An Open Letter from Token

Many times, as a young African-American with mostly non-African-American friends, I'm caught directly at the intersection of white and black America. I consider my place between the two a privilege. They'll all tell you I'm the first to crack jokes about race, but sadly, what I speak of today is no laughing matter. This is for them. 

To whom it may concern, 

Generally, I keep pretty quiet when amongst my friends during times of racial strife across the nation. We can all agree that the tragedies that befell Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, and countless other black people were unfortunate at best, unacceptable at worst. Both I and you all know that. Riots and protests after these incidents were swift and powerful, but I tend to choose not to speak up too much about them unless specifically asked, as it's often tough seeing both sides of the issue. I'm not going to join a protest against police simply because I'm black, just as I'm not going to pretend racial prejudice isn't a big issue simply because I have a plethora of white friends. Jokes aside, you don't know what it's like to have the VERY real feeling of not always being safe anytime we're pulled over by cops, hoping that you're going to be lucky enough to get away with just a ticket... or at all. But being in these crosshairs right now affords me an opportunity to shed light on an area that I've mostly kept in the dark. 

In case anyone has been living under a rock recently, Jonathan Butler, an MU grad student, recently decided to undergo a hunger strike in opposition to MU President Tim Wolfe's repeated unsatisfactory lack of action against a number of racially-charged incidents, both on and off campus this year. Butler is a representative of #ConcernedStudent1950, a student-run movement that derives its namesake from the first year that black students were allowed on campus, and has literally put his life on the line in order to be the change he wants to see. He has now gained national attention, even more so now that dozens of members of the MU Football team have joined his cause, pledging to take a strike against football activities until Wolfe is removed from his position, because they feel, as they've so eloquently put it, that "injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. 

I, for what it's worth, don't necessarily agree with some of the demonstrations that we've seen in the face of what may or may not have been racial injustice this year. I was actually right there when the Concerned Student 1950 group staged a walk-in during the MU Homecoming parade this October, briefly stopping the parade dead in its tracks to stand in front of Wolfe's car. "Great show in solidarity, wrong time and place," I thought to myself as I watched it happen. And Butler's hunger protest, albeit absolutely courageous and admirable, is obviously a dangerous game, as he may actually lose his life over this, perhaps unnecessarily. 

But with all of these things, it is important to remember that other people's passions are not our own. I honestly don't think Wolfe is the problem and that he necessarily should lose his position over a problem he didn't create. I do, however, agree that it is Wolfe's job to step up and do something, ANYTHING, whenever an ugly, racially-charged incident occurs on campus, such as someone smearing a swastika in their own feces in a residence hall a couple weeks ago, or student president Payton Head having racial epithets shouted at him. Hell, we're still not THAT far removed from an incident that saw cotton balls strewn across the front lawn of the campus Black Culture Center just a few years ago. Many of us were here when it happened. It's not enough to say that these things aren't acceptable; Wolfe had to show his students, minorities especially, that he wouldn't allow a culture that lets people think such bigotry is okay to live on. When he didn't, he risked frustration reaching this sort of fever pitch. If a student loses their life in protest of his continued employment as a president, he's OFFICIALLY reached a bad place, especially now that it's become a national headline. Now, he probably has no choice but to step down, lest this situation get far uglier.  

But, just because I wouldn't risk my life like that doesn't mean that Butler shouldn't, and THAT'S why he has my support. For him to show that sort of conviction and intestinal fortitude bespeaks a true belief deep down inside him that he's living under systematic prejudice. And this isn't just about black students living under those conditions - this movement is in the name of ALL marginalized students, ethnicities, and cultures here on campus. Hopefully, we can one day soon get to a place where everyone feels like they're safe an accepted. We've absolutely made big strides since 1950, but making progress doesn't mean we can allow complacency to set in. 

The internet can be both a wonderful and gruesome place. For proof, just search this topic on Twitter or Facebook and see both how supportive and hateful people can be. The support shows us that humans still have the capacity for great caring, but the downside shows us that can often be tempered with unbelievable ignorance. Seriously, if you want to keep your faith in the human condition from being sullied, just take my word for it - the vitriol out there is NOT for the faint of heart. 

