Me and everything around me, is unstable like Chernobyl
Ready to go at any moment, jumpin like a pogo stick
I never lived up to my expectations, so I accept the patience
Expect the worse but now I'm pacin
Back and forth, inside, I'm melting like water on wicked bitches
A monster truck done came and ran over my picket fences
I had the best of life in my clinches but monkey wrenches was thrown
Like chairs kings sit on, my prayers seem to long
I fall asleep before the endin, don't even get to say Amen
I hope He understand I be on bended knees
At times, I think I'm crazy, so I say forget it
Or maybe it's the devil infiltrating and like Riddick...Bowe
I've been fighting this since them fetus days
I count from one to twenty, when I'm through, repeat the phrase
It's just a phase, it's gon all pass, but that gets old too
I'm weakening like a deacon doin dirt
What am I supposed to do?
-Andre 3000 on "Millenium" from the ATLiens album
This will be my last post as 7Soul...
Most of the people I know probably won't care...
Those that do...will more than likely let me know.
It's been about 5 months since I last posted, not because I haven't written. Not because I've been lazy even. It's because wasn't me...I wasn't the same inspired, transparent, and slightly eccentric writer that I have been...and for those that really wanted to read my work, I apologize.
Life is funny, you know...whenever I've gotten out of balance, life's pulled me back. I thank the Most High for that...I do.
In the past few weeks I've learned alot...about myself, about the people I surrounded myself with, about the people that surrounded me (Yes, there's a difference), and about my life in general...my dreams...my future...and the gifts that the Most High has given me.
So, essentially...I'm purging again. No, not like in the anorexic sense...but rather in the emotional and relational sense. Some relationships must be released...some emotions must be let go of...
The last time I did that was when I cut my dreads off. So, consider this another rebirth for me. Am I changing as a person? Nope... Am I letting some people go? Yes. No hard feelings.
I still haven't answered my own question of "why" though...
Simply put...I'm no longer able to continue to be the open person that I am. I can no longer focus on the happiness of those who don't really care about me. I can no longer allow hypocrisy to be near me in any form. I can no longer be in one-sided friendships. One of two things had to happen...I either had to assimilate and become, for lack of a non cliche term, "fake" like some of the people that chose to be around me or, I could embrace the freedom that the Most High offered me a long time ago through the gifts that He gave me. I neglected that freedom. I allowed others to disrespect that freedom which, essentially, caused me to disrespect it. So, like India.Arie said, I'm coming back to the middle.
Don't worry...I'll write again, on a different blog...with a different penname. Those who know me, will know the address...those who don't...I bid you adieu.
God is Love...
Chad "7Soul" Hullett
Monday, July 05, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Drive On...(For my TKN brethren...)
"I think a hero is an ordinary individual who finds strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles."
-Christopher Reeve
"Victory belongs to the most persevering..."
-Napoleon Bonaparte
I know, I know...Its been 7 months or so since I last blogged...please forgive me...I'll try to do better, but I'll discuss why its taken me so long later.
I had a friend in grad school tell me some very disturbing stuff...
She's the only black person in her program and she's been called a monkey, colored, and a negro. So much for living in a post racial America...
Well, I've had more than my fair share of experiences similar to this. Some have infuriated me, others have served no other purpose than to make me amused at the ignorance of some... I'm writing this to explain the struggles of being a token in a "post-racial" America.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
To sit in a classroom and have other people automatically see you as inferior, a charity case, a quota kid...is daunting and frustrating. Especially when you've busted your ass, made the grades, and gotten the test scores that put you in the same academic/intellectual bracket as they are. You are a soldier without a country. Fighting for a cause yet unseen, standing for a people who will be ignored simply because of their intellectual and (by proxy) future socio economic status...
We came from a variety of backgrounds. More often than not...a privileged one. Then there are those of us who had to make it there based not on the privilege that was purchased by our parents...but by the sweat of our brow, the power of our brain, and the relentlessness of our spirits. We are the talented tenth of the talented tenth. Those who have had to fight to be seen as equal in two worlds...that of our privileged counterparts and our intellectual colleagues. But I digress...
We suffer from a more burdensome pressure than many others like us. Yes, like you our skin is our sin...but we are even more scrutinized. We are often the spokespersons for Black America. In the instance that a topic with racial undertones comes up in our halls of academia or in the office, we are often looked to as the authority. With questions like, "Well, Alisha, how do black people feel about this?" We are subjected to the ministrations of the overzealous liberal and the unrelenting conservative. We crumble from time to time under the politics of both our respective institutions administrations and our fellow students' attitudes.
