Where do I begin to describe my old friend?
I guess it was around 1979 that I became aware of Roni Zulu. He showed up at school one day during our high school years. I immediately liked him, as did most people who came to know him or interact with him. Over time, we lost touch with each other, which is one of the things I deeply regret. However, in the last couple of years we have established contact again by emailing short messages to each other.
Zulu is an exceptional artist (always has been). I can say without a doubt he was one of the top 10 artists in our community. That may not seem like much to you, but consider that our city already had four high schools in the late seventies. I also include adults in this equation as I had visited numerous art shows during these times and was witness to the works. He’s also an equally gifted musician. On occasion, we would jam together. I was drummer and Zulu played bass guitar, cello and other instruments that I will leave to history. Eventually, Zulu’s talent took him to the Ringling School of Art in Sarasota, Florida where he also continued to pursue his musical endeavors. Today, he is a successful tattoo artist in Los Angeles.
As our friendship grew in those two short years of school, we shared some mutual acquaintances. They were mostly musicians and artists. It was during these times that I learned to truly appreciate just what kind of person Zulu really was (and still is). I’m not sure if he’ll remember this story I’m about to convey or if it is stored away deep inside his memory.
One day during our senior year Zulu and myself were getting a ride home from another friend. It was no secret that this person’s parents had issues with Zulu because he is a man of color. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t welcomed in their house (in the beginning). He accepted their ignorance for what it was. The thing that got me angry was what our so-called friend said that day in regards to his parents not accepting Zulu. This friend actually had the nerve to say that he didn’t understand why his parents had an issue with Zulu. That he “didn’t think of” Zulu “as black” and he “always considered him to be white.” What our friend didn’t understand was he had just made a comment that was as bad as any his parents could utter. It was denying who Zulu was! The more I thought about it, the angrier I became with our friend. So angry that I called him on it that night!
You can tell a lot about a person by observing them and how they treat others. This will show you what is truly on a person’s heart. On that day, I learned much about patience and tolerance. Zulu demonstrated patience in the fact that he somehow knew that once our friend’s parents actually got to know him for whom he was, they would look beyond what was skin deep. Eventually this did happen and Zulu was asked to paint a portrait of the family. I’m not sure if the painting was ever done, but what was right and ethical prevailed. Zulu showed tolerance in the fact that he realized our friend was lacking in knowledge and understanding the same as his parents were. Racism and prejudice are not attitudes we are born with but are learned through witnessing the behavior. Something Zulu never did was become angry with our friend (like I did), or treat him with any less dignity. Isn’t it ironic that these people’s last name was White?
How disturbing is it, that as the decades pass us by, we still can’t seem to get along with our brothers and sisters of different races, cultures and religions? I’ve learned recently that Zulu had to deal with this in the last decade when he sought teaching for his latest art form. What’s sad is he (and others of color) will probably continue to deal with it more than we care to admit. I believe most religions teach love and patience as tenets to their foundation and are to be displayed to everyone regardless of background or belief. Why is it we become obstacles and put our own twists on what our God says? All I can say is look at the person’s heart, for Zulu has always had that.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Slam!
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! I hear it in my sleep. I must be dreaming. Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Slam! Just ten more minutes is all I need. I fall back into a hazy light slumber. Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Slam! I’ve got to get moving. I don’t want to be late. “Ten more minutes will not hurt,” I think. Work doesn’t start until seven. Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Slam! This is the routine I go through starting at five-thirty every morning, Monday through Friday. I’m a slow and grumpy riser, taking as much time as possible to get moving in the morning. I’m never fully awake until I have been at work for a short time. The alarm clock goes off and I hit the snooze button. After the minor assault on the alarm clock, I decide to make an attempt to roll out of bed.
As I pull myself into an upright position, the bed squeaks. Sitting at the edge of the bed, I blindly reach for my eyeglasses. No need to trip over anything when I finally get mobile. I bow my head to get a few extra seconds of rest. Slowly, I fix my eyes on the clock to see what time it is: it’s six o’clock. I had better make my way to the shower. I reach for the clock and reset the alarm for seven o’clock. My wife has to get our children ready for school. Setting the clock back on the nightstand, I usually strike the lamp. There have been times when my wife has found the clock stuffed under my pillow. I listen to hear if the children have been awakened by the alarm. They haven’t. There is dead silence throughout the house. Time to move. Rays from the sun are starting to show through the drapes.