But what Butler, the MU Football players, and their supporters are doing is still an unquestionably big deal. Hopefully it doesn't come to it, but whether Butler dies in this quest or not, it's sparking a conversation that needs to be had. It's promoting a culture of change for the better, something for which we should all strive. I'd implore not just my friends, but anyone who's even tangentially associated with someone here at Mizzou or of a different ethnicity to not look at this through a monochromatic lens. Try to see it with some empathy, to be in the shoes of a minority for a second. To see this as just "some black people making noise as they are wont to do" is missing the entire point. The situation, I'm afraid, is just not that black and white - full pun intended. 

The Cat Herder Chronicles 2

As a general rule, I rarely teach kids to try flushing piss and poop down a sink anymore - skidmarks on the sink can fuck up a room's feng shui IN A HURRY - so you can imagine my shock when I walked into my classroom one morning to find a student of mine doing just that. As she looked up to me from the sink filled with water and her own bodily waste, I knew that this was one of those things just outrageous enough that it'd only be believable specifically BECAUSE I work with preschoolers. This is just one of the many tales to astonish that I have accrued in this line of work, and there's really no embellishment necessary most of the time. You just sit back and wait for the shenanigans to ensue.

This ragtag bunch of miscreants is an eclectic group that'll chew up and spit out anyone who doesn't find their coping mechanism early. For those of us who are not inclined to go home and crack open a cold brew after an exhausting day with the tots, we turn to sundry other vices available to us - writing, meditation, crack cocaine, whatever. But to know them is to lovingly loathe them. You've already heard about some of them - our aforementioned interior decorator from above, the girl rendered catatonic upon suggestion of a phone call being placed to her family pets, etc. The buck, however, hardly stops there.

There's one kid in my class - let's call him Jesse - whose hands themselves are minions of Satan. I swear to you, if he can get his hands on it, IT IS NOT IN A SAFE ENOUGH PLACE. Little Jesse cant help it - he's the most catlike of all the cats I herd, just radiating curiosity from all of his pores. Naturally, this often leads to him getting into trouble. He's seemingly been sent here by God to declare civil war on my sanity, and being he ever so pursuant to that task, there are days when he and I are preparing for our  Gettysburg. I mean, the boy just knows how to sap your strength. A few weeks ago, I really had conversations with myself throughout the week about whether or not breaking his hands would be worth the subsequent loss of job, lawsuit, and blackballing (or for my negro amigos out there, just "balling") from the childcare industry. Ultimately, I decided that it wouldn't be worth it, as breaking the hands of a child is, I'm told, considered "assault" or "unprofessional" in many circles. Also, he'd apparently "have a hard time time with finger-painting and writing exercises" (their words, not mine) if he couldn't use his hands. People's values and ideas can be so antiquated, I tell ya.

But I should say, as easy as it is to lose your zest for the day when little Jesse is brought in every morning, there's no denying that he's a lovable little scamp. The trick is to not make much eye contact with him, because if he can catch your gaze and hold it for more than 3 or 4 seconds at a time, you'll find yourself begrudgingly forgiving his most recent misdeed. There's something about the way his little brown eyes lock in with yours that makes you want to soften right up and rethink your whole stance on him. There was one time when I changed a soiled diaper of his, and it must have been a huge physical relief to him, because he immediately leaned in, wrapped his arms around my torso, and finding a way to summon all of the gratitude and romance that both the room and his tiny body could muster, looked into my eyes and said "Kiss me, Marcus." For the record, we did not make out after that - everyone knows that the bathrooms are the least romantic rooms in a preschool - but how could I stay mad at him after that? I just had to laugh and charge that one up to the game. Well-played, Jesse, you precocious little rascal, you.

That's is the thing about these kids - when they are 2 and 3 years old, they're going to be volatile and melodramatic by default, sometimes showing a remarkable sense of one moment that is quickly tempered by an astounding obliviousness to the next. For example, every single day, when they're waking up from their naptime, I have another little girl who insists on turning the subsequent potty break into a long, drawn out minstrel show (She's a young African-American girl so double the metaphor!). Her post-nap thing is to wake up, slog her way into the bathroom, resist the idea of going potty, struggle as I help her undress for it, fuss at me while attempting to go potty, cry when I have to physically peel her off the damn thing, and whine for 5 minutes after the whole ordeal, because she somehow wanted to neither go or stop going potty. But no, she looks at me like I'M the crazy one when I suggest that she "Save the drama for Wilmer Valderrama."