In short, we wear the mask...
WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
-Paul Laurence Dunbar
How appropriate...
We wear a mask of stoic studiousness, constant professionalism, reserved contentment...We are not allowed to "be ourselves" because "ourselves" according to "them" often don't belong here...
Whether it be in the classroom or the boardroom...being a "token" is an arduous task...one that many shy away from.
However the "token" is an integral part of our society and, if statistics are any proof, a vital part of our continued progress towards solidarity as a country. Those of "us" who are allowed into the ivory towers of academia, corporate america, and whatever institution that allows our continued underrepresentation...have a duty, a calling even, to continue to excel and exceed the expectations placed upon us by those that see us a "quota filler" or a charity case. If not for us, for those whose shoulders we stand on....
Wear the mask...smile behind it...
-Christopher Reeve
"Victory belongs to the most persevering..."
-Napoleon Bonaparte
I know, I know...Its been 7 months or so since I last blogged...please forgive me...I'll try to do better, but I'll discuss why its taken me so long later.
I had a friend in grad school tell me some very disturbing stuff...
She's the only black person in her program and she's been called a monkey, colored, and a negro. So much for living in a post racial America...
Well, I've had more than my fair share of experiences similar to this. Some have infuriated me, others have served no other purpose than to make me amused at the ignorance of some... I'm writing this to explain the struggles of being a token in a "post-racial" America.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
To sit in a classroom and have other people automatically see you as inferior, a charity case, a quota kid...is daunting and frustrating. Especially when you've busted your ass, made the grades, and gotten the test scores that put you in the same academic/intellectual bracket as they are. You are a soldier without a country. Fighting for a cause yet unseen, standing for a people who will be ignored simply because of their intellectual and (by proxy) future socio economic status...
We came from a variety of backgrounds. More often than not...a privileged one. Then there are those of us who had to make it there based not on the privilege that was purchased by our parents...but by the sweat of our brow, the power of our brain, and the relentlessness of our spirits. We are the talented tenth of the talented tenth. Those who have had to fight to be seen as equal in two worlds...that of our privileged counterparts and our intellectual colleagues. But I digress...
We suffer from a more burdensome pressure than many others like us. Yes, like you our skin is our sin...but we are even more scrutinized. We are often the spokespersons for Black America. In the instance that a topic with racial undertones comes up in our halls of academia or in the office, we are often looked to as the authority. With questions like, "Well, Alisha, how do black people feel about this?" We are subjected to the ministrations of the overzealous liberal and the unrelenting conservative. We crumble from time to time under the politics of both our respective institutions administrations and our fellow students' attitudes.
In short, we wear the mask...
WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
-Paul Laurence Dunbar
How appropriate...
We wear a mask of stoic studiousness, constant professionalism, reserved contentment...We are not allowed to "be ourselves" because "ourselves" according to "them" often don't belong here...
Whether it be in the classroom or the boardroom...being a "token" is an arduous task...one that many shy away from.
However the "token" is an integral part of our society and, if statistics are any proof, a vital part of our continued progress towards solidarity as a country. Those of "us" who are allowed into the ivory towers of academia, corporate america, and whatever institution that allows our continued underrepresentation...have a duty, a calling even, to continue to excel and exceed the expectations placed upon us by those that see us a "quota filler" or a charity case. If not for us, for those whose shoulders we stand on....
Wear the mask...smile behind it...
Monday, August 03, 2009
I Put On For My City...Youtube Style...
A Few Birmingham Classics...
Red Light District - I Know
Red Light District - Dream Team
R.O.A. - Giggidybang
GQ - Facez
MY BROTHER!!!! and Nadia Tellis!
Red Light District - I Know
Red Light District - Dream Team
R.O.A. - Giggidybang
GQ - Facez
MY BROTHER!!!! and Nadia Tellis!
Letter to My Firstborn...
Dear Child,
I pray you never grow up to be like me. I mean...I want you to have all of my good qualities like...My love for words...my desire to be better...my willingness to learn and...my desire to bring people together. I want you to have all of those things. I want you to be a dreamer, a fighter, a lover, a revolutionary. I want you to pick up the pieces of my broken dreams and glue them together with your very existence. Take my hope and heal the wounds that life has inflicted upon me...and your mother...
