My Two Cents: You Learned History, Now What?

June 23, 2020

When protesters and cities started taking down monuments to the Confederacy and NASCAR banned the Confederate flag from all of its properties, I cheered. Finally, people were starting to understand that these were not symbols of "Southern Pride" or "Southern Heritage", but symbols of hate.

When I started hearing about people taking down the statues of Ulysses S. Grant and George Washington, however, this concerned me. This was done, because each of them had owned slaves.  While slavery is one of America's greatest sins (the near-annihilation of the indigenous population being the other) you have to judge the entire resume.

With regards to Grant, "the Third Force Act, also known as the KKK or the Civil Rights Act of 1871, empowered President Ulysses S. Grant to use the armed forces to combat those who conspired to deny equal protection of the laws and, if necessary, to suspend habeas corpus to enforce the act. Grant signed the legislation in 1871. After the act’s passage, the president for the first time had the power to suppress state disorders on his own initiative and suspend the right of habeas corpus. Grant did not hesitate to use this authority.  Shortly after Congress approved the law, nine counties in South Carolina, where KKK terrorism was rampant, were placed under martial law and thousands of persons were arrested."

With regards to George Washington, he's George Freakin' Washington! Decorated general, Founding Father, and turned down another term for fear of becoming a monarch or emperor. (Take notes, Donald John.)

No one is perfect. The more important they are  / were, the more research will be done, and, in turn, the more likely you are to find something untoward about them. (I, for example, have siblings that are fans of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Horrendous! Sure, not "owned slaves horrendous", but not great.) That being the case, the question becomes, "What do you do with this newfound knowledge?"

In my humble opinion, you Teach. You let people know what you found and add that to the person's story. What we're seeing, and have been seeing for some time, is not an attempt to erase history, but to correct it. People have been fed romanticized, sometimes false, narratives about this country and the people who built it. That needs to be corrected. Not just in college courses that you can choose to avoid, but starting with kindergarten. This information should be made available and taught to everyone regardless of race, socio-economic status, or region of the country. Not only will this lead to a greater understanding of historical figures, but will let people know, from an early age, that it's okay to be flawed.

Once people accept that it's okay for them or others to have flaws, you can have reasonable discussions regarding whether or not the "flaws" are forgivable and how to respond to the unforgivable ones.

Ultimately, you can only fight Ignorance with Education. #PayOurTeachers

Dear Diary – Workin’ For A Lavin’

Monday, November 26th, 2018

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say, with me chillin’ in a car I spent all day waxing. As the first day back at work since Thanksgiving, I was in a rare mood (i.e. a good one). Things couldn’t have been better. I had a great night’s sleep, I got up early to make my Momz a big breakfast, I took an extra long shower (or what my sister refers to as “why is the wall crying?”), and I was dressed by bluebirds before driving down the yellow, brick road to head to the wonderful Land of Oz. “If ever o’ever a Wiz there was…”

Let’s try that again. The day began like any other, which is to say with me tossing and turning before finally peeling myself off of the floor before dragging myself upstairs to barely make what I thought was a 9 am meeting. As it turned out, the meeting started at 11. Turns out that was a good thing, because by the time my computer booted up, it was quarter to 10:00. “What? Do computers take vacations? Is it Boxing Day? What the hell, Canada?!?”

The 11:00 went as do all meetings in every corporation across the globe in which the participants are in different locations; as well as can be expected. Here’s a typical meeting:

·        The meeting organizer arrives late, leaving the participants to try, unsuccessfully, to engage in small talk.

·        Five to 10 minutes of technical issues

·        People saying one, more, or all, of the following:

o   “Can you see my screen? Let me know when you can see my screen?”

o   “Are you ready to present…Are you on Mute?”

o   “Sorry, I was on Mute.”

o   “Someone is typing / breathing really loudly. Can you put yourself on Mute?”

o   “Did you guys have a chance to read the material I sent out?” [Hint: No.]

o   “Does anyone else hear an echo? I’m hearing an echo. (‘It’s probably your headset.’) “It’s probably my headset…Is that better?”

o   “Sorry, that’s my dog, my kids, the delivery guys, and / or the contractors.”

o   “Damion, is your webcam on? I can’t see your face.” [Okay, that’s probably just meetings that I’m in. I cover my webcam, because they steal souls…I’ve seen ‘Tron’.]

·        Meeting either runs way over or ends “early”, because people from the participants from the next meeting have their faces pressed up against the glass and are tapping their watches in frustration.

I had a 2 o’clock, in-person meeting. So, I washed “strategically”, threw on what was clean and “ironed”, said goodbye to Momz, ordered Mexican take-out, and headed out the door. On the way, to pick up my lunch, I spotted a car with a license plate that read “BBLUVDD”.

“Baby Loves Double Ds?!?” I thought to myself. “How did the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles green light that vanity plate while rejecting my proposal for a license plate that read “DADY LYK”? [Editor’s Note: Probably had something to do with the fact that the plate would be attached to a white, panel van.]

Just as I was about to call the Virginia DMV and give them a considerable piece of my mind, or piece of my considerable mind, the phone rang.

“Hel-looo,” I answered.

“Damion, you said you were fine with us just being friends, correct?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I was out last night, and I couldn’t help but notice a red spot on my date’s shirt. I thought he had spilled some sauce on himself, then realized it was a red dot…like from a laser scope…on a sniper’s rifle.”

“Ya don’t say…That’s odd.”

“Damion, did you hire a sniper to follow me on my dates?”

“Sni-PER???”

“Damion! You hired more than one?!?!”

“In my defense, you never would’ve noticed if your date hadn’t been wearing all black. I mean, seriously, who wears all black. A person going to or planning a funeral, that’s who. I might’ve just saved your life…You’re welcome.”

“First of all, no, thank you. Secondly, I’ve seen you wear all black, including a black trench coat, while driving a black car.”

“First off, I periodically do a tribute to Johnny Cash, for which I will NOT apologize.”

“Nor should you.”

“Secondly, that trench coat looks awesome billowing in the wind.”

“That notwithstanding, I need you to call off the snipers.”

“Fiiiiine.”

“Damion?”

“I heard you, no snipers.”

“…and stop following me.”

“Why do you think I was following you?”

“Who else drives a white panel van with a license plate that reads ‘Daddy Like’?”

“That van was stolen.”

“Damion…”

“Fine! No snipers, no van.”

“No gypsy curses…scratch that, no curses of any kind?”

“No curses of any kind??? How many supernatural beings do you think I know?”

“No drones…”

“I don’t know how to fly a dro—”

“You have nieces.”

“Okay, no snipers, no vans, no curses, no drones, no voodoo, which falls under curses, no parabolic microphones, which would be in the van, no trained squirrels…”

“Damion…”

“Whaaaatttt? What else could you possibly—"

“Love you.”

“Whatever…love ya, too.”

After hanging up the phone, and wondering what I was going to do with 300 trained squirrels [Hint: Off-Broadway ice circus.], I went into Plaza Azteca to pick up my order of chicken fajitas nachos. (“Plaza Azteca: Where You May Get Hit in the Face by a Heavy, Wooden Door”.)

When I finally made it to my desk, I setup my computer, took out my lunch, turned on Sirius XM, and put on my headphones. Now, most people like to use inconspicuous, earphones or air pods to listen to music. This leads to the inevitable “Hey, can I ask—sorry, didn’t know you were on the phone.” Conversation. I, on the other hand, want people from across the room to know that I’m unavailable. This is why I wear my very conspicuous, white, Skull Crushers from Skullcandy. (“Skullcandy: Perhaps, they’ll give me free headphones.”)