She recognizes that we have daily routines, but because she was seemingly born with lead in her feet, her compliance with said routines is often on a tape delay. She'll do stuff, but she wants to do it on her time. Unfortunately for her, days are only 24 hours long, so I generally have to hustle her little rotund ass through her slow motion lifestyle, lest I miss the next solar eclipse waiting for her to pour herself a cup of milk. "I'm coming!", the little Hershey's nugget often shouts as she waddles her way across the playground to catch up with her classmates....on the other playground. "Yeah, well in theory, SO IS JESUS! And while we're speaking of it, where will YOU be spending YOUR eternity? When you learn to read, I've got some literature I'd like to share with you", I retort, silently high-fiving myself for coming up with a quick comeback AND potentially rescuing her from an afterlife of fiery damnation. I think the Bible says that slower people are the easiest to bring to salvation.

I wish I could tell you that it gets easier as I go along, but that'd be a lie; it's not as much a matter of things getting easier as it is that things get less strange with the more experience you gain. That's not necessarily a slight against them so much as it is me - kids can't help but to be nonsensical and irrational on most days, especially when their limited vocabulary dictates that they use whatever few words they already know instead of the the ones fitting the contextual picture they're trying to paint. It's up to me to find those scattered fragments and piece together what they're trying to say and do as they navigate their way through an increasingly familiar-yet-strange world, and I'll be the first to admit, I'm no master puzzler. But, while it's a life in which frustration most assuredly abounds, it's also one where you get a legitimate feeling of knowing that you're a big part in helping someone find their way.

To illustrate my point, one of my favorite students got an attitude with me just yesterday because I had to get stern with her after a particularly difficult nap time. They get two and a half hours to nap, but she  just goofed off and goofed off forever until I left for my break (by which point, we're already an hour and some change into it), and when I came back an hour later, she'd only been asleep for about 30 minutes. Unfortunately for her, it was almost time to get up by then, so when I woke her up, she was less than thrilled. I let her know that I had no pity whatsoever because I'd warned her that this might happen before I left. She cried and laid herself out in the floor, but I wasn't having it. When it came time for her post-nap bathroom break, she still wasn't talking to me, but even I, resident early education idiot, knew this was a teachable moment. I asked if she was upset at me, to which she said she was, and I told her that that was okay, and probably because I had to be a little stern before. I told her that sternness came from my frustration at her not doing her job before I left, and sometimes, that's how teachers will be with students. But then I told her I still loved her and didn't want her to think I was still mad, even if she was. I then watched her tiny, inquisitive, still-red-from-crying face try to process what I'd just said. Being only three years old, she didn't yet know how to reconcile her feelings of shame and anger with her teacher being harsh and loving towards her simultaneously. This reduced her to a tearful, blubbering mess, and when I tried to hug her, she recoiled from me, again laying on the floor in a fetal position. It sounds like it went badly, but this was a humorous and beautiful moment for me, because I didn't see them as the tears of a mad, bitter child; I saw them as tears of a young child, bursting with both gratitude for a teacher that loved her despite her wrongdoing and shame from having done the wrong in the first place. I couldn't help but laugh because I knew she didn't love me any less and wouldn't stay mad forever, but more than that, I knew that I had a hand in helping her not just get to a significant emotional conjunction, but be prepared for all of the ones she'll have from hence forth. This was a tangible sign that for better or worse, I'm helping to stir something in these children that I'm privileged to see every day.

Anyone who's ever met a teacher of any sort knows that those of us doing this certainly can't be doing it for the money; I'm fairly certain "preschool teacher" is loosely translated to mean "allergic to money" in ancient cultures. Hell, it stands to reason that being one, even for a short time, has driven many a person to getting out of the education business for good. I never planned to do this, and I took a long, winding road to get here, but I'm glad I am. Does this mean I'll do it forever? Probably not. Does it mean the occasional day where I think "Maybe this is as good a time in my life as any to start drinking?" Absolutely; childcare will challenge the shit out of your sobriety at times. But I also don't feel like it's a mistake that I'm doing what I am for a living, and at the end of the day, that's a great thing to be able to tell yourself or anyone else, I figure. Besides, at least in childcare, you can have a girl put her feces in a sink and laugh it off with your coworkers after. In most places, you're lucky to get off with just a stigma. Ugh, that was one security deposit I'm most certainly never getting back.

