It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt

I'm An Uncle...Again!

Joyous news oh joyous news....after waiting for five plus years for Jerry and Erin Jones of Wilmington, North Carolina to figure out what the rest of us figured out when we were children (that is...how to make children)...they have finally made me, Mr. and Mrs. Eller, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones very happy. On January 13th...in what might have been the quickest labor ever (35 minutes)....little baby Elijah Jacob Jones was born...little ugly critter (check out his picture in my photo album)...and he looks just like Jerry...except extremely whiter...it's all very creepy they way genetics works out.

Let me tell you a little bit about the parents. I met Jerry Lee Jones, Jr. my first or second day at Warren Wilson College...we ended up meeting because I saw that he was reading the newest Robert Jordan book that had just come out in hardcover (I believe that was book four...Mr. Jordan is now on Book 12...and the damn series still isn't finished...please note...I met Jerry Jones almost 11 years ago). I flounced into his room, introduced myself, and laid claim to the book as soon as he was finished with it. So began a beautiful friendship. Jerry Jones...also called Black Man!...is from Bladenboro in Bladen County North Carolina...which is so far in the country that I have never been there and it is hard to find on the map. Jerry has several delightful siblings...all of whom I have met...and all of whom are as country as Jerry was when I first met him. I love them. His 18 year old sister Lisa came to visit us one summer on campus...and at the age of 18 I taught the girl how to play Go Fish and War...I'll repeat that...at the age of 18 this girl played Go Fish and War (yes the card games). And...Jerry and I took her to a Chinese Restaurant...which was the first Chinese eatery she had ever been too and also the first restaurant that she'd been to with cloth napkins. When I say Jerry's family is country. They are country. But I've never met a more kind-hearted, intelligent, funny, caring, spirited, and committed bunch of people in my life. To be a Jones is to be loved. Some of my fondest memories of my time at Warren Wilson were answering the phone when Jerry's mother would call. Times when I would lie to his Mother and tell her that Jerry had been having girls sleeping over, drinking, and carousing and what not.  And then I'd pass the phone to Jerry...and listen for the yelling to begin. Jerry Jones is my big brother in every way. I love him, and I miss him. I haven't seen him in a year...but now I guess it's off to North Carolina to see if I can do anything to help his homely child grow up to be prettier than his father. I'm praying for a miracle.

Then there's Erin Eller Jones. Now...I knew Erin much before Jerry did. Jerry actually didn't meet and start hanging out with Erin until after I left Warren Wilson College at the end of the summer after our Sophomore year. I met Erin my second or third week at Warren Wilson when I tried out for the college production of J.B. by Archibald Macleish.  Lord have mercy...I could not stand Erin Eller. First off...her Father was a Math Professor on campus...and she grew up on campus...so she thought she was the Princess of Jones Mountain and shit (Jones Mountain is one of the moutains the college owns...it's where the goats live). There were a few times when I wanted to pull a Chuck Norris and roundhouse kick  her in the face. I was basically of that mind frame when I left Warren Wilson. Imagine my utter and complete horror when I got a phone call from Jerry Jones telling me that he and Erin were engaged. V-O-M-I-T-A-R. I immediately called out mutual friend Leah...who confirmed that Jerry wasn't high when he called and that he actually was engaged to Erin Eller...and I went straightaway to church and lit a votive and asked the Blessed Virgin to send a lightning bolt to knock some sense into Jerry's head. Well...much to my delight...both Erin and I did a lot of growing up between the last time I saw her and campus and the next time I saw her when I went to visit Jerry Jones. By the time they were married a year and a half later...I was loving me some Erin...and I was looking forward to having her as a sister in law. Leah...on the other hand...was still protesting their engagement right up until the "I Do" part. I don't think she has any idea to this day how close she came to not being invited to that wedding.

I spent last Christmas with Jerry and Erin at Erin's parent's house. Sara and Tommy Eller are two of the most delightful creatures that the South has ever produced...as well as Sara Ann's sister Aunt Marjorie. Aunt Marjorie...with that coastal South Carolina drawl...could ask me to do anything...including die...and I'd figure out how to do it twice. I probably ate three rum cakes, two pans of pumpkin biscuits, and four apple pies just because she asked me if I wanted something to eat. I just can not tell Sara Ann or Auntie no. No sir. One of the best moments of last Christmas was when I was getting ready to leave and Sara Ann gave me a big hug and said..."You know the way back now don't you?"
Which was the sweetest way anyone has ever asked me to come back and visit again. I adore the Ellers. If you are ever in Black Mountain, North Carolina...stop by and say hello for me. Tell 'em Brandon sent you.  (I thought it was even more fun when I was introduced to some of Jerry's in-laws as Jerry's brother...from the North).

