tell me what I needed to work on and even offered to help me out.

When I learned of his suicide my entire world was shaken. It took me several weeks to get over the shock. Each morning I woke up, I expected to see him doing calisthenics outside like he did every morning. How could a brother who we all looked up to take his own life? At thirteen - it was the first time I came to grips with my mortality. He was too young to have children or to have a bigger impact on our community. I felt that it was all a waste. So after the shock, I felt betrayed. It was selfish but I was just a teenager and I still had much to learn.

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Fast forward to my enlistment in the U.S. Navy. I came home on liberty one weekend and ran into a long time homie, Running Man Johnny. "He was always running to and from somewhere, hence the name." That day was no exception. When I jumped out of the gypsy cab with my sea bag and a hug box of presents Running Man Johnny offered to help out. I did not want to waste his time because I knew that if he helped me up my mother would have forced him to stay and eat. I hugged him and thanked him. I told him we could link up the next day and catch up. He agreed and ran off. I never saw him again. He was murdered a few hours later. As my brother and I dj'ed the night away in his bedroom Running Man Johnny was shot several floors below our window. We heard the gunshots. Running Man Johnny was killed by someone who he fought and beat the night before. While his name was given to him for always running to his destinations, he never ran from a fight. He was survived by a daughter who never got to know his long hugs. When I was a fresh faced teenager who wanted to just get his dance on and meet girls in other projects Running Man Johnny was my wing man who made sure none of the hardrocks jumped me. He saved my life in so many ways. All of my memories of him were good ones. Oftentimes when I pour libations, his name passes through my lips.

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I wonder if at times, I am a pretender when so many who were stronger than me in so many ways are no longer here.

This year an elder I knew was murdered. At 44, I never imagined that I would still lose loved ones to gun violence. I thought that once we pushed through the pain of the Crack Cocaine era in NYC that we would not lose loved ones to gun beefs or drive bys gone bad. TC Islam lived in my building when we lived in the projects in the Bronx. He was lively and always dropping jewels on us. If there was anyone that was about peace and embodied the principles of the mighty Universal Zulu Nation (UZN), it was TC Islam. He was the last person I thought would be murdered. I thought that at a certain age we old heads would grow up to brag about our children and wait for the arrival of our grandchildren. I assumed that many of us would make it to elderhood and be called OG's by the youngbloods.

When I hear a young person call me OG it stings on so many levels. I think that I don't deserve these stripes. Clearly, Conejo, Running Man Johnny, and TC Islam would be OG's. We learned so much from them. I would be a liar if I didn't say that their lessons helped shaped me. The jewels they dropped helped me navigate through life as I got older. My life would have been vastly different if I never met them. I will go so far as to say I might not have survived to be this old if it wasn't for them and others like them who are no longer here.

I cry so much. I don't think I have the strength to cry anymore for losing so many loved ones in such a senseless manner. I wonder if at times, I am a pretender when so many who were stronger than me in so many ways are no longer here. So when I hear the term “OG,” it stings.

This is Part One of Dan Tres Omi’s story. Click the links below to read the others.
 
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Dan Tres Omi

Survivor's Guilt

Son, Husband, Father, Teacher, Afro Latino B-Boy, Author, Capoeirista, T-shirt Model, Pro-Feminist, Hip Hop Diplomat

 

Keep up with Danny on social media...

instagram: @brothereromi

twitter: @DanTresOmi

podcast: Where My Killa Tape At soundcloud.com/dantresomi

medium: @DanTresOmi

 

Leave comments here to keep the conversation going, to offer words of encouragement or to share your story.

All In A Name

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MORTAL MAN

All In A Name

by: Aaron Paschal

I'll never forget the emotions, the memories, the stillness that I felt the first time I signed my last name after my father passed away. It was like time stood still as visions of my father flashed before me. Memories of my childhood and hearing him walk through the house quoting Muhammad Ali and scenes from Superfly followed by his goofy laugh. I could see him with a basketball in his hand calling himself the "Slama' from Bama" in our driveway followed by a hook shot that always seemed to go in no matter where he shot it from as my friends and I looked on annoyed and impressed all at the same time. 

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I wonder how long I stood there at the desk signing my last name?

Funny how something I've done countless times in my life could trigger such thoughts. I'd always taken my last name for granted and even had grown accustomed to simply writing my initials up until March 18, 2012. That's the date my father passed away and left me his only son to carry on his name, his lineage, his legacy.

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While I was there at that desk signing my name on that paper I could hear my father’s voice calling out to me to press my teenage foot on the brakes as we worked on my first car. I could hear him telling me how foolish my uptown haircut looked. I could hear him repeat some of the same corny jokes that he told me as a child to my kids. 

I wonder how long I stood there at that desk signing my last name?

I could hear the frustrations in my father's voice as he seemed to be in and out of the hospital the final year of his life. I can remember the strength and courage he displayed as he was diagnosed with stage four cancer. I never heard him complain or ask "Why me?" He just went about his life, enjoying time with his family, soaking in the love and what I imagine the pride that he had as he looked at the people he would soon be leaving behind.

Isn't it funny how something as simple as signing your last name can remind you where that name came from? How what you do with that name extends far beyond you?

I wonder how long I stood at that desk signing my last name?

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MORTAL MAN is dedicated to the memory and legacy of my father
— Willie Frank Paschal