Teachin' the Youngins: Chaos Incarnate

Not too long ago, I was describing to a parent my abrupt transition from working with 4 and 5 year olds last year to 2 and 3 year olds in what is now my second full year as a preschool teacher. Maybe it was the subtle-as-a-shotgun hint of exasperation in my voice or the glazed-over look of bewilderment in my eyes, but she immediately sized up and assessed my situation with the needling accuracy of a sniper; "It's just like herding cats, isn't it?", she quipped, as if she'd been there with me all along. "Herding cats" is not only a funny image of a job that sounds like a herculean undertaking - I mean seriously, who even has the time to run a cat farm these days anymore? - but it was the most apt description for what my life as a preschool teacher had become in the last few months.

Let's make no mistake here - I love what I do. Because I've always enjoyed working with children but never intended to be a teacher per se, there are days when I get I feel like my hiring was an unbelievable convergence of good fortune for me and oversight for my employers; some huge mistake for which there's only a matter of time before someone comes in to tell me the jig is up. It's heretofore the only job I've ever had that could even be vaguely be mistaken for a career, and my cup hath runneth over with shareable instances of kids doing that wonderful kids thing they do. But the disparity between the classroom I was in last year and the one I'm in this year is incredible. Albeit separated by just one closet door, it seems like a wholly separate building at times.

First of all, the most invaluable luxury afforded me with 4 and 5 year olds is that they are already potty-trained. Being proudly able to facilitate my own needs in this manner for more time than I can recall, I've been guilty of taking it for granted that most kids begin potty training pretty much as soon as they can walk. That theory has been, until now, shared with and corroborated by no one, for the record, but I still harbored this assumption going into the 2 and 3 year olds room.

This is simply not true.

It should be noted that I'm one of those people that isn't particularly grossed out by germs or feet like most people seem to be, preferring to marshall all of my disgust for bodily functions, most notably human waste. I'm not saying that defecation is the worst thing on earth, but I will say that everything else is better. I say all of that to say that my ironic detachment to the world of changed diapers just one classroom away last year has really come back to haunt me. This is not a colloquialism - there have been points this year where shit has literally hit a fan. I've changed diapers filled with what could otherwise be mistaken as hot soup - if it weren't for the accompanying stench that was threatened to peel the paint on the walls.

So yeah, still just like some hot soups, I guess. It having been years since I'd last changed a diaper, the adjustment was not a particularly enjoyable or easy one for me. Now, in fairness, there are days when I come across not a single bowel movement, but those days only serve to lull me into a false sense of security, as you can bet it just means that a day with me changing what seems like 20 soiled diapers is coming down the pipeline. The sooner I learn to accept this, the sooner I can learn to tame my resultant gag reflex.

Other notable differences? Communication. My 4 and 5 year olds had a pretty sizable vocabulary, so they'd often say the most ridiculous things. For instance, one week last year, we were celebrating the 100th day of school. One of the ways we commemorated said occasion was by compiling a list of 100 things we'd all eat if given the chance without any consequences. All of the children standards were thrown out there - chicken, cupcakes, pizza, etc - but when my time came up, I said I'd eat 100 gummy bears (I'm watching my figure). This answer did not satisfy the youngest kid in the class, who immediately dismissed my answer because "That doesn't make sense, Mr. Marcus; that's not food."

That kid had previously said he'd eat "100 honey." Now, to be fair to him, he could very well have been talking about a brand of honey, not a number. But in fairness to sensical sentences, he wasn't.
Because these kids are right there on the precipice of understanding how speech works in terms of tenses and conjugates but not quite there yet, that classroom was positively pregnant with potential for comical lapses in language like that.

That's not to say that 2 and 3 year olds don't have the same things happen - Lord knows they do - but because their lexicon of usage tends to be a lot more limited, these instances are more difficult to come by. Not only do they struggle to articulate their feelings and ideas consistently, but naturally, they struggle to understand what I'm often saying to them. I sometimes forget to not talk to children like I might an adult, and there's no better reminder of that fact than a blank stare from a 3 year old doing EXACTLY what you're telling him not to do.