I'm very excited to add Elijah Jacob Jones to the list of my nieces and nephews (which also includes my eldest nephew the child genius Jason Leslie Strother, Jr. and the most beautiful and brilliant little girl to ever grace the earth...Shayla Denise Zoerink...they get all their gifts from me of course...including Elijah Jacob...).

I just can't wait to meet my newest little nephew. Someone has to teach the kid how to shop!

I Love My Hair Today...

My hair and I have been having a contest of wills since I was old enough to have to start "styling" it myself. I use the world style loosely...as it is more like I have to sneak up on my hair and trick it into doing what I want it to do. Of all the racial groups on planet Earth...mixed kids get the shortest end of the stick when it comes to products. My hair grows in such strange patterns that in high school...when I would go the Aveda Institute for a hair cut...the instructors would summon students near and far to stare, poke, prod and product my hair.  Finally, after ten years of daily defeats in the War Against My Follicles...I cried havoc and dropped the equivalent of the atom bomb on my head...my freshmen year of college...I shaved it completely off.

I remember it vividly. I'd seen Jordan walking around campus with his recently shaven scalp reflecting sunlight in all directions. And I knew at that moment that I had the answer I needed to win the fight. I mustered up my courage to make the ultimate sacrifice...I marched into my dorm room...where I found Jerry and Leah...and I announced that I wanted someone to shave my head. Jerry shook his head and said that he didn't want to get cut once it was over and I realized what I'd done. He excused himself from the room just in case I lashed out at the innocent when the mission had been accomplished. Leah, being the matter-of-fact girl with sensible shoes she is, eagerly agreed to scalp me. When it was all over. I took a deep breath. And looked in the mirror. Other than the fact that my pate was unusually pale (since it had never seen the sun...ever)...I found that I liked it. And for the next decade of my life...whenever my hair started thinking about getting long enough to curl...I dashed to the nearest discount salon and put my hair back in its place. Over the last ten years I've thought about growing my hair out. But the minute the curls showed up and started getting a little bit unruly...the control freak in me would start gibbering...and I would dart to my friendly neighborhood Great Clips and pop a Celexa. 

But last August...I decide to make peace with my hair. I signed a treaty agreeing to not cut my hair (other than the occasional clean up around the neckline) for one year. In the beginning...it was a daily struggle not to go the way of the U.S. Government with just about every treaty it ever signed...but with a little courage...and a new collection of bandanas and trendy baseball caps...I have now made it to a point...some four and a half months into the treaty period...that I am starting to love my curly hair. To begin with...I finally found a product that is strong enough to hold things in place but light enough that it doesn't hold my hair hostage (thank you Fructis!). And the curls are fully, shiny, long, and wavy. This morning, I took a look in the mirror, and apologized to my hair for nearly twenty years of repression.

Now...I still have some eight months to go in the treaty period. I'm sure there will again be moments when I get the urge to go around the treaty by actually pulling my hair out of my head instead of cutting it (I'd make a great U.S. attorney). But I have faith that I will make it through. I still have those bandanas and hats...just in case.

The G-O-D....

So this morning, as I was lamenting the fact that my air mattress has sprung a leak...and as a result I woke up with a massive leg cramp from the Satanic cold seeping up from the tile floor through the deceased Swiss Comfort Level Three Air Bed...I turned on my DVD player and flipped to the Special Features section of The Gospel DVD. I clicked on the song You Are Good (a kick ass song by Kirk Franklin)...and washed the morning funk from my body.

As I was in the bathroom praying that my hair wouldn't freeze before I could finishing brushing it...I started to sing along...filled with a sense of amazement that anyone listening to black Gospel music could have any doubt that there is a God. The spirit of celebration and the fundamental spirit of transcendence that I feel whenever I hear black Gospel music is all I have ever needed in the way of proof of God's existence. And it really is that specific...when I go to Catholic mass...I could just as well do without the hymns (although I do love me a massive Catholic choir that sings old school stuff...you know...like Handel's Messiah). There is something about the history of African-American people...something about living for centuries in this country with nothing and no one to truly rely on but ourselves, our community, and our God that is still so viscerally real in black spiritual music...whether it be Old Negro Spirituals or the latest hit by Mary Mary. It is only by the grace of God...that so many of our ancestors survived...the grace of God...and Harriet Tubman...that woman worked!