Although, I take these precautions, some people just don’t get the hint.

“Hey,” a co-worker whispers, “are you on the phone?”

“No,” I say while pointing to my ‘candys, “Fugees.”

“Cool. I was wonder—”

“Ummm,” I say with voice slightly elevated and eyebrows raised while, once again, pointing to my ‘Crushers, “Fugees!” That seemed to do the trick.

After I finished the lunch that had been lovingly prepared by the culinary master chefs at Plaza Azteca (“Plaza Azteca: Try to Steal Our Chairs, We F’n Dare You!”) I headed to one of the meeting rooms for a “Meet & Greet” with one of my new co-workers. For the uninitiated, a “Meet & Greet” is when two people sit in a room and talk about what they do in order to see how their roles complement each other. In other words, “Tell me why I need to pay attention to your emails and meeting requests.”

After realizing that we didn’t really need to pay attention to each other’s emails unless the people whose emails we did have to pay attention to told us otherwise, I had an unscheduled meeting…with a toilet to be named later. For Montezuma was exacting his revenge, and his weapon of choice was an order of chicken fajitas nachos. There are levels of gastrointestinal disturbance ranging from “I feel a disturbance in the Force” to “Hold all my calls…and alert the villagers.”  By the motion in my bowels, this was gonna be an “alert the villagers…that their property values are about to be lowered…for the next 20 years” kinda event.

Protocol in this type of situation is to move as far away as possible without having an accident. Preferably, in a sparsely-populated area. Not knowing how much time I had, I immediately headed to the fourth floor only to find no empty stalls. Next up: the building next door. There happened to be a cafeteria between my building and the next; a cafeteria with restrooms. For a brief moment, I contemplated using the cafeteria bathroom thinking the smell could be blamed on a culinary misstep. There were, however, unsuspecting innocents nearby. I didn’t mean my fellow Associates, as a good many of them are assholes. No, the innocents to which I was referring were the cafeteria workers: the cooks, the cashiers, the florists / greeting card salesperson, the baristas. These individuals are not paid enough to have to be subjected to as-yet-to-be-determined horror. So, like a Batman taking the nuclear bomb out of Gotham at the end of “Batman: The Dark Knight Rises”, I kept going. I made it to the 4^th floor of the next building only to find that someone had set the leftovers from a potluck near the restrooms.

“Son of a--!!!” I exclaimed. I soldiered on with a bomb in my bowels and no idea when the timer was set to go off. Why? Because you either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. [Editor’s Note: Don’t think about it; just go with it.] I had one more decision to make: head to Building 5 or the Town Center. There wasn’t time for both. I made my call: The Town Center. It was an open floor plan with many restroom accommodations, and, if I timed it just right, no one could trace it back to me.  And with the way things were feeling in my “lower 48”, there would indeed be an investigation…and, quite possibly, jail time.  I found a vacant, handicap stall (Please, that would be the least worrisome of my offenses) right as Montezuma began to exact his revenge. Was it as bad as I thought? No…it was much, much worse. This was a multi-courtesy flush event. The type of bowel movement that felt as though it would never end. The type of bowel movement where the perpetrator would experience the “phantom shitts” (i.e. when you shit for so long that you feel like you’re still shitting 20 minutes after you’re done.)

Once I confirmed that the coast was clear, I washed my hands for several hours, doused the bathroom in accelerant, and burned the bathroom to the ground. (I dried my hands on my pants. I’ve read the reports about hand dryers…No, thank you.)

I nonchalantly made my way back to my desk and resumed my work as though nothing happened. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only, nor the biggest, shit show I had to deal with that day. At the end of the day, I hopped on the shuttle and rode off into the sunset wondering what challenges tomorrow would bring.

Cue the music…

There will be blood (sugar) Part Deux

March 27, 2018

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say, with me dancing til my body ached. (Not a euphemism.) [Editor's Note: Eyebrow raise as if to say "Really?"]  

"Seriously. Not a euphemism,"

[Editor's Note: Eyebrow raised higher combined with a simultaneous pursing of the lips and lowering of the head as if to say "Really???"]

"Okay...okay, it's my annual physical; not to mention my pubic art reveal. I'm kinda nervous."

After a quick check of my pubes, I showered, got dressed, and went downstairs to speak to my Momz before heading out. 

"Good morning, Mammaz."

"Good morning."

"Did you sleep well?"

"I did. Not as well as you I reckon."

"What?"

"I got up last night to go to the bathroom and heard...sounds...coming from your room."

"You were probably just dreaming."

(Eyebrow raised.)

"What?"

(Eyebrow raised higher, lips pursed, head lowered.)

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're implying."

(Eyebrow still raised , lips still pursed, head still lowered, arms crossed.)

"That's a new one. Alright...I was very nervous about today, and needed to relax a bit. Can I go now?"

"Enjoy your day."

I got in my car to head to my appointment. Having gone through yet another pre-urine sample fast, I was hungry and determined. I fired up the engine, put my on my driving gloves, and cut on the nav system to help me avoid any traffic. [Ed's Note: You read that right. That mutha said "driving gloves'']  Yeah, I said "driving gloves". What of it? There are two reasons people buy driving gloves (three, if you count being as asshole): 1) to protect your hands from a hot / freezing steering wheel, and 2) to protect your steering wheel from the oils on your hands. Gotta protect that leather...and my delicate hands. It's not all cocoa butter and cuticle cream. Coulda been a hand model. [Ed's Note: If not for the excessive...nerves.]

I pulled into the parking garage in plenty of time to make my appointment. Then, it happened: my jam. 80% of the time (90% for black folks), the root cause of someone being late, or not showing up at all, can be traced back to "The Jam". The other 20%? "Nerves". That's just science. After the song had finished, I high-tailed it down the stairs, ran past the bike rack, tore open the doors to the Health Center, and slid to the reception desk. I miscalculated how far reception was from the front door and slid past the Pharmacy. Fortunately, I was able to grab hold of the wall and stop myself before I slid into the glass double doors.

"Mr. McCloud?"

"Present."

"This isn't the 3rd grade."

"Sounds like it's the bitch grade."

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

"We're ready for you."

"Coming."

"How are you today?"

"Been better."

"Hurt yourself on that slide?"

"I think I may have dislodged my nuts."

"We don't treat that here."

"Good to know."

"Put your backpack in the exam room and come back out here so we can get your height and weight."

I removed my wallet, keys, cellphones, shoes, headphones, loose change, and sunglasses case. Anything that may add weight.

"Step up on the scale, please."

I olbiged.

"Uhm."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Obviously something."

"Not my place to say," she said as she led me back into the exam room to finish the preliminaries. "Have a seat." 

Again, I obliged. Having many female friends, I knew how to take direction.

"I'm not even supposed to be here today. I work out of VCU, but several people called out. So, here I am," she said with obvious frustration.

She shoved the thermometer in my mouth with a force that made me even more grateful that she wasn't taking my temperature rectally. I began to roll up my sleeve so she could take my blood pressure.

"No need," she said. "Your shirt seems thin enough for me to get a reading."

For the next five minutes, she tries, in vain, to get a blood pressure reading. 

"I can't get a reading!" she finally exclaims.

"Perhaps, I'm dead."

"Haha! Don't say that!" I was glad I finally got a smile out of her, but not thrilled that it took talk of my death to do so. "The doctor will be in shortly. Maybe, she'll be able to get it." I was going to offer to roll up my sleeves, but I didn't want to push my luck.

After taking her sweet time, Pat came in to perform my physical.