Conceived in a constant state of quixotic carefree living...Birthed in a world of fear....Raised in a Universe of Love...
You have my eyes...the first time I saw you, is the first time I'd ever felt purpose in my life. Your smile gives me hope...for me...because Lord knows I'd given up. I became filled again...The coffin I called a body became a garden. Love was planted with the expectation that a future would grow...
I pray that you don't get my arms...too short to wrap around others to comfort them...I pray that you do get my shoulders though, broad enough to carry the weight of the world. We are Atlas. We do not shrug. We lift...burdens...pains...hopelessness...from others. Give them to us. Our love will conquer them all.
I pray you never grow up to be like me. I mean...I want you to have all of my good qualities like...My love for words...my desire to be better...my willingness to learn and...my desire to bring people together. I want you to have all of those things. I want you to be a dreamer, a fighter, a lover, a revolutionary. I want you to pick up the pieces of my broken dreams and glue them together with your very existence. Take my hope and heal the wounds that life has inflicted upon me...and your mother...
Conceived in a constant state of quixotic carefree living...Birthed in a world of fear....Raised in a Universe of Love...
You have my eyes...the first time I saw you, is the first time I'd ever felt purpose in my life. Your smile gives me hope...for me...because Lord knows I'd given up. I became filled again...The coffin I called a body became a garden. Love was planted with the expectation that a future would grow...
I pray that you don't get my arms...too short to wrap around others to comfort them...I pray that you do get my shoulders though, broad enough to carry the weight of the world. We are Atlas. We do not shrug. We lift...burdens...pains...hopelessness...from others. Give them to us. Our love will conquer them all.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
New Program
So I got this new program for my G1 called AndroBlogger. I'm gonna start blogging from it. if for no other reason than my life has been utterly lacking in inspiration. I heard a poet say once that they write even when they don't feel like it because its the only way they can get better. Well, I want to be the best I can be and I feel like I can still get better. So, whether it be a burst of lyricism or a page of prose...I'm gonna be punching this keypad. Ya dig?
Saturday, August 01, 2009
See Words...(A Poem for Inspiring a Twin...)
So, lately...I've been feeling a lot less "inspired" to write...I guess being a soldier will do that to you. Sadly enough I haven't even gotten to the "REAL' Army yet. *smirk* So...whenever I hear a poetic word...A rhyme I like, or have a thought provoking convo (which are few and far between these days...) I have to write SOMETHING so that I don't completely lose that which God gave me to make me human...
She asked me, "Have you ever in your life lost your love for writing?"
Ignoring the irony of the fact that the query was sent in a text, I began to examine my own past for evidence of cursing a heaven sent release...
I realized that without writing the rage of the beast within would have destroyed me, God may have begun to ignore me, and all those who love...would much rather deplore me. I ignored the...long explanation and chose to instead give a simple interpretation. I explained that I'd lost inspiration, but never the love. Hoping for more words to be sent from above to one day sustain me...claim me...as opposed to the words I had already used so constantly to maim me...label me...disable me...fables that I thought only HE could see, and still I tried to hide them. Wondering how I could have ignored the pen for so long and ignored the lines that confined my words to give me freedom.
Her gift was telling stories through images. Mine was to give images through stories. Kindred gifts. Separate ways. We parted so simply. Only to reside on the same page...
She asked me, "Have you ever in your life lost your love for writing?"
Ignoring the irony of the fact that the query was sent in a text, I began to examine my own past for evidence of cursing a heaven sent release...
I realized that without writing the rage of the beast within would have destroyed me, God may have begun to ignore me, and all those who love...would much rather deplore me. I ignored the...long explanation and chose to instead give a simple interpretation. I explained that I'd lost inspiration, but never the love. Hoping for more words to be sent from above to one day sustain me...claim me...as opposed to the words I had already used so constantly to maim me...label me...disable me...fables that I thought only HE could see, and still I tried to hide them. Wondering how I could have ignored the pen for so long and ignored the lines that confined my words to give me freedom.
Her gift was telling stories through images. Mine was to give images through stories. Kindred gifts. Separate ways. We parted so simply. Only to reside on the same page...