How do I make up for the lack of language follies? By playing on that same astounding lack of understanding. I regularly set one girl straight by threatening to call her family dog or cat on her. When she needs to see that I mean business, I put my hand up to my ear as if it's a phone and simulate an actual conversation. This usually results in a fit of hysterics from the young girl in question, but that's usually quickly followed by her cleaning up her act. To my knowledge, dogs have yet to master speaking English or telecommunications (no opposable thumbs!), but this girl doesn't know that. A 5 year old knows how ridiculous this is, but a 3 year old might not. Youthful naivete` is a hell of a drug.

One thing consistent in whatever preschool classroom which I've ever worked, though? Sometimes, naptime WILL break your spirit. It helps to give us teachers a bit of a respite from the constant activity of grubby little hands and feet gesticulating every which way they can, but the battle is getting them to sit still long enough to go to sleep. In a room with just 2 teachers and any more than 10 kids, this is no small task. For every one or two that are quiet and mellow enough to lay right down and take advantage of the rest period, they are 4 or 5 that are bent on driving you to insanity, which is already a fairly short trip. Whether it be jumping up and down on cots, talking to themselves, poking you in the face, incessant bathroom breaks, or skinning, filleting, and stuffing a chicken, if it can be used to delay their nap, THEY WILL DO IT. And when you finally do get the most rambunctious munchkins to sleep, it's only a short time before it's seemingly time to wake them back up and relive the day's shenanigans again. Most of them will not wake up happy.

The "Wild and Feral Children" documentary may have actually been shot in a 2's & 3's classroom after naptime. 

But even with that all being said, I'm glad to have the opportunity to do what I do. It's an unquestionably trying and exhausting job, but on days when I come in just trying to figure out how to bleed 8 hours off the clock and 5 or 6 tiny faces greet me at the door with smiles and hugs, I'm reminded why I'm incredibly lucky to do it. Kids have an uncanny way of lending you some perspective just when you need it, whether it's when you're angry, glum, jovial, or indifferent. There are fewer feelings more gratifying than a parent laughing as they watch you and their child goof off and enjoys yourselves, or when they come to you and say that their child loves to tell them about you when at home. Those moments fuel the determination to soldier on.

But for Christ's sake, parents, teach your rugrats to keep their hands off my food. Being a teacher also means I can't afford to be buying new Pop-Tarts every other day because little Dingleberry dug in his diaper before deciding my snacks were communal. Those are the WORST flavored Pop-Tarts.

Those and the S'mores ones.

A New Day

Good morrow, fair gentles! Guess who's back? It's been almost a year since we last spoke, but there is so much speaking to be done! This past year has seen me, at least on paper, go through quite a bit of growth. What kind of growth, you ask? Fine, I'll tell you, but only because you demanded it. Let's see, when we last spoke, I was:

- a wee 25 years and 11 months young. 

- not too far removed from my last go around as a Textbook Temp at the MU Bookstore. I'd been graduated from Mizzou for over 3 years at this point. 

- working two part-time jobs that I didn't love (one of which I actively hated by the end), with nary a sign of a career in front of me.

- struggling to live with 3 young college-aged roommates that I didn't know in a college student apartment facility. It was not my favorite residential experience of my young adulthood, but the clubhouse often had cookies, so we'll count this as a win. 

- still having no idea what it was like to have my own car. Halfway through my 20s. The lines of ladies waiting to date me rarely lined up at my bus stops. 

- haphazardly meandering along through a love life that can only be described up until that point as a comedy of errors. But an unintentional comedy, like a movie that so egregiously butchers its own genre that it can only be seen as sabotage in hindsight.

So yeah, you could say I was pretty awesome at life already. That goes without saying. But not long after my last post here, I had a come-to-God moment that activated a change in my life. It was just time for the wheels of change to be set in motion (and if said wheels could no longer be attached to public transportation, all the better.) But if you're ready, let me tell you where those wheels have taken me since...