"How ya doin', buddy?"

"Pretty good."

"Let's run through the checklist...Drink?"

"Nope."

"Smoke?"

"Nevah."

"Drugs?"

"Only when I get that bomb bomb diddy diddy diddy bomb bomb."

"Ok then...Well, these numbers look great. Your cholesterol continues to amaze. Your Vitamin D looks really good. Your A1C is 5.8, which is beautiful."

"Can I get a lollipop?"

"Can you get a lollipop for having improved your A1C? Do you understand how pre-Diabetes works? Your urine numbers also look pretty go-- Wait, I don't see any urine numbers."

"That's, because they didn't take a urine sample last week when they took my blood. I fasted again yesterday. I'm peeing in something before I leave this office today."

"Would you like to pee in a cup for me?"

"I've peed in worse."

"Doesn't surprise me. When you get back, we'll finish your exam."

When I returned to the exam room, it was standing room only.

"They're here for the pubes," Pat said.

"I figured as much. Either that, or I gave the wrong type of sample again."

"You didn't, did you?"

"...Let me check...All good."

"Hop up on the table so I can check your breathing."

When she pressed on my abdominal, I giggled like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

"That brings me to your not-so-great numbers," she said. "Your weight and BMI. Have you been keeping up with your exercises?"

"I've been known to push rhymes like weight...push rhymes like weight."

"I don't think that co--"

"A yeah yeah!"

"Are you finished?"

"Am I allowed to blaze one for the nation?"

"No."

"Then, yes."

"Do you check yourself for testicular cancer? I mean you're down there in the mornin' messing with the boys anyway."

"Oh, you mean when I shower? Yes, when I shower...and that is the only time."

(Brow raised.)

"What?"

(Brow raised higher, pursed lips, lowered head.)

"Would I lie to you? You're my Primary Care Physician...Primary Care."

(Brow still raised , lips still pursed, head still lowered, crossed arms)

"Your mistrust hurts my soul.

(Raised brow, pursed lips, lowered head, crossed arms, deep breath and exhale)

"Alright...I get nervous. The doctors think it's PTSD."

"Penis Tugging Sacrilege Disorder? Anyhoo, it's time to check 'Heavy D and the Boyz'. These nurses have work to do."

I dimmed the lights.

"How did you do that?"

"You don't wanna know."

"...and where's that music coming from?"

"Amazon Music app on my cellphone."

"But your cellphone's in your bag. How did you?"

"Again, you don't wanna know."

"Is that fog?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"I'm a doctor...Just drop trou and amaze us."

"Not the first time I've heard that...Bazinga!"

As ordered, I dropped trou, and revealed my latest crotch-terpiece.

"Is that a scene from Michael Jackson's 'Billy Jean'?"

"Yep. It came to me while walking through the frozen food section at Target."

"How did you get the tiles to light up like that?" one of the nurses asked.

"I know a guy."

"You know a pube-gineer?"

"I do. I was going to go with 'Smooth Criminal', but my penis tailor was on vacation. So, I decided to stick with this concept."

"Where does one find a penis tailor?"

"Craigslist...and Tufts."

"How would you get him to do that lean?"

"A system of pulleys and counterweights hidden underneath the suit."

"You've really thought this through. Well, we have to get back to our other patients"

"Would you like me to play y'all out?"

"That's be nice."

"Hee...hee...hee..."

Dear Diary: There Will Be Blood (Sugar)

March 19, 2018

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say funkdafied. So, so, so funkdafied. Today, I was to have my pre-physical lab test. Per the instructions of the booking agent, I hadn't anything to eat or drink since 5:00 PM the day before. Fortunately, my belly and soul were still full of the sustenance provided by one Justin Timberlake in our nation's capital the night before. After hopping out of bed and unlocking the gates to bowel country, I took a refreshing shower and did a quick pube check. "Looks good," I said as I compared the current state of my pubes with the schematics I had developed for my latest concept art.

I consumed several bottles of water as I drove into the office. (Being an introvert, I had a shy bladder and didn't want any doubts regarding my ability to perform on the highest stage.) As I entered the Health Center, I was greeted with the usual pleasantries.

"Mr. McCloud, what are we doing for you today?" 

"My annual pre-physical lab work."

"Pre-phyiscal? How exciting. How are the pubes?"

"Looking good. They should be ready for sculpting in a day or so."

"When's the big reveal?"

"The 27th."

"What?!? I'm off that day."

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Is space time a fixed background on which particles move?"

"I...I really don't know."

"Yes, I can keep a secret!"

"You want to see the schematics?"

"Does a --"

"You know what; can we skip the questions? I rarely have any idea what the hell you're talking about."

"It's basic String Theory, but okay."

I whip out the schematics, artist rendering, and a working prototype.

"Wow...Just...Where do you find the time?"

"When you love something, you make the time."

"The soundtrack...and the lights. How do you get everything to work?"

"I have a guy."

"You have a pube guy?"

"Pube-gineer. It's like an imagineer, but for pubes."

"Where does one learn to become a pube-gineer?"

"University of Phoenix online, ecpi, snhu...Tufts."

"Hunh. Well, thanks for the preview...and the education. I think they're ready for you now."

I follow the nurse to the back room to get my blood drawn.

"Which arm?"

"The right is fine."

"Roll up your sleeve for me."

I oblige, because I'm a gentleman...and she has a needle.

"Can you squeeze this ball?"

[Silence. Some things are too easy...and she still has a needle.]

"Can you stretch out your fingers for me?"

"Can you, and I don't think I've ever said this to a woman, move your crotch away from my hand?" (She obliged, because #MeToo, and I obliged, because the needle was still in my arm.)

"Well, that's it. Thank you, Mr. McCloud."

That's it?!? I thought to myself. That's it??? I mean I'm not going to beg somebody to take my urine, but my bladder was at the tipping point. I could bore a hole into a cinder block with all the pressure that had built up in my urethra. My bladder was locked and loaded and ready to show the world what it could do. But, alas, it wasn't meant to be. There be no urination today. Not in public...not in public.

Distraught, I looked down at my bladder, gave him a gentle tap, and said, "Next time, brave warrior. Next time."

[To be continued...]

My Two Cents: A Southern Gentleman's Take

Dear Southern, non-racist White People:

How y'all doin'?  Been a rough couple of days. Let's talk Confederate statues for a second. I'm a black man who is proudly, unapologetically of and from The South. (You know my roots are southern, in part, because I know where to place the apostrophe in "y'all".)

One of the great things about being a black man in The South, in addition to the abundance of white women who feel guilty about their ancestry and / or want to get back at their parents (Obama almost killed that; Trump brought it roaring back.) , is the fact that I never have to explain the confederacy; be it flags or statues. Though the Civil War was a long time ago, people just assume what side I would've been on. Y'all aren't offered that same courtesy. Let's be honest, not everyone can be related to the one white family that either didn't own slaves or treated their slaves well. Shirley Temple's bloodline only runs so deep. [Editor's Note: Yes, I know not all white people owned slaves. I know my history. I saw "Free State of Jones". All white people wanted to own slaves, they just couldn't all afford it...Again, kidding?]