Untitled
I stand here...fully clothed and naked at the same time/ looking into your eyes and seeing past lives or maybe lovers past and wondering where I fit in? How did I end...up...here? Thinkingcontemplatingdebating
Untitled
I stand here...fully clothed and naked at the same time/ looking into your eyes and seeing past lives or maybe lovers past and wondering where I fit in? How did I end...up...here? Thinkingcontemplatingdebating. Wanting to be no other place in life. Ignoring all of the warning signs because this...simply feels right. Resigning myself to fate that I can no longer control. Heart busting out of a concrete mold...and softening. Trying to take off my anger and allow my emotions to go wandering. Dreaming of a day where my thoughts can simply roam free. Instead, I may let my arrogance get the best of me. My unwillingness to be a victim become the death of me. Painting pictures with words on a canvas of the mind that appears to be so callous, but its a falsity. I no longer know what I'm doing...I've allowed the most high to control my mind and I'm purging people one at a time because I'm unusually afraid of losing...you. You who makes me feel like the greatest thing in life and the smallest thing in the world. You who makes me contemplate life and not just another relationship with a girl. You who keeps me in check and checks on me from time to time. And you who don't understand the way that I've already decided to wrap myself up in you mind and make you mine. I...roam...freely. Through states of emotionality. Seeking the next battle that may finally make me a victor. Hoping that my life is not doomed to some sort of meaningless heartless disaster.
She told me she'd been hurt before...and I listened. I glanced behind her pupils and saw pain. I promised not to be the source of anymore...as long as she didn't accept my advances in vain.
-SE7EN
She told me she'd been hurt before...and I listened. I glanced behind her pupils and saw pain. I promised not to be the source of anymore...as long as she didn't accept my advances in vain.
-SE7EN
Saturday, July 04, 2009
July 4th... (A double post day...) PART DEUX
Part deux....
Michael Jackson is dead. I'm saddened...but I'm not suprised. I was one of the few people that saw Michael as a tortured soul who would eventually self destruct. It sounds callous to the sensitive, but the truth of the matter is Michael Jackson' life was more painful and pressure-filled than any of ours may ever be. I knew Michael would eventually succumb to it.
Branded as a child molester, a self hating psycho, and the weirdest black man alive, Michael Jackson suffered the slings and arrows of Black America's oppression. The type of self-destructing attitude that gives us the "crabs in a barrel" mentality more than we'd like to admit 90% of the time. Phonte from Little Brother said it best on his Myspace blog (http://2dopeboyz.okayplayer.com/2009/06/30/phonte-my-hero-aint-molest-them-bitch-ass-kids-blog/) however, I still feel the need to speak on it...
Michael Jackson was the James Brown of our generation. For every hit that James Brown had that made us proud to be black, Michael Jackson has one. (Occasionally with an avant-garde look.) The dance moves, the extravagant clothes and shows, the crossover success. Michael Jackson built upon the legacy of James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Frankie Lymon, and Sam Cooke and took our natural gifts worldwide prompting both admiration from the likes of Usher and emulation from Justin Timberlake and Robin Thicke.
The world mourns this black man. Yes, this black man. Stricken with vitiligo and forced to live a life under a microscope of speculation from detractors both black and white that would claim that he hated his skin color and chose to bleach himself. Those that questioned his Super Bowl performance...asking questions like, "Why didn't he pick up a black baby?"
Michael Jackson bore the weight of his own talent and our unrelenting, unrealistic, and at times ludicrous expectations from our black leaders, figureheads, entertainers, and ICONS. This ICON lived a life of immense talent and constant ridicule from his own people.
While I participated in the traditional Michael Jackson jokes along with many others, I never truly gave credence to the allegations lobbied against him...I'm sure many will say that's easy to say after the fact, but I don't care. I have the records (not CDs) to prove my fanhood. LOL!
I still remember laying in bed as a child listening to the song Ben over and over after one of my childhood friends passed away. No tears came, because I probably didn't fully understand death...as I don't really understand it today at 25...however, I knew that Ben had to be an expression of friendship in the musical form. I remember my parents getting me out of bed for one of their ghetto get-togethers and having me imitate Michael Jackson for company. Michael Jackson gave me my love of dancing, human body mechanics, and emotional music. For that I will be eternally grateful.
R.I.P. Michael Jackson...you will be forever known as The King of Pop
Michael Jackson is dead. I'm saddened...but I'm not suprised. I was one of the few people that saw Michael as a tortured soul who would eventually self destruct. It sounds callous to the sensitive, but the truth of the matter is Michael Jackson' life was more painful and pressure-filled than any of ours may ever be. I knew Michael would eventually succumb to it.
