At A Moments Notice...

"I mean, I think you've got to be truthful about the life you have. Otherwise, there's no possibility of achieving the life you want." ~James Baldwin, Another Country

Can I be completely honest? Well, I've always had a hard time digesting the stories of my ancestors. They've always pained me, leaving me utterly empty and terminally lost. And so, I've always stayed clear of certain movies, novels and discussions as a way to spare myself unnecessary grief. But lately, for whatever reason, I've begun digesting the past with a passion I have never ever experienced. And while the grief is still present, the respect, something I unknowingly, not purposefully lacked, has suddenly surfaced. Finally, when it comes to things of the past I'm understanding, seeking and being fulfilled. Which ultimately leaves me questioning where all of this will lead.

I'm a modernist. I love technology. I love the advancements of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. I couldn't imagine my life without the conveniences of cell phones, microwaves, laptops, and my entire music collection neatly packed into a device I can discreetly stash in my front pants pocket. Think for a moment what life must have been like before the personal cassette player, otherwise known as the walkman. How did people entertain themselves while traveling through the underground currents of New York City? How did they shut out the unwanted cries of babies and schizoid's and well you know, the like? How did they achieve privacy among hundreds of prying awkward eyes? These are but some of the questions I've often asked myself while appreciating the future and ignoring the past. And though I've heard it said time and time again: "Those who forget their past are condemned to repeat it" I can't help but forget the days when technology would have had me type these very words on a manual typewriter, copy them presumably on a photo copier (I doubt if some of you remember actual carbon copy paper that would always muck up your fingertips), and then forward (actually mail) them to all those who wished to view them. As a modernist one is expected to abandon these sort of horror stories for all things new. And for a long while I did just that.

Enter James Baldwin. While I can happily say I've read his work in the past, I cannot say (honestly that is) I fully understood or embraced it. And so when other folks would rant and rave about his well crafted quite literally "genius" prose---while simultaneously criticizing the current state of prose---I would listen intently and then suggest (to myself of course for fear of being pummeled) perhaps they've not read the "right" recent, more "modern" works of genius. The same could be said of Toni Morrison who's only work I've been able to accurately interpret is The Bluest Eye. And while I've owned Love since the day it dropped I've yet had the urge to sit down and read it. So, imagine my surprise when I picked up Another Country and began to read it as if I'd never read an exceptional piece of literature in my life? James Baldwin for a lack of a better phrase, laid it down in this novel. His depiction of Rufus, his love-hate relationship with Vivaldo, his daringness to paint love with a muti-cultural, multi-sexuality, multi-geographic brush left me wanting more, and more and more. Which undoubtedly lead me to my current appreciation of things long gone.

I wonder had Baldwin words been published today, instead of yesteryear would his words have left such an impressionable mark upon my heart, mind and soul? I wonder if today's pop culturists would have insisted he tone down the racial overtones, eliminate the suicide (for fear of not being able to "sequel-ize") and insist he add more sex, more drama (unnecessary drama of course), and less substance. I wonder honestly if he would make the New York Times bestsellers list? Or even Oprah's much sought after bookclub? Part of me wants to say of course, genius knows no boundaries, but then the real me, the one so addicted to this sensationalist, "can't they just make a movie about it", culture wants to say: not a fucking chance. After all, who has the time to wane through a four-hundred plus page novel?

Apparently, I do.

And as a result, I am now a willing student of Baldwin; I've charged myself to re-read the works I have read and not understood, and ingest the others I've yet to read out of fear or just non-interest. Not so much to improve my writing, which I'm sure it will, but simply to relate to another brother who fully understood what it meant to black, frustrated, misunderstood and forgotten.

So I guess in the end I really do know where all of this past searching will lead: to a better, more rounded sense of self and (hopefully) others.

Thanks James, for telling it like it is, so many years later.