I make the short trek to the bathroom; most times kicking a shoe I have left lying on the floor. “I should put those away,” I think to myself. Slowly, I close the door behind me, trying not to wake the other family members. As quietly as I can, I try to locate the light switch in pitch dark. After a few failed attempts of slapping the wall, I finally find it and switch it on. If I turn it on before I shut the door, it shines in my wife’s eyes. I don’t want to add to my already rotten mood by comments she might make. The light gleams and momentarily blinds me. I reach into the shower and turn it on to the centered position. Not too hot or cold. It’s just right for shocking me out of a zombie-like state. I prop myself against the sink with one hand, taking survey of my sad state in the mirror. I enter the water cautiously, testing it with my foot.
Comfortably in the shower, I lean against the wall for those few extra minutes of rest.
Finally, I reach for the bar of soap and a washcloth. I recognize the scent of the soap. “Perfume?” I ask myself. “This isn’t mine.” I find my soap and wash up. Quickly I wash my hair so I can have another few moments to relax under the soothing flow of the hot shower. I ponder why I am up at this hour. “No person in his right mind would have a job that requires him to answer an alarm clock at five thirty in the morning,” I suggest. I turn off the shower and reach for a towel, now slightly more awake. I wipe off the mirror with the towel to clear some of the condensation off. Dried off, I make my way toward the door.
With the door still shut, I turn off the light so I don’t disturb my wife. Hurriedly, I put on my clothes and return to the bathroom. This time I’m not as careful with the door. In the background I hear my wife turn over in the bed. “Oh great,” I mumble. “She’ll be giving me a hard time for waking her up too early.” She doesn’t. It’s just the grouchy mood I’m in. I turn on the cold water so I can brush my teeth. This is an easy task that shouldn’t bring TOO many problems and usually doesn’t. On some mornings, it seems my toothbrush sprouts legs and walks off. Most of the time, my two-year old son has confiscated it. I can’t help but think he has used it to stir toilet water. I think to myself, “Another hour of sleep would be nice.” I look at my watch. Six thirty, I need to hurry and still have to shave.
If there is anything good in the morning, it’s shaving. Slapping hot water on my face. Applying mint shaving cream. The shaving cream smells almost edible. But shaving does not better my bad mood. I locate my razor, which fortunately my son cannot get to, and begin shaving. Carefully I run the razor along the contours of my face. I take my time because a cut would surely add to my pathetic outlook. As I finish up I realize I still need to do something with my hair. I quickly rinse off my face and open the medicine cabinet looking for my after-shave. Something always seems to fall out during my search and destroy mission. I find it and splash some on. I hurriedly squirt some gel in my hand, rub my hands together to spread it out and run my hands through my hair. I’m running out of time!
I grab my wallet and exit the bedroom. I check on my son and daughter to ensure they are still asleep. “Good” I say under my breath. “They’re still asleep.” I wish I could stay in bed longer! I go downstairs to locate my keys. Each step creeps as I put my foot on it. I try to walk on my tiptoes to keep the stairs from moaning, with little success. Glancing at the clock, I note it’s six forty-one. There’s time for a quick cup of tea. I’m hoping the caffeine will accelerate the wake up process and put me in a better mood. It usually doesn’t, but one can hope! Gulping it down, I still look for my car keys. “I put them right here,” I thought. Now I’m looking for my keys where they shouldn’t be, getting more uptight in the process. Going back to the original location, I find them under yesterday’s mail. I leave the house. Outside I look for the newspaper. Usually, I don’t have the patience to look for it in the morning. I’m still sleepy and want to go to bed. I start my car and head to work.
Arriving at work, I’m greeted by my co-workers. The usually say “Good morning” or “How was your evening?” The most I can usually muster is a garbled response that sounds similar to “Morn.” People who are chipper in the morning have something wrong with them. Do they have a secret formula I don’t know about? How about sharing it? My sluggishness has not subsided. The only glimmer of light is a cup of coffee. Just the smell of it brewing slightly improves my outlook. After the morning meeting, I usually start to pick up. But I know this is going to happen again. The process will repeat itself. I am not a morning person. Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Slam!
As I pull myself into an upright position, the bed squeaks. Sitting at the edge of the bed, I blindly reach for my eyeglasses. No need to trip over anything when I finally get mobile. I bow my head to get a few extra seconds of rest. Slowly, I fix my eyes on the clock to see what time it is: it’s six o’clock. I had better make my way to the shower. I reach for the clock and reset the alarm for seven o’clock. My wife has to get our children ready for school. Setting the clock back on the nightstand, I usually strike the lamp. There have been times when my wife has found the clock stuffed under my pillow. I listen to hear if the children have been awakened by the alarm. They haven’t. There is dead silence throughout the house. Time to move. Rays from the sun are starting to show through the drapes.