"Damion, this is all (very?) interesting," you might be saying. "But where is this going?"  Here's where this is going:  I understand the need to know your history; I understand not sweeping your bad acts under the rug; but you don't let those bad acts define you, and you certainly don't celebrate them.  (In case I've lost you, the "you" is The South and "bad acts" refers to "The Confederacy" and "Slavery".  All caught up?  Good. I shall now continue.)  The Confederacy happened in The South, Slavery happened in The South, but neither of those things define The South.  As all bad acts, those things should bring a sincere sense of shame and leave a pit in your stomach.  They should not elicit a sense of pride.  And the truth is, in most people, they don't.  If they did, there wouldn't have been such a concerted, institutionalized effort within The South to soften or change that part of history.  So, are confederate monuments / statues an acknowledgment of that time in history or a celebration of it?  To me, the answer is simple: forget what it's called "monument" vs "statue"; forget, for a moment, the intent behind it; then ask yourself, "How does it make most people feel?".  When you go to a Holocaust Museum or a Slave Museum, you leave feeling disgust and that the images and artifacts you viewed speak to a time that can never be allowed to happen again.  When you drive, walk, or run down Monument Avenue in Richmond, Virgina, for example, how do you feel?  Do you feel pride, a sense of wonder at all the majestic statues, or, worse, do you feel nothing at all.  If any of those things describe your feelings (or lack thereof), then it's not about "knowing your history"; it's about denying it.

Here are just a few reasons I love The South:

1. The accent.  There is nothing quite as pleasant as a southern accent.  (As with the British accent, there are some pockets which grate the ears, but, overall...)
2. Hidden slights.  Southerners can insult people in such a way that, not only does the target of said insult not get angry, but they thank you for it.
3. Sweet tea.  There are places in America (America!) where you cannot get a sweet tea.  There are even some places, places whose name I dare not utter (I'm looking at you Southern California), where they will hand you a Snapple...A SNAPPLE!!!
4. Fried chicken
5. Barbecue
6. Hushpuppies
7. Chicken and dumplings
8. Grits (I'm getting hungry. Need to change stride.)
9. Foghorn Leghorn
10. Country music
11. The outfits (cut-off jean shorts, cowboy boots, white or plaid shirt tied in a bow, cowboy hat...yessir) [This is for women only]
12. The Blues (Of course, the reason for the blues isn't to be celebrated, but...lemonade, which brings me to the next thing)
13. Lemonade
14. Moonshine. I don't drink, but I love the outlaw history of moonshine and how it led to NASCAR.
15. Easy-going, relaxing way of Life
16. Neighborly
17. Backroads
18. We're not Yankees

There's no denying what The South once was and, in some people's hearts, still is.  There may be people in your bloodline who carried out heinous acts, but their acts don't make you a bad person and making them into heroes doesn't make you one.  The Confederacy doesn't define The South. Don't let it define you.

Dear Diary: We the People

Friday, January 20, 2017

Dear Diary:

On Tuesday, November 8, 2016, the people of The United States of America elected Donald J Trump to be their 45^th President.  Upon viewing the results early the next morning by the light of my smartphone, I immediately went through the 14 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, you gotta be kidding me, F* That!, no, seriously you gotta be kidding me, fear, dammit white people,  commiseration, washing all of my black clothing in preparation for the weeks ahead, incoherent rants, unfriending everyone on Facebook, and re-friending everyone on Facebook so I could swear at them.  Today, I have, begrudgingly, reached the 15^th stage: acceptance.  That doesn’t mean I won’t hold him to account, because I will.  As should everyone.

Over the past 9+ weeks, I have become ever-disappointed in Americans on both sides of the aisle.  (Yes, I know there are more than two political points of view, but there are only two sides of an aisle.  So, work with me.)  In both defeat and victory, people should be gracious.  Since November 9^th, a lot of people, as well as their elected representatives, have been everything but.  There’s no need to rehash everything, because it would serve no purpose.

The purpose of this post is to give my thoughts on how we get back from where we’ve been over the past year or so.  Last year at this time, I had a conversation with a woman in a bar about Black Lives Matter and the Dallas police shootings.  She was half Russian, half Native American, both her brother and sister were police officers. She was worried for their safety, and I was worried about mine and those who looked like me.  Several weeks later, after another shooting and an ambush of innocent policemen, a friend of mine, Jen Miller, expressed concern about the state of race relations.  How had we gotten to this point?  What more could she do to help? Would I write a blog post with my thoughts?  I made several attempts to do so, but could not find the words.  Not any that would help.  Truth is, whenever I thought about the subject, the deaths, the rhetoric, the comments in the media and on Facebook, it would bring me to tears. 

A friend and mentor once told me, “If there comes a time when you have to serve as a go-between in a relationship, that relationship is officially over.”  I don’t believe that we have reached that place as a nation, but, as relations have taken a hit across all facets of our society: race, gender, sexual-orientation, nationality, religion, and socio-economic class, it seems as though it fast-approaching.  But, hey, if we can bring species back from the brink of extinction, and Janet Jackson can have a child at 50, there’s no reason we can’t bridge our national divide.

To that end, I have decided to share my thoughts regarding how I think we can achieve this.  As opposed to the many articles I’ve read on this topic, most of which involve going door-to-door and telling white people how horrible / fortunate (“horrtunate”?) they are, my steps, of which there are 12, are ones that are relatively easy to adopt.  I plan to enact, and monitor my adherence to, these behaviors going forward.  Will it be simple? No.  Will I falter? Yes.  But, I will acknowledge my failures and strive to do better.  So, without further ado, I humbly offer “Damion McCloud’s 12 Steps to Healing America and Saving the World”.  Nobel, please…

Step 1: A Dish Not Served

There’s a saying that revenge is a dish best served cold.  I take this to mean that, when wronged, you should take time to plot your revenge and wait to hit back when the person least expects it.  I used to subscribe to that theory, but I grew up.  Constantly thinking about how you were wronged, plotting revenge, and taking revenge serves no purpose.  Unfortunately, some of our leaders, whether they be political, community, or thought leaders, have not moved from that line of thinking.

Our political leaders seem embroiled in a never-ending game of “They started it”.  They delay appointments, add controversial provisions to bills, water-down legislation, etc., etc.  Sometimes, they have good reasons.  More often than not, however, their motivations are rooted in revenge.

There have always been parts of our society who have felt disenfranchised, exploited, and powerless.  When these populations achieve newfound power, there is a natural desire to get back at those you believe caused your pain.  When Nelson Mandela was elected President of South Africa, he could’ve used that power to bring South Africa to civil war.  Rather, he used that power to heal a broken nation and inspire others to do the same.  We celebrate Mandela, but we don’t seem willing to emulate him.

So, when you listening to or observing the actions of the people who claim to have the best interest of their constituents in mind, question their motivations.  Also, question your own and adjust your behavior accordingly.

Step 2: Adult

Good people can have differing opinions.  Good people can sometimes discuss those differences at an elevated volume.  Passion does that.  When discussing your opinions, do so as an adult.  How do you know if you’re not being an adult?  I have a few, simple guidelines:

1.     If, after making a point, you have the desire to say “Boom!”, you’re probably not being an adult

2.     If you start calling people names (“libtertards”, “conservaturds”, or “Killary Cunton”, for example) you’re not being an adult

3.     If you can’t make your point without swearing, you’re probably not being an adult

Another part of being an adult is apologizing when you’ve offended someone.  Yes, I know people seem to be extra sensitive these days.  I’ve gone so far as to call this “The Golden Age of Outrage”.  However, it is not for you to tell someone how they should feel.  You don’t know what has happened in their past that may trigger a given emotion.  So, if you have offended them, don’t try to explain it away or further belittle them.  Just apologize.  It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person; it means you did a bad thing.  Adults recognize the difference.  Also, if your offense was especially egregious, they may not accept your apology. Apologize anyway, and learn from the experience.