Branded as a child molester, a self hating psycho, and the weirdest black man alive, Michael Jackson suffered the slings and arrows of Black America's oppression. The type of self-destructing attitude that gives us the "crabs in a barrel" mentality more than we'd like to admit 90% of the time. Phonte from Little Brother said it best on his Myspace blog (http://2dopeboyz.okayplayer.com/2009/06/30/phonte-my-hero-aint-molest-them-bitch-ass-kids-blog/) however, I still feel the need to speak on it...
Michael Jackson was the James Brown of our generation. For every hit that James Brown had that made us proud to be black, Michael Jackson has one. (Occasionally with an avant-garde look.) The dance moves, the extravagant clothes and shows, the crossover success. Michael Jackson built upon the legacy of James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Frankie Lymon, and Sam Cooke and took our natural gifts worldwide prompting both admiration from the likes of Usher and emulation from Justin Timberlake and Robin Thicke.
The world mourns this black man. Yes, this black man. Stricken with vitiligo and forced to live a life under a microscope of speculation from detractors both black and white that would claim that he hated his skin color and chose to bleach himself. Those that questioned his Super Bowl performance...asking questions like, "Why didn't he pick up a black baby?"
Michael Jackson bore the weight of his own talent and our unrelenting, unrealistic, and at times ludicrous expectations from our black leaders, figureheads, entertainers, and ICONS. This ICON lived a life of immense talent and constant ridicule from his own people.
While I participated in the traditional Michael Jackson jokes along with many others, I never truly gave credence to the allegations lobbied against him...I'm sure many will say that's easy to say after the fact, but I don't care. I have the records (not CDs) to prove my fanhood. LOL!
I still remember laying in bed as a child listening to the song Ben over and over after one of my childhood friends passed away. No tears came, because I probably didn't fully understand death...as I don't really understand it today at 25...however, I knew that Ben had to be an expression of friendship in the musical form. I remember my parents getting me out of bed for one of their ghetto get-togethers and having me imitate Michael Jackson for company. Michael Jackson gave me my love of dancing, human body mechanics, and emotional music. For that I will be eternally grateful.
R.I.P. Michael Jackson...you will be forever known as The King of Pop
July 4th... (A double post day...)
POST 1: STEVE MCNAIR
At approximately 4:32 p.m. ET today...I found out Steve McNair had been killed. A tightness in my chest exists that is somewhat unfamiliar in terms of sadness. The reason it is unfamiliar is because I did not know the man. I never shared a laugh with him, never had a conversation with him, and never shook his hand. Honestly, I had not ever been in the same vicinity as Steve "Air" McNair. Believe it or not though, Steve McNair had a little bit of an impact on my development as a young black male...
The year was 1994, and I was a young little league quarterback with dreams of playing college football. Steve McNair was in his senior season at Alcorn State. Week in and week out, I found myself with my hands under the center, reading the defense, pretending to be Steve McNair on every single play. I did not look up to the professional quarterbacks of the day. I was completely enamored by the athletic play and sheer ability of this black man 10 years my senior.
On my teams bye week, my parents took me to see Miles College football games. My parents being alumnae of Miles, I naturally was predisposed to have an affinity for the school. Visions of wearing a purple jersey with a gold helmet as a 20 year old danced in my head. I dreamed of taking Miles College to a notoriety unheard of by the alumni or the student body. Dreams, although ultimately deferred for a number of reasons, were sparked by one man. Steve "Air" McNair.
Steve McNair stood on the shoulders of giants...Doug Williams from Grambling and Warren Moon. He was a black man unhampered by the norms of professional footballs traditional offensive schemes and quarterback archetypes. He was the link from Randall Cunningham to (*sigh*) Michael Vick. A quarterback that could run AND throw, one who relished contact, and could read/pick apart a defense as good as any quarterback to touch a football...
While knee injuries and size disparities kept me from fulfilling my dream of playing football, the knee problems more than anything, I still maintained an affinity for Steve McNair and tentativley followed his career. I pray that his legacy, toughness, ability, and determination to be a strong black quarterback is passed on to some 10 or 11 year old boy with a pair shoulder pads and cleats...that straps up his chinstrap every day of the football and dreams of taking Grambling, Howard, Tennessee State, Morehouse, Clark-Atlanta, Tuskegee, Miles, Albany State, or any other HBCU to a place of national athletic recognition. More importantly...I pray that that same child...dares to dream...
