Whip/Smart

I don’t quite know when but, at some point, I stopped identifying as “smart.”  That is not to say that I don’t consider myself to a critical thinker, or intelligent.  What I mean is that I no longer consider those attributes to be points of identity for me.  I would much rather be seen as empathetic, resilient or even affable than “smart.”  When this comes up in conversation with old friends from my overachiever days, they often scoff at this development.  Often times, they feel as I am doing myself some deep disservice by no longer considering this trait to be essential to my notion of self.  I, however, find it incredibly freeing and integral to my personal journey towards authenticity.

As a product of a severely abusive childhood, my sense of self was pretty fucked from day one. Venerable psychologist Abraham Maslow went as far to say that those individuals who lack the very things that child abuse robs its victims of (ie. safety, love, occasionally food and water, family and confidence) are destined to have “a cripple psychology.”   Dr. Mary Ainsworth, another key figure in modern psychology, made it her life’s work to study the importance and life-long influence of parent-child relationships.  Put bluntly, having as shitty parent not only fucks you up during the abuse but, to some extent, for the rest of your life (even with therapy.)  Your essential sense of self is not allowed to form. 

Prevented from forging relationships with others, both directly (being literally locked in rooms) and indirectly (interacting with people in meaningful ways means having to explain why your Mom is nuts), I focused on school.  It was a sanctuary and a battleground where, regardless of what happened at home, I could reign supreme.  Aside from the obvious physical safety it provided, I was also able to escape to lands and lives I’d never imagined through reading.  And I definitely took pleasure in consistently scoring higher than the rest of my classmates, much to their chagrin.  In school, I was finally able to dominate.  

The older I became, doing well in school provided more tangible rewards; extra-curricular activities and summer long “nerd camps” allowed me to escape my home.  These rewards culminated in gaining a scholarship to a school where housing was paid for by my financial aid. 

However, it was also around this time that I realized I had no personal investment in school for…well, school’s sake.  While I was thankful for the knowledge I’d gained, I longed for something else. Something that everyone seemed to have.  Now that I was in college, I was forced to think about what I was going to do with this education – and that was terrifying. 

This ennui, this existential search to find out what the hell I was doing, lead to a very reckless part of my life that lasted years.  Even after graduating with honors, I shunned my past.  I felt that my education was worthless, as it didn't magically make anything better.  So I escaped with drugs, sex, and other self-harming behaviors.  Education didn't “fix” anything.  Being smart didn't make me anymore “me.” 

After years of therapy, I've come to a more nuanced understanding.  I see now that, it may very well have been the critical thinking skills I honed in school that allowed me to overcome my childhood.  The friends I made in college are now who I consider to be my “family” over a decade later.  So, it wasn't all for naught.  I work in a job where , while not setting the world on fire, I am able to call upon my education to creatively solve complex dilemmas on a daily basis.

So…”smart.”   That word is empty, and laced with desperation; both for an identity and some external approval.  So, while it may fit others, that’s a skin I've luckily shed. 

Peter, Paul and Mary Moments

After toying around with various possibilities, I've decided it would best to just storm right into this joint, Cosmo Kramer-style.  So, here goes...

My name is Del and I've been a friend of Kayla's since I thought I was straight.  (Which translates to a little over 12 years.)  I'm fat, black and the proud papa of the best damn dog in the world.  There's more, of course, but that'll do for now. 

I, and the author of this blog, have known each other since we were 17; there are virtually no secrets between us.  Between dishing out sage advice, being the most beautiful woman in the world, and smacking me upside the head, Kayla invited me to contribute to "Black Girls Don't Shave Their Legs." We've have some amazing conversations  over the years, and disagree as much as we see eye to eye.  It is our hope that our differing, yet somehow cohesive, opinions will be of as much interest to you as we have been to each other. 

Today being Sunday, I attended church services earlier this morning.  (There's one more thing...I'm a Christian.)  I'm usually five or ten minutes late, so I grab a seat in the back, so as not to disrupt service.  Fortune smiled on me this morning, and I was able to grab a seat directly by the stairs with out making a spectacle of myself. 

That's usually how I go about life; stealthily, almost squirrelly, aiming never to rock the boat too much.  For reasons too numerous to list in one blog post, I have admittedly become the kind of person who aims to never really be noticed. Having social anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, and a tendency to be a misanthrope makes this pretty easy. 

I think that's why I like church...it's quite literally a safe space.  Especially my hippie congregation, where Peter, Paul & Mary and Bob Dylan songs are as likely to be sung as are standard hymns.  We have something called "the passing of the peace," where we're forced (okay, maybe not "forced," but definitely coerced) to greet each one of our neighbors and wish them well.  These sorts of things don't go over well for the too cool for school set.  I should know; I used to be one of them.

There are still remnants of that cheeky, insecure college kid however.  I never hang around after service, partially because there is not enough Adavan in the world to overcome the accompanying anxiety, but also because I don't make myself at least try.  I had a bad experience at a church social group meeting, and haven't been to another once since; there's at least 20 of them.  And, most prescient to this post, I never sing out loud during service. 

I have a bad voice.  I am tone deaf, possess the traces of a nasally Queens accent, and have no volume control.  If you're a friend, my vociferous, unsteady baritone is an endearing quirk; if you're a foe, my voice is like nails on a chalkboard.  I get it, totally.  Ever since I was told to lip-sync in middle school chorus, I have never even attempted to sing in earnest. 

But today, something monumental occurred.  Somewhere towards the end of "If I Had A Hammer," I got caught up in what I guess what the Spirit.  But not in the "get an usher, he's speaking in tongues," snake handling way.  It was more like a genuine, rapturous glee. Having lost my cell phone, being passed over for a promotion and feeling unsure about my future suddenly didn't matter.  I honestly almost wanted them to, because I was afraid of what would happen if I actually let myself "go."  I thought the dude next to me looked ridiculous, clapping and stomping like a meth-ed up wind up toy.  But by the time I was "hammering peace across this land," I was well...hammering.  I sang, and I clapped, and this was new territory.  I fucking sang today.  And I didn't give a damn how it sounded. 

So, why am I sharing this meandering, not quite anecdote as my first post?  Well, because it speaks to everything that I'm "about" right now, namely progress.  I'm interested in others' journeys and want to make it clear that I'm a man in search of answers, not someone who claims to have them.  But also, because maybe I'm soliciting help?  Feedback?  Eh, I don't know.  But that's the whole point, right?