Step 3: Know Your History

You can kick and scream about how the group in power has exploited you or kept you down, but the simple truth is this: No minority group has ever made / can ever make inroads without the help of the people from the majority.  The end of slavery, desegregation, the right to vote for blacks and women, the first African-American President, legalizing gay marriage.  None of that would have been possible without help.  So, don’t act in ways that keeps people on the fence from acting on your behalf or makes those who have championed your cause to regret it.

Step 4: Go Rumpelstiltskin

In the fairy tale, Rumpelstiltskin spun straw into gold.  In this step, I’m asking that you spin your frustration into empathy.  When the “Political Correctness” movement first started, I was a freshman in college.  I had never considered myself a bad or uncaring person.  I had friends, whom I also considered to be good people.  However, I liked to make jokes.  Often, at the expense of others.  For the most part, there was no malicious intent, and people knew I was joking.  I was young, male, and, as it turns out, stupid.  (The first two often invariably lead to the third.)

Suddenly, after 18 years of such behavior, I was told that it was wrong to tell some of the types of jokes I had been telling for years.  I was also told that parts of speech that had never had a bad meaning, in my eyes, were now wrong or offensive.  For example, you could no longer call Asian people “Orientals”.  “Oriental” was to be used only to describe things (rugs, for example) not people.  Like an idiot, I railed against such things.  “Why should I have to change the way I, and everyone else, have spoken for years?  Why am I the bad guy all of a sudden?  Why can’t people take a joke anymore? Blah, blah, blah.”  It was very frustrating.  Just more rules to follow.  Didn’t people realize that I was bla--?  Then, one day, it hit me.  I was black.  I know what it feels like to be judged by factors outside of your control.  I know what it feels like to be called a name you don’t like being called.  I know what it’s like to be part of a group that changes the what it is acceptable for people who are not a part of that group to call it: Black, Negro, African-American, Soul Brotha # 1; sometimes, just to keep white people off-balance.  Being black means I should know better.  It should make me empathetic when people, for example, protest the name “Washington Redskins”.  It doesn’t matter what I think the nickname means in a certain context or if I had malice in my heart when saying it.  (Obviously, it matters somewhat, as it defines whether you’re a racist, an asshole, or just ignorant—none of which are mutually exclusive.)

It’s not only those who are part of a minority group who can feel this empathy.  Relatively recently, white people have begun to understand at some level what it feels like to be unfairly judged based purely on the color of their skin.  As the controversy surrounding the confederate flag reached a fever pitch, and people started being suspended or fired for using the “N-word”, white people who had never owned a confederate flag or even thought of saying the “N-word”, felt on edge.  This, I’m sure, was frustrating.

Empathy should be shown on both sides of the equation.  Just as you may understand how it is to be part of the offended, you also know how it is to navigate the new social norms.  Learned behaviors take time to adjust.  Allow for people to make slip-ups, accept their apologies (within reason), and don’t make them feel worse than they already do.  No one’s perfect, people may be on different parts of the acceptance spectrum than you are, and they will be more willing to change if they don’t think they will be blasted for every mistake they make along the way.

Step 5: Don’t be THAT Person

Don’t be the person who chooses the one negative connotation amongst a myriad of positive ones just, because you don’t want to have the difficult conversation. Let’s take “Black Lives Matter” as an example.  There’s obviously an implied word missing.  Anyone with common sense knows the missing word is “Also”, “Too”, or “Still”.  Some people, however, most of whom know better, act like they believe the word is “Only” or “More”.  Why do they do this, because it’s much easier to say “All Lives Matter” and act as though you’ve made a meaningful contribution, than to address the underlying issues.  There are many things in life that can be interpreted multiple ways.  How you choose to interpret them says as much, or more, about you as it does about the thing being interpreted.  Especially if you choose the one negative connotation amongst multiple positive ones.

Don’t be the person who is overly literal in their interpretation, because you don’t want to have the difficult conversation.  This happened so much with the phrase “Global Warming” [“Then, why am I cold?” “Because, you’re an idiot.] that they changed it to “Climate Change”, which people still refute.  The same is happening with “Gun Control”.

Don’t be the person who perpetuates a false narrative (i.e. forwards fake news) and says, “I’m just trying to expose the absurdity of our system, man!”  Fact check or at least check to see whether or not the source cited is a real entity.  It’s not hard.  If you don’t want to take the time to check it, don’t spread it.

Don’t be the person who writes a long rant about something only to end with “This is just my opinion. I am not looking for someone to try to change it.”  People who are not interested in having their mind changed in the face of contradictory evidence are a big part of the reason we are at such odds.  Everyone wants to talk, but too few want to listen.

Don’t be the person who only reads the headlines and assumes they know what the article is about.  It only takes a quick glance at the Comments section to realize that people either didn’t read the story or lack basic reading comprehension skills.  Those people get worked up, others who made the same assumption get worked up, and all the while everyone is essentially in agreement, but are too lazy to know it.

Don’t be the person who changes the subject, because you don’t want to talk about the topic at hand.  If I hear one more person ask “What about black on black crime?” in order to avoid talking about race, I will scream.  Hey, “black on black crime watchers”, when you solve same-on-same crime for every other race, gimme a call.

Don’t be the person who dismisses a good idea, because you don’t like the person who came up with it.  Good ideas come from everywhere.  If people dismiss ideas out of hand because of their feelings for the person who came up with it, or who will get the credit, things will either take forever to get done or never get done.

Don’t be the person who takes everything too seriously.  You have to be able to laugh at the sheer absurdity of everything going on in this country and the world at large. If not, you’ll either spend all your time being angry or crying, and your conversations with others will reflect as much.

Step 6: Some People Are Just A*holes

In this, “The Golden Age of Outrage”, it seems as though people are more and more willing to call people racists, homophobic, sexist, xenophobic, etc. with the slightest slip-up.  They do this for one of two (or both) reasons: 1) They enjoy the power associated with knowing they can get someone fired, and / or 2) they know doing so essentially shuts down all conversation.  As someone who regularly jokes that everything is racist, even if the party committing the offending action is of the same race, I recognize that not every person who commits an offending action is automatically an “-ist” or a “-phobe”.  Some people are just assholes. 

Of course, being an “-ist” / “-phobe” and being an asshole are not mutually exclusive.  You can be both.  More often than not, however, people are just assholes.  Calling them so is just as rewarding as calling them an “-ist” or a “-phobe” and it may have the added benefit of sparking a behavior-altering conversation.  If not, don’t fret…they’re an asshole.

Step 7: Don’t be an A*hole

Seems self-explanatory.

Step 8: Don’t Throw the Baby Out with the Bath Water

It’s okay to demonize an act or behavior; it’s even okay to vilify the person(s) who committed the offending act.  It is not okay, however, to characterize an entire race, gender, ethnic group, etc., based on the actions of a few.  It’s also not okay to attribute the offending action(s) of a given person(s) to the fact that they belong to a certain group.  Again, pretty simple.

Step 9: Check Yourself, Fool…and Others

When watching the news or reading a news story, if you see that someone committed an offensive act, be cognizant of using words / phrases such as “I knew it”, “typical”, or “there they go again”.  If you hear others use it, call them on it.  This is especially important if children are around, because they pick up behaviors from those around them.  Could this cause some discomfort? Yes.  Do it anyway.

This also applies to people who live in gated communities.  I recognize that there are valid reasons for living in a gated community.  However, when you have children, whether they live with you or visit, you need to explain the reasons more explicitly than saying “safety”.  Oftentimes, gated communities are comprised of people of the same socio-economic class or race.  So, if you tell children that the gated community is “safe”, and all they see are people like them, they may associate people who are not like those they see in the gated community as “unsafe”.  Again, not saying don’t live in a gated community.  I’m just saying you will have to work extra to ensure those associations are not drawn.