God Bless The McNair Family
At approximately 4:32 p.m. ET today...I found out Steve McNair had been killed. A tightness in my chest exists that is somewhat unfamiliar in terms of sadness. The reason it is unfamiliar is because I did not know the man. I never shared a laugh with him, never had a conversation with him, and never shook his hand. Honestly, I had not ever been in the same vicinity as Steve "Air" McNair. Believe it or not though, Steve McNair had a little bit of an impact on my development as a young black male...
The year was 1994, and I was a young little league quarterback with dreams of playing college football. Steve McNair was in his senior season at Alcorn State. Week in and week out, I found myself with my hands under the center, reading the defense, pretending to be Steve McNair on every single play. I did not look up to the professional quarterbacks of the day. I was completely enamored by the athletic play and sheer ability of this black man 10 years my senior.
On my teams bye week, my parents took me to see Miles College football games. My parents being alumnae of Miles, I naturally was predisposed to have an affinity for the school. Visions of wearing a purple jersey with a gold helmet as a 20 year old danced in my head. I dreamed of taking Miles College to a notoriety unheard of by the alumni or the student body. Dreams, although ultimately deferred for a number of reasons, were sparked by one man. Steve "Air" McNair.
Steve McNair stood on the shoulders of giants...Doug Williams from Grambling and Warren Moon. He was a black man unhampered by the norms of professional footballs traditional offensive schemes and quarterback archetypes. He was the link from Randall Cunningham to (*sigh*) Michael Vick. A quarterback that could run AND throw, one who relished contact, and could read/pick apart a defense as good as any quarterback to touch a football...
While knee injuries and size disparities kept me from fulfilling my dream of playing football, the knee problems more than anything, I still maintained an affinity for Steve McNair and tentativley followed his career. I pray that his legacy, toughness, ability, and determination to be a strong black quarterback is passed on to some 10 or 11 year old boy with a pair shoulder pads and cleats...that straps up his chinstrap every day of the football and dreams of taking Grambling, Howard, Tennessee State, Morehouse, Clark-Atlanta, Tuskegee, Miles, Albany State, or any other HBCU to a place of national athletic recognition. More importantly...I pray that that same child...dares to dream...
God Bless The McNair Family
Thursday, June 11, 2009
I'm BAAAAAACK...as an American Soldier.
The best soldiers are not warlike...
-Chinese Proverb
On May 22nd I became an American Soldier. I graduated from Basic Combat Training at Fort Jackson, SC from the 3rd Battalion, 34th Infantry Regiment, Foxtrot Company, 3rd Platoon. (I had to throw all that in so you'd know EXACTLY where I was. LOL!)
I'm currently at Fort Meade Maryland in the US Army Signal School Detachment. I'm attending Defense Information School, also known as DINFOS.
I've been asked repeatedly how I feel about my decision to volunteer for the Army...
Truthfully, I'm still not sure. For the time being I absolutely love it. Then again, I haven't been through the things that millions of soldiers before me have experienced. Yes, I graduated basic training. Yes, I'm currently in AIT and enjoying being a journalist again. Is this this real Army, so to speak? Certainly not.
After leaving hear, hopefully I'll go to Airborne school...yes, black people do jump out of airplanes and land safely.
After that, I have no idea where I'll be.
I've also been asked if I'm afraid of going to Iraq or Afghanistan.
No. I'm not...
It's not because I'm super bad-ass. Because I'm not. It's not because I'm institutionalized and been trained to say that...I'm the FARTHEST thing from that. I just really understand the magnitude of the position I volunteered for. I volunteered to be a soldier. An active duty soldier in the United States Army in a time of war...TWO wars...and what looks like an impending third one.
Does that make me crazy....well, probably.
Am I afraid though...no.
Why? Because I'm sure the God I pray to EVERY SINGLE DAY will protect me. That's not some sort of All-American statement. That's my honest to goodness real-life answer. No joke.
Would it suck to go over there for 12-15 months? YES! I'm sure it would. No one...unless they're diehard infantry or a Marine just says, "YES! YES! SEND ME TO THE FREAKIN' SANDBOX FOR A YEAR!"