I make the short trek to the bathroom; most times kicking a shoe I have left lying on the floor. “I should put those away,” I think to myself. Slowly, I close the door behind me, trying not to wake the other family members. As quietly as I can, I try to locate the light switch in pitch dark. After a few failed attempts of slapping the wall, I finally find it and switch it on. If I turn it on before I shut the door, it shines in my wife’s eyes. I don’t want to add to my already rotten mood by comments she might make. The light gleams and momentarily blinds me. I reach into the shower and turn it on to the centered position. Not too hot or cold. It’s just right for shocking me out of a zombie-like state. I prop myself against the sink with one hand, taking survey of my sad state in the mirror. I enter the water cautiously, testing it with my foot.
Comfortably in the shower, I lean against the wall for those few extra minutes of rest.
Finally, I reach for the bar of soap and a washcloth. I recognize the scent of the soap. “Perfume?” I ask myself. “This isn’t mine.” I find my soap and wash up. Quickly I wash my hair so I can have another few moments to relax under the soothing flow of the hot shower. I ponder why I am up at this hour. “No person in his right mind would have a job that requires him to answer an alarm clock at five thirty in the morning,” I suggest. I turn off the shower and reach for a towel, now slightly more awake. I wipe off the mirror with the towel to clear some of the condensation off. Dried off, I make my way toward the door.
With the door still shut, I turn off the light so I don’t disturb my wife. Hurriedly, I put on my clothes and return to the bathroom. This time I’m not as careful with the door. In the background I hear my wife turn over in the bed. “Oh great,” I mumble. “She’ll be giving me a hard time for waking her up too early.” She doesn’t. It’s just the grouchy mood I’m in. I turn on the cold water so I can brush my teeth. This is an easy task that shouldn’t bring TOO many problems and usually doesn’t. On some mornings, it seems my toothbrush sprouts legs and walks off. Most of the time, my two-year old son has confiscated it. I can’t help but think he has used it to stir toilet water. I think to myself, “Another hour of sleep would be nice.” I look at my watch. Six thirty, I need to hurry and still have to shave.
If there is anything good in the morning, it’s shaving. Slapping hot water on my face. Applying mint shaving cream. The shaving cream smells almost edible. But shaving does not better my bad mood. I locate my razor, which fortunately my son cannot get to, and begin shaving. Carefully I run the razor along the contours of my face. I take my time because a cut would surely add to my pathetic outlook. As I finish up I realize I still need to do something with my hair. I quickly rinse off my face and open the medicine cabinet looking for my after-shave. Something always seems to fall out during my search and destroy mission. I find it and splash some on. I hurriedly squirt some gel in my hand, rub my hands together to spread it out and run my hands through my hair. I’m running out of time!
I grab my wallet and exit the bedroom. I check on my son and daughter to ensure they are still asleep. “Good” I say under my breath. “They’re still asleep.” I wish I could stay in bed longer! I go downstairs to locate my keys. Each step creeps as I put my foot on it. I try to walk on my tiptoes to keep the stairs from moaning, with little success. Glancing at the clock, I note it’s six forty-one. There’s time for a quick cup of tea. I’m hoping the caffeine will accelerate the wake up process and put me in a better mood. It usually doesn’t, but one can hope! Gulping it down, I still look for my car keys. “I put them right here,” I thought. Now I’m looking for my keys where they shouldn’t be, getting more uptight in the process. Going back to the original location, I find them under yesterday’s mail. I leave the house. Outside I look for the newspaper. Usually, I don’t have the patience to look for it in the morning. I’m still sleepy and want to go to bed. I start my car and head to work.
Arriving at work, I’m greeted by my co-workers. The usually say “Good morning” or “How was your evening?” The most I can usually muster is a garbled response that sounds similar to “Morn.” People who are chipper in the morning have something wrong with them. Do they have a secret formula I don’t know about? How about sharing it? My sluggishness has not subsided. The only glimmer of light is a cup of coffee. Just the smell of it brewing slightly improves my outlook. After the morning meeting, I usually start to pick up. But I know this is going to happen again. The process will repeat itself. I am not a morning person. Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Slam!
Random Ramblings
This will be a space where I can publish random blogs. Since I'm active duty Air Force (which I won't write much about), I have been to some interesting places. I hope to write about what fancies me or what strikes a chord in me. I may post some older stuff as well. Blessings, Mike
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