The elderly.  Part of the incentive for living a long life is the fact that you can get away with saying or doing darn near anything, and people just dismiss it as “old people crazy talk”. The issue is that these crazy people are often asked to babysit.  While it’s important to have your children respect their elders, you also need to make sure your children understand that sometimes gramps has mental lapses that are not to be admired or emulated.

Step 10: Images (God Made)

God made Man in His own image…not yours.  In other words, get over yourself.  Too often, people ask that others take things into consideration that they are not willing to do themselves.  Let’s take people who complain about others who drive in the left lane as an example.  The complaint usually goes as such: “You’re not the police…It’s not your job to make me slow down…How do you know I’m not rushing to get to the hospital to visit a friend or family member who’s dying…blah, blah, wah!”  First of all, why do you think it’s about you?  The person in the other car could be in his / her own head and not even notice or be thinking about you.  How do you know the person in the other car didn’t just leave the hospital to see a friend of family member for the last time?  The point is, why should someone consider things from your point of view when you aren’t willing to consider things from theirs?

Step 11: Don’t Demonize Desirable Behavior

Somehow, we’ve reached a place in this country where desirable traits are maligned.  Let’s take “political correctness” as one example.  Yes, the pendulum may have swung too far in some cases.  People, however, talk about political correctness as if it’s the worst thing ever conceived.  If you stop to think about what the concept is trying to teach, however, it is simply that we should treat people with respect even if it poses an inconvenience.  Truth is, everybody has something that they find offensive.  Just, because what another person finds offensive isn’t offensive to you doesn’t mean you should belittle them.  Odds are, there are some things that offend you that others would find ridiculous.

Another behavior that has been denigrated is so-called “flip-flopping”.  This term used to mean changing your mind on a given issue multiple times in a short period, seemingly to gain votes.  Now, the term is used for changing your mind at all.  You believed one thing 12 years ago, but “suddenly” you no longer believe that. It’s as though once you go on record as believing something, you are not allowed to change your mind about it…ever. Even if new evidence comes to light.  Politicians feed on this truth, and voters eat it up.  If no one is ever allowed to change their position on something without being perceived as weak, how are we ever supposed to evolve as a people and a society?

Step 12: Do the Math

Finally, and this step encompasses all the others, “do the math”.  As bullying, suicide, domestic violence, and misogyny have received more and more attention, “Know Your Worth” has become an oft-repeated mantra.  I agree with that whole-heartedly.  People should know their worth.  They should never let anyone treat them as less than.  So, by all means, sit down and figure out exactly how much you’re worth.  But when you finally arrive at that number, keep in mind that the cashier at the grocery store arrived at that same number…as did the waitress who brought you your lunch, the security guard at the front desk who won’t let you in without the proper credentials even though you’re running late to a meeting, the bathroom attendant who hands you a towel, the janitor who makes sure you have a clean place to come to work every morning, the bartender who listens to all your problems and kindly dismisses your advances while working herself through school, the police officer trying to keep your community safe, the homeless man looking for a break, and so on and so on.  You have worth, but it is no greater than anyone else’s.  Once we can all get to that realization, everything else will fall into place. 

As I said at the beginning, I hold out hope that we’ll get there, because We the People.

Dear Diary: Whistle While Eww Work!

Friday, April 22, 2016

Dear Diary:

Sometimes I scream

Scream in my sleep

Look at the clock and then I start to weep

One thing’s fo’ sho’

Don’t want to go

To work

I hate go-in’ to work

The day began like any other, which is to say to the sounds of someone yelling at me over the phone as I lay in bed with one ear in to the receiver and the other in a pool of Cheetos-tinted drool.  Who was yelling at me this time?  None other than my sister.  What was the triggering event for this latest tirade?  Did Florida State lose yet another football game?  Did someone take the last piece of bread?  Did someone not keep her name “out dey mouf”?  While all of those things are quite possible, none of them had sparked this particular rant; a rant that had begun some 18 hours prior via text.  I had made the [regrettable] decision to inform my siblings that I had recently hung out with a woman who had broken my heart two years prior.  My brother didn’t approve, but took it in stride, whereas my sister…went full sister. 

Sister: “…and the nerve of that %#$%#@!”

Me: “You’re still yelling???  That explains the dream I had about being attacked by a large gopher [Editor’s Note: True story.]  Doesn’t, however, explain why I was being pushed around in a stroller. [Ed’s Note: Also true.]”

Sis: “Seriously?”

Me: “You’d think I’d just get out of the stroller…”

Sis: “Are you done?”

Me: “She asks the same question.”

Sis: “Muthaf%#$, did you just compare her to me?”

Me: “How are you still yelling? Have you taken a breath, yet?”

Sister: “I breathe through my eyes!”

Me: “That explains some things.”

Sister: “You think you’re funny?  I oughta punch you in your nut sack, but she ground those into a fresh powder, which she probably drizzles over her pancakes every morning!”

Me: “Actually, she’s on a low-carb di—“

Sis: “Well, in that case, perhaps she’s mixing them into her daily smoothie!  Muthaf%###, I will stab you!”

Me: “Guess I shouldn’t invite her to –“

Sis: “Don’t you muthf%#$#^ dare finish that muthaf%#@^# sentence, Muthaf%#$!!!  I will punch you in the nutsack!  You’re lucky I gotta go to work!”  My sister has a lot of anger.  None of which is pent up.  Fortunately, no matter how mad you get, you can’t slam a smartphone.

“Well, that went well,” I thought to myself. “Good thing I didn’t mention how long I’d been in touch with her.” [Ed’s Note: Sister can read.]

Despite the lack of enthusiasm hinted at by the prose at the beginning of this diary entry, I was actually optimistic about the prospects of the workday. What led to this optimistic outlook?  The ability to find a silver lining in even the darkest of clouds? No.  My naturally “sunny” disposition?  Have you met me?  Then what pray tell?  What???  None other than the belief that no good deed goes unrewarded coupled with the Law of Averages.

For you see, the previous night, after leaving that den of culinary delight known as Hooters of Fredericksburg, I had stopped for gas at the local fill ‘er up and overheard a distressed damsel frantically relaying to her boyfriend that she was extremely low on gas and had left her debit and credit cards at home.  To make matters worse, it was after midnight, and the gas station owner had locked the doors to balance the receipts.  (For the time being, let’s gloss over the fact that, at no point during the conversation, did the “gentleman” on the other end of the phone offer to provide her with gas, money, or a ride.  That’ll be covered in my next webinar entitled, “Seriously, Nigga: The Death of Chivalry in the Age of Emojis”.)  Having many friends of the female persuasion, and a sister, I carefully approached the young lady.  Why carefully? After midnight + large, black man + tiny, attractive, white woman + concealed carry state = nothing good.

Me: “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear. [Ed’s Note: It’s a lot easier to overhear when you’re staring intently at someone’s mouth] Do you need gas?”

Lady: “Yes, I have four dollars I can give you.  If you can just give me four dollars’ worth of gas--”

Me: “—Don’t worry about it.  I have a sister [who has children] your age. I’d hate for you to end up in the same position further down the road at this time of night,” I said as we walked over to the pump.

Lady: “Thank you. ‘This nice guy is helping me out’,” she told her boyfriend.

I got the pump started, told her she could fill up her car, and walked away…slowly (i.e. giving her ample opportunity to extend an “invitation” and / or provide a phone number).  I even paused at the trash can to throw away some non-existent trash.  Nothing.