Now...I absolutely believe that there is more than one way to understand the Divine...I think I've mentioned this before...but it just so happens that the Christian flavor of Diety is what does it for me. And it's not always easy being a progressive person and being a Christian. I take that back actually...it is easy...but I have had some spectacular events with people I love around issues of religion. I believe that being a progressive Christian is a radical act. I believe that Christianity...like so much else that has come from historic communities of color...has been co-opted. My friend Jeremy likes to harp on and on about brown Christians being colonized...love you kid but read your history Christianity was colonized.  Just in case people are wondering or have any doubts...the men and women living in Judea and Israel 2000 years ago...were not white. Unfortunately...Christianity was taken, warped, and used by white people (Europeans in particular) to justify all kinds of barbaric acts (slavery---when slavery first took hold...the legal justification for enslaving individuals was based on religious adherence or being a prisoner of war and not on race...race based slavery was developed slowly over the 200 year period from about 1500-1700...other fun things from Christianity's not so fun history...the crusades, subjugation of women, anti-queer campaigns...and the list goes on...funny thing...the early Christian Church---before Rome took over---was queer friendly, woman friendly, and preached absolute equality of all folks...also...remember...that when Christiantity was founded...the Roman Empire was comprised of folks of all shades of black and brown).  My family has suffered from some of Christianity's craziness..my Great-Grandmother was taken from her nation and forced into a boarding school...de-Indianized as much as possible...and forced to take a new name.  I have no illusions that horrible things have been done in the name of Christianity...and I would give just about anything to have  been on the other side as various and sundry Popes, Bishops, Presidents, Kings and Queens were met at the Pearly Gates with express tickets to Beelzebub's Play World and Torture Fair. I'm not quite sure what they missed when Jesus said...the greatest commandment...if you keep no other...is to love.  Burning people at the stake, unless I am really mistaken, is hardly an act of affection.

I played around with the idea of switching up religions. Judaism is extremely attractive to me...the idea of Tikkun Olam...that we all have a responsibility to work to bring the world back to its original state of grace...is probably my favorite Judaic ideology (please oh please oh please have someone remind the Israeli government of this). When I was in high school I thought about becoming a Muslim...but really...I just wanted to be able to shout at people in Arabic when I was angry...and I figured that didn't justify a religious conversion...I even thought about Wicca...but you want to talk about crazy white people (not all by any means...but wooooooowheeee!). I still now and again thing about emerging from my mikvah and freshly minted Jew...but I still have some things to work around with Jesus (like...the whole Messiah thing...really...that doesn't bother me so much...I just don't want to have to give up his teachings...and one really can't be a Jew and still have some love for Jesus...and the Jews for Jesus ain't nothing but a religious right crazy crazy group). In the end...I just can't imagine leaving behind a faith that has sustained my family (except Grandma Bim We We) for centuries.

I am thankful for my faith and my spiritual grounding. There are times and have been times when I have had some pretty harsh things to say to the Creator...generally at times when I've pretty much fucked up on a consistent basis...and then pulled a why me...poor me...it's all your fault...with the Gesu Cristo.  There are times as with this morning when God uses music to remind me that He is still there...still rooting for me...still waiting for me...still willing to work with me. One of the hardest things to do is to let Him help work things out (I'm a type A control freak...He may be omniscient and omnipotent...but I'm a Virgo--totally His fault---and we don't like anyone trying to run things too much). But if I've learned anything in this vida loca of mine...it's that when I'm running things...things run me. When I let Him run the show...then I get front row seats and back stage passes. I've been running things a little bit too much lately...that's probably why God smote my air mattress. But like the Kirk Franklin song said this morning. "Lord you are good and your mercy endureth forever."

I'm Crazy As Hell...

So if you are a regular consumer of It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt (man the name of my blog is long as hell)...then you are probably quite well aware that I am a little bit on the cuckoo-cuckoo-bananas side of things. Monie insists that I'm not as crazy as the man that walks down Central Avenue talking to his shoe. But that's because I only talk to my shoes in private. There's really not that much to do in Albuquerque. Plus, shoes can be great conversationalists. Except Nikes. They only speak Cantonese.

My crazy is pretty controlled. I don't tend to cluck or bark or shout random obscenities...well...at least not uncontrollably...I often do it out of sheer whimsy. Or to scare the truly well adjusted. But, always, lurking just below the surface, is a layer of crazy just waiting for its opportunity to escape. That is why I love therapy.

Personally, I believe that every single person on the planet needs to be in therapy. Because, really, look at the world we are living in. We've got a Chimpanzee in the White House (no offense to chimps or to Jane Goodall), and roughly 55 million U.S. citizens voted to put a lower primate in the Oval Office (say it with me people...CRAZY).  And pretty much there are various species of monkeys and apes running most of the industrialized nations. Except Canada...I think Canada elected a Moose (Crazy Canuks). And for the rest of the world that is living in abject poverty and shows up now and again on those Christian Children's Fund commercials...well...if you show up on a tv commercial because you are getting your meals out of the trash heap (or wrestling it out of Sally Struthers meaty paws)...then you probably could use someone to talk to as well. And those folks generally can't afford shoes.