The fact of the matter is though, eventually I'll probably end up over there...and there would be nothing I could do or say to change that. Then again, why ould I want to? Like I said, I'm not claiming to be the toughest guy on the block...because I've proven time and again that I'm probably NOT that guy that chews nails and spits out bullets. One thing that I could never be mistaken for though is a coward. Shirking away from duty is an act of cowardice on a number of levels....
Last question I'll answer that I get repeatedly...
Has the military changed me?
Well...truthfully...yes and no.
Yes, the military has me waking up at 4:00 a.m. running a couple of miles, doing pushups, situps, flutter kicks, and got knows what kind of exercises Sgt. Bray comes up with. Yes, I've gotten a little accustomed to a certain level of discipline and order in my life. (Something that has actually been beneficial...believe it or not.) I've also picked up a stronger sense of a few values that I always understood and possessed but, truthfully, never really sought to actively practice them every second of the day.
How has it not changed me?
I'm still liberal. I still hold my same opinions on war, economics, abortion, and politics. I'm still a poet. I still love true hip-hop. I still love...LOVE. I'm still the same fun-loving, caring, quasi-emotional guy that I was before I left. I just wear a uniform now and am alot more relaxed and confident. I no longer worry incessantly about things I can't change.
So...expect the same. Pray for better. I know I will be...
-SE7EN
-Chinese Proverb
On May 22nd I became an American Soldier. I graduated from Basic Combat Training at Fort Jackson, SC from the 3rd Battalion, 34th Infantry Regiment, Foxtrot Company, 3rd Platoon. (I had to throw all that in so you'd know EXACTLY where I was. LOL!)
I'm currently at Fort Meade Maryland in the US Army Signal School Detachment. I'm attending Defense Information School, also known as DINFOS.
I've been asked repeatedly how I feel about my decision to volunteer for the Army...
Truthfully, I'm still not sure. For the time being I absolutely love it. Then again, I haven't been through the things that millions of soldiers before me have experienced. Yes, I graduated basic training. Yes, I'm currently in AIT and enjoying being a journalist again. Is this this real Army, so to speak? Certainly not.
After leaving hear, hopefully I'll go to Airborne school...yes, black people do jump out of airplanes and land safely.
After that, I have no idea where I'll be.
I've also been asked if I'm afraid of going to Iraq or Afghanistan.
No. I'm not...
It's not because I'm super bad-ass. Because I'm not. It's not because I'm institutionalized and been trained to say that...I'm the FARTHEST thing from that. I just really understand the magnitude of the position I volunteered for. I volunteered to be a soldier. An active duty soldier in the United States Army in a time of war...TWO wars...and what looks like an impending third one.
Does that make me crazy....well, probably.
Am I afraid though...no.
Why? Because I'm sure the God I pray to EVERY SINGLE DAY will protect me. That's not some sort of All-American statement. That's my honest to goodness real-life answer. No joke.
Would it suck to go over there for 12-15 months? YES! I'm sure it would. No one...unless they're diehard infantry or a Marine just says, "YES! YES! SEND ME TO THE FREAKIN' SANDBOX FOR A YEAR!"
The fact of the matter is though, eventually I'll probably end up over there...and there would be nothing I could do or say to change that. Then again, why ould I want to? Like I said, I'm not claiming to be the toughest guy on the block...because I've proven time and again that I'm probably NOT that guy that chews nails and spits out bullets. One thing that I could never be mistaken for though is a coward. Shirking away from duty is an act of cowardice on a number of levels....
Last question I'll answer that I get repeatedly...
Has the military changed me?
Well...truthfully...yes and no.
Yes, the military has me waking up at 4:00 a.m. running a couple of miles, doing pushups, situps, flutter kicks, and got knows what kind of exercises Sgt. Bray comes up with. Yes, I've gotten a little accustomed to a certain level of discipline and order in my life. (Something that has actually been beneficial...believe it or not.) I've also picked up a stronger sense of a few values that I always understood and possessed but, truthfully, never really sought to actively practice them every second of the day.
How has it not changed me?
I'm still liberal. I still hold my same opinions on war, economics, abortion, and politics. I'm still a poet. I still love true hip-hop. I still love...LOVE. I'm still the same fun-loving, caring, quasi-emotional guy that I was before I left. I just wear a uniform now and am alot more relaxed and confident. I no longer worry incessantly about things I can't change.
So...expect the same. Pray for better. I know I will be...
-SE7EN
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