“Could it be that-- as with nurses, female prisons, roommates, twins, female cops, female UPS drivers, pizza delivery women, flight attendants, the DMV, and college coeds selling glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts in front of Target-- porn had, once again, let me down?” I thought to myself.  It would seem so.  “Et tu, Penthouse Forum???”

My Life had been filled with moments such as these; acts of chivalry leading to naught.  I was due.  Wasn’t I?  Spoiler Alert: No.

Now that that’s over, I shall continue my tale of woe.

After getting dressed, preparing my morning smoothie, and putting not one, but two Samsung phones in my pants pockets (That’s right ladies; I fear not Death.), I hopped in my car and headed for work (a.k.a. uuuggghhhh….)

One thing I’ve learned in my many years of traveling to and fro the office, is that rush hour traffic is, by and large, a myth.  How do I know this?  How many times have you been sitting in excruciatingly slow-moving traffic only to find that you could park an aircraft carrier in the space between the vehicle in front of you, the one that has been going 15 mph under the speed limit for the past three miles, and the one in front of it?  Why would people do this?  Simple, because no one actually wants to get to work on time, but everyone wants to get credit for trying.  What’s more, since the concept of punching a clock has, for all intents and purposes, gone by the wayside, people no longer start counting hours worked when they arrive at their desk, but rather when they get into their cars and head to work.  (Why does there seem to be so much traffic on the way home, because, once they’ve escaped, no one’s in a hurry to face what awaits them at home (i.e. a whole different set of responsibilities…and family).

After parking in my usual spot --one less thing to remember – I headed across campus to my assigned seat.  I rarely sat in that seat, but I liked people to know I was still alive every now and again.  Once there, I fired up the laptop and awaited instructions for the day: what did I need to do, where did I need to be, with whom did I need to meet, and who did I need to hide from, track down, or yell at?  

When you work in Corporate America long enough, you learn the appetite for better, more pervasive technology can have unintended, negative side-effects.  Let’s take videoconferencing, for example.  One of the selling points of videoconferencing is that people in different locations can use facial cues to gauge reactions to / understanding of their ideas better than you could over email or even conference call.  What the proponents of this technology fail to understand, however, is that people’s inability to accurately gauge my reactions to their ideas, has played a large part in keeping me employed; gainfully or otherwise.  If I wanted you to see my face, I wouldn’t have scheduled a conference call.

After getting what I needed to do for the day firmly ingrained, the next step was to determine how to make my “To Do List” smaller at the end of the day than it was at the beginning without having done any actual work.  To put it in casino terms, you don’t want the House to win, but you want the House to believe it did.  It’s a “soft skill”.  As hard as it is to master this skill under normal conditions, it’s even harder to do so when you have no direct reports who could use a “growth opportunity” or need “increased visibility with senior management”.  At that point, it’s more genius than skill.  While thinking of a master plan, I noticed a co-worker at the edge of my periphery.  I assumed that this “drive-by” was related to the IM that he had sent two minutes ago, which was in reference to the email he had sent one minute before that.  Seriously, what is the point of setting your Status to “Busy” if people just blatantly ignore it?

IM Statuses are supposed to translate to the following:

• ·        Available = I don’t want to talk to you, but we have a Performance Management Framework that takes into account helping others, and I needs my bonus
• ·        Busy = I really can’t talk right now, because I’m doing some really important shit (i.e. playing a timed version of Solitaire.)
• ·        Do Not Disturb = I don’t trust you to not understand what “Busy” means.
• ·        Appear Away = My desire to not speak to you outweighs my fear that you will think I have fallen into the toilet, set myself on fire in one of the designated smoking areas, or been kidnapped.
• ·        Appear Offline = Seriously, I will cut you…and, if you sit near me, don’t look up

It’s obvious that the makers of Instant Messaging software for businesses were well aware that, by and large, people viewed the Statuses as they did speed limit (i.e. as mere suggestions to be ignored).  How else do you explain the need for both a “Do Not Disturb” status and an “Appear Offline” status?  People are impatient a*holes, that’s how.  Granted, there are a handful of people who you want to ignore the status, but those people often are the only people considerate enough to be extra mindful of the status.

As I mentioned before, there are benefits to technology.  The piece of technology that has gone the farthest in protecting personal space is the headset / headphone with built-in microphone.  When an undesirable stops by unannounced, all you have to do is cover the mic with one hand, raise your eyebrows inquisitively, and wince.  This relays the following message: “I acknowledge you; I’m interested in what you have to say; I’d love to help you; but I’m on an important call that may or may not appear on my calendar.”  They don’t need to know you’re just listening to Stone Temple Pilots or Johnny Mathis, or whomever it is the kids are listening to these days.  (The kids are still listening to Stone Temple Pilots, right?  STP?  Sure, they are.  Those guys were dope.  Word, Yo!)  Crisis averted.

Soon after the unwelcome “drive-by”, I was approached by another gentleman caller…in my groin…it was Mother Nature. (Who, I guess, is technically not a ‘gentleman’ caller.  But who knows these days?  It’s a different time.  A different, very confusing time.)  On my way to the bathroom, I was stopped by another coworker.

CW (that’s short for “coworker”…though, not anymore): “Hey, you got a second?”

Me (a name I call myself): [sigh] “What’s up?” I said thinking this would be a quick response without me really having to break stride on my way to the facilities.

CW: “Can I talk to you in private for a second?”

Me: [larger sigh] “Sure,” I said knowing that this was not what I, nor my bladder, had signed up for.

CW: “I just wanted to make sure you’re not mad at me.”

Me: “[Oh, for the Love of Christ!] No.”

CW: “It’s just that you seemed upset about that email that I sent.  I was just asking out of curiosity…I didn’t mean to….I just really hope it didn’t upset you.”

Me: “[I really oughta pee right on your shoes] No, not upset.  I’m curious about things. Just want you to stay focused on what I asked you to provide [80,000 muthaf’n times], because it’s a critical component to the project.”

CW: “So, we’re good?”

Me: “[I swear to God and everything Holy!] Yep.”

CW: “Thank you.”

Me: “No problem.”  If I didn’t already have to go to the bathroom to “make water”, after that conversation, I would have to go to the bathroom to throw up. 

[Fast-forward to two weeks later.]

Me: “What’s the ETA on that information I requested?” I asked a week after the due date.

CW: “Here’s some information. I still need my manager to approve.”

Me: “So, this is your recommendation?  You know that ___ and ___, right?”

CW: “Really?”

Me: “Yeah.”

CW: “But to get what you’re asking for, I’d have to meet with the other people on my team.”

Me: “Yeah…That’s why I gave you ‘til November 4^th to get it done…We started this effort in July.”

CW: “My team has a lot of work to do right now.”

Me: “That’s crazy, because I’ve just been sitting here jerking off for the past four months…Remember when you asked before if I was mad at you?”

CW: “Yes.”

Me: “Would you like to answer that question again?”

CW: “No.”

Me: “Go away.”

[Back to present day]

The bathroom, both at home and in the workplace, is supposed to be a place to get away.  Take a break.  Relieve yourself of the worries that had built up to that point in the day and flush them.  Some people, however, do not respect the sanctity of the bathroom.  They bring in additional stresses.  I’m not referring to the people who want to have a conversation with you while you’re trying to “hold your own”, which is bad enough.  I’m talking about the people who have conversation on their cellphones.  These people do not want people to know they’re in the bathroom.  So, they try to be as quiet as possible, and they fully expect you to participate in the lie.  Which puts pressure on an activity that is designed to relieve pressure.  It’s an affront to Nature; to the natural order of things.  Well, I had had just about enough.  I would NOT be complicit in the lie.  I would NOT allow this person to take my fleeting moment of peace.  NO MORE!  This is my body!  It is filled with fluids and gasses, and sometimes it makes noises, especially when it is expelling some of those fluids or gasses…or both! [Ed’s Note: Also, whenever he stands up or makes sudden movements.]  I’m not trying to control the chaos.  That’s how you pull a muscle or herniate a disk.