So, taking my own advice, yesterday the Kaiser and I went in search of a little mental health help. Both Gigi and Jose (my compadres de la oficina) have  been raving about one Carmen from Corrales that is working miracles in their lives (if you think I'm crazy...sit in a room with Jose for half an hour...just playin' Jose...but don't look directly into his eyes too long ya'll...I'm serious.) So I figured if this Carmen from Corrales could help them...then perhaps she'd be able to lend me a metaphysical hand as well. Now, calling her felt a little bit like cheating. I had a great therapist back in Minneapolis (Kathy Vader with a booming practice in Edina)...and Kathy has been by far my favorite therapist (well...except for her intern Chris...who was even better...but I would never tell Kathy that...Kathy knows people...if you get my meaning.) But since Kathy is 980 miles away as the crow flies and 1130 as the Kaiser drives, I figured I should probably find someone a little bit closer to home. So, I jumped in my car, ground some gears (I  hate stick shifts), and made my way across the valley to a small Village called Corrales.

I was not disappointed. Carmen has a very calm demeanor. It was easy to talk with her (once I found her damn office...who lives in a village these days...really...I have half a mind to raise an army and go pillaging). She explained her methodology very clearly. And it seems pretty groovy. The entire session consisted of Carmen asking me a series of questions about my life, my history, my family. I thought her eyebrows were going to circle clear around to the back of her head when I told her that I take 150 miligrams of Zoloft every day (she seemed to think that was alot...I wanted to tell her about my friends at Pride that scoffed at my measly 150...since they were on 200, 250 or  more).  And  by the end of our session (that's generous)...by the middle of our session (come on let's be honest)...after the first five minutes of our session (that's a good chap)...I'm pretty sure she was convinced that I could use a little "support"  as she strategically called it. After listening to myself talk about the last year of my life (added to the last 27 years)...I didn't need any diagnosis from her...I realized that I am crazy as hell.   I know I know there's that old maxim that says if you call yourself crazy then you really aren't crazy because crazy people don't know they are crazy. But, maybe I'm just a "functional" crazy. You know like a "functional" alcoholic. Whatever the case may be, I'm excited to be back in therapy. And so are my shoes.

Politics Versus Sleep...

It's 1:22am, and I have taken up refuge in my office. Chased out of my own apartment by my politics and my neighbors need to interefere with my dreams  (TWICE) by playing his/her music so loud that I actually dreamt that I was a contestant on American Idol.

When I was woken up at 11pm...I was righteously pissed. I ran to our shared wall...which was vibrating like a sex shop after a power surge...and neatly put the heel of my foot straight through the drywall in my rage. I then climbed into bed, drywall and all, and called my landlord asking him to call my neighbors. In the meantime, I myself went and played psycho-caveman and beat on their front door gate...but the occupants refused to answer. A moment later, however, the music stopped--I believe my landlord's mission a success.

To my chagrin, however, I found myself having a dream that the neighbors and my roommates (of which I have none) were in cahoots to become the pot selling moguls of Princeton Drive, and just as my roommates and the neighbors completed their transaction...the police shined their flashlights through our patio door (I don't have a patio)...directly on to my roommate who is standing with a kilo of Mary Jane in his hands. Well...that woke me up again...or so I thought. Actually...it was my neighbor's attempt to resurrect Selena by playing her music so loudly that she could follow it back to Earth from the other side.

So, I rose from my bed. My hair remarkably similar in appearance to Phyllis Diller's...and I raised my fists in the air (very black power/Scarlett O'Hara with that potato) and slammed them against the wall.  To no avail.

Now this entire time I'd been thinking to myself. Just call the police. You know. Those friendly ladies and chaps in blue that are there to protect and serve and sodomize with their nightsticks (I saw a porn with this in it once...it was kinda hot...but it's the bashing in of the skull that generally follows the real experience to which I object). But just as I went to pick up my Samsung Sprint flip-phone and unleash my righteous anger upon my almost positively immigrant neighbors...I found that my fingers were paralyzed. I couldn't hit those little numbers. I couldn't be responsible for summoning the police to this world from their Hell dimension. Once unleashed...who knows what diabolical acts they would have committed. While I was having devilish visions of drilling a small hole through the neighbor's wall...then waiting until someone looked in the hole...when I would shove the screw driver right into their brain...I couldn't contemplate calling the police...particularly in an environment where if an immigrant farts in public they might just find themselves on an airplane headed for the Central African Republic...or Iowa...and I'm not sure which one is a worse fate.

So here I am in my office. My pillows and blankets piled on the couch in the common room...waiting for me once my rage has been reduced to a level where I no longer have fantasies of homocide in the 1st degree. And, at least I'll have a fun story to share with my friends (the ones that got to sleep through the night) when the sun rises tomorrow...and I can plot my revenge.