“You will NOT steal my joy!” I screamed as a stream of clear fluid [drink your water] crashed into the water below with whoosh reminiscent of the last Space Shuttle launch.  I then walked by each of the self-flushing urinals to make sure the person(s) on the other end of the phone had no doubt where from where the call was originating.  Enjoy the mental image ya poor sons (and daughters?) a’ bitches!

After washing my hands, which, sadly, is still not a given in this day and age (We can build a self-driving car, but we still can’t get people to wash their freaking hands after “handling with care”.) I headed back into the fray.  Next up? A meeting.  A face-to-face meeting…with someone whom I had never met…At least it was with a woman…and we were discussing contracts.  I happen to like women…and contracts.  So, perhaps, this would be one of those meetings you hear about in Corporate Mythology where you neither wanted to kill yourself or anyone in the room and actually get something done.  Those are called “productive meetings”.  They don’t happen often, but just enough to perpetuate the cycle.  I arrived early to the meeting room, it was occupied.  The woman I was supposed to meet with arrived shortly, thereafter.  Right on time.  We introduced ourselves.  The previous meeting was still going on with no signs of wrapping up. 

The problem with meetings running over is not that it’s a waste of your time.  You get credit for being in a meeting (i.e. working collaboratively) whether you actually get anything done or no, and it beats sitting at your desk doing actual work.  (Calendars don’t lie.)  It’s also not the small talk you’re expected to make with the other participants.  If you’ve lived long enough, you’ve learned to feign in your fellow man.  It’s not even that one or more people from the previous meeting may be heavily perfumed, and the room doesn’t have a chance to “air out” before you must seal it up again.  You go “nose blind” eventually.  The “veterans” learn to invoke it at will.  No, the problem with meetings running over can be summed up in two words: “residual heat”.  Not the type of heat generated via electric coils or tubes filled with heated water.  This heat was generated by another human.  Sitting in a chair still warm from the heat generated by another’s posterior is…unsettling.  It’s like pressing your butt against the butt of another.  Unintentionally…and without a safe word.

Being in one of the renovated buildings, the occupants could see that we were waiting.  I politely poked my head in the door in case they thought we were just hanging outside the room by happenstance.  Nothing.  I’m less feared than I used to be.  (Thanks, Obama.)  While we were waiting outside, we engaged in small talk, because I genuinely care about the lives of my fellow man…especially when that man’s a woman…and cute.  One of the corporate caterers rolled by with a cart full of food for a lunch meeting in a nearby room.  When she moved to avoid the cart, she inadvertently backed into me.

CW (short for “cute-worker”): “Oh…”

Me: “Sorry, that’s my Nutsrageous.”

CW: “Excuse me?”

Me: “I have two Nutrageous bars in my pocket.”

CW: “I gathered that.  I was referring to your pluralization.”

Me: “Nutsrageous? Did you think it was ‘Nutrageouses’?  Nutragi?  Nutrageum?  Nutrage?”

CW: “Could you please stop saying ‘nut rage’?”

Me: “Just didn’t want you to think I was happy to see you.  Not that I’m not happy to see you.  I just met you.  I’m sure after a few more meetings –“

CW: “Please stop talking.”

Me: “Mmmkay.”

Thankfully, the conference room door opened, and the occupants exited.  I held the door open (gentleman) and gave her first dibs on seating.  All the while hoping against hope that the seats would cool.  I took the seat across from hers.  Uggghhhh.  Warm.  So much for Hope.  (Thanks, Obama.)  We preceded to talk about the contracts that needed to be renewed, the changes we wanted to make, and concerns regarding pricing.

Me: “What if we [confidential, but I assure you it was genius]?”

CW: “That’s a bit off the beaten path, don’t you think?”

Me: “Sometimes, the path needs to be beaten off…I heard how that sounded in my head—“

CW: “—and yet you still said it?”

Me: “Thought it would sound better.”

CW: “And now?”

Me: “Not so much.  There’s no chance you’d have dinner with me is there?”

CW: “Not unless it was court-ordered.”

Me: “Actual court or Court of Public Opinion?  Because I think I can get someone to make a ruling in mah favor.”

CW: “You’re stupid.”

Me: “Made you smile.”

CW: “It’s gas.”

Me: “I’ll take it.”

After the meeting was over, my assessment was that it had been successful…on both a personal and professional level.  Professionally, because we made good progress on the contracts; personally, because I spent 30 minutes alone with a woman I didn’t know and was neither tazed nor maced. [Ed’s Note: He has a low bar for successful interactions with women.]  Icing on the cake?  It was lunchtime.

In order to keep my food down, and avoid the Compost Police (Hey, lady, I just figured out recycling; and throwing liquids in the garbage, that’s just weird.) I made it a point to always have lunch off-campus.  I decided to try a new place.  Perhaps, one with cloth napkins.  [Ed’s Note: Damion McCloud was entering high society.]  …and crayons [Baby steps.]  I walked over to a friend’s desk for suggestions.

“Do you have any suggestions for a new place to grab some lunch?”

“Jesus,” she said, “I didn’t hear you walk up.  You’re so freaking quiet!”

“I’m like a ninja…or a cheetah…or a ninjah, which sounds like ‘ninja’, but is spelled differently.  Any ideas?”

“There’s a new place up on Parham. They only use humanely kept, hormone- and antibiotic-free chicken and beef.”

“But they still kill and serve them to be eaten for profit, correct?”

“I assume so.”

“Seems rude…like you’re lying to them.  Telling them everything’s going to be alright.  Then…BLAM!  Chicken Caprese!”

“Is that a thing?”

“I’m not sure.  Sounds like a thing.  How much is a typical meal at this place?”

“Around this much.”

“Really???  Perhaps, I should open a humane restaurant, but in mine, not only would the animals be treated with kid gloves (Literally, if I could get past the child labor laws.) but each entrée would come with a note absolving the patron of any guilt that may arise from eating it. The note would be signed by, get this, the very animal being consumed.”

“Wow!  That is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.”

“Dumber than dressing up for Halloween like a mammography machine in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month?”

“Do you just run screaming towards Hell?”

“More like luge…but it would seem so.”

I ended up going to Chick-fil-A.  I like my self-righteousness reasonably priced…and deliciously seasoned…with a side of waffle fries…or a fruit cup.

Lunch was followed by three more meetings, 30 new email chains, and several annoying IMs.  (QQ?  Really?  Don’t say it’s a quick question when you know darn well it’s not a quick question.  That’s just common courtesy.)

Once the workday was over, I headed home.  While driving through my neighborhood, I noticed five deer in a neighbor’s yard.  Four were standing, while one was sitting in the middle.  It looked like The Nativity Scene (The Deer-tivity?)  I thought they were fake; until I saw them move.  As I passed, their heads followed me as though to say, “Keep it moving”.  They then walked off in different directions…except for the “Baby Jesus”.  Not wanting to break the truce I had reached with the deer community, I heeded their advice while staying alert.

New cute-worker, Chick-fil-A, and a non-encounter with deer.  Today was a good day.