*******

A month after my last post, I turned 26. I can't speak for all 26 year olds, but this birthday smacked me square in the mouth. Up until this point, 30 still seemed so far away, but the minute I hit the 25th anniversary of the 1 year anniversary of my expulsion from my mother's birth canal, I felt 30 breathing down my neck (RUDE). Suddenly, I was blurring the line between lovable post-college scamp still finding his way and that bum in everyone's friend group that never figures anything out and people learn to just tolerate. I mean, luckily, I have a dynamite personality and am moderately useful in trivia contests, but still, gross. Some would argue that I'd been blurring that line for years already, but their opinions weren't taken for the survey I was running at the time. 

Okay, so there was no survey. Shame on you guys for making me say it. 

But still, you see the issue. Fortunately, right before my birthday, my vocational doldrums were remedied when I stumbled onto a job opportunity at a local preschool. Having worked with children in some capacity since I was able to work legally, this was in my wheelhouse. While at the time (and even sometimes now at times), I'd hardly qualify myself as a "teacher," it became my new job. I was really more of an assistant to my classroom's lead teacher, but still, I now had something that could be perceived on paper as a career (provided that you're willing to squint a little), complete with consistent full-time hours and benefits! These were amenities to which I was not yet accustomed, even at my age, so this was a big step for me. And because I'd always wanted a job that allowed me to work and play with small children all day, I loved it from day one. I couldn't believe someone was paying me to do this. Suckers! I would have done it for free! 

After a few months, I eventually moved on to a similar teaching position at a different preschool, and though the adjustment was not a small or brief one, the rewarding feeling has yet to subside, especially once I found my groove in the new environment. This second teaching job bestowed upon me a little more day-to-day responsibility in my classroom and input into the academic regimen, which was both nice and terrifying at first. But I'm grateful for it because it's allowed me to grow so much, both as a person and a "teacher," and there's a certain catharsis and pride that comes from looking over a classroom full of students knowing that your involvement is partially integral to their lives and learning, as well as the whole school's success. DAMN, it feels good to be a gangsta. 

I also soon moved out of the apartment complex where I was living and into a nicer townhome with some friends of mine. My previous roommates weren't the worst guys in the world for the most part, but there is simply no comparison between living somewhere with people you barely know in passing and living with friends of yours. It's not even close. With two of my life frustrations now in the rearview mirror, it was time to make a move on a third, albeit far more notable one.

I called her "Champagne Coolie"

The turnaround between the two teaching jobs was brief - worked my last day at the first on a Friday and was starting at the second one by Monday - but for all it's brevity, it was a landmark time in my adulthood; it was the weekend I FINALLY got my first car. (The irony here? I'm writing again for the first time in a year, and it's partially born out of my boredom from being temporarily car-less again for these last three weeks. Don't worry, it's not lost on me). 

But there is just no way to possibly overstate how significant an event this was for me. I'm talking in my lifetime, which is sad, of course, but it's one of those things that needles at you more and more the longer you go without it, because in theory, the older you get, the more things you have to do, the more you need reliable transportation. So needless to say, this event was as big a deal as any (losing my virginity, graduating college, etc) for me. Now, while you can't truly appreciate something until you've had and gotten used to it before losing it for awhile (You've made your point, God!), even before I had one, I knew how much it sucked not to. 

Once I got the keys to her, I don't think I sat still very much for at least that first week. I was drunk with power and freedom, and now that I could come and go as I pleased, I was more than happy to do so. I would intentionally only pick up one thing at the grocery store at a time, knowing it meant I'd have to make a return trip soon again for something else. What about gas, you ask? BYE FELICIA. Shut up, I'm not irresponsible, you're irresponsible! 

Name: still TBD. 

Tragically, my tryst with Champagne Coolie was also short, as she met her untimely demise via a cracked engine on the side of a highway somewhere near East Egypt, Missouri. The whole time I had the car, I felt as if I were on borrowed time, for some reason; it just seemed like too nice first a car (at least externally) to last very long, so I wasn't exactly shocked to be replacing her a little less than a month after I got it. That's when I moved onto the bad boy you see on your left. Up until the last few weeks, this is what I've been rolling in, and though it only took 4 months to run into its first major issue, I suppose I'll take that trade over one that comes up in less than 1 month. 

It should be noted that I know LESS than nothing about cars, so both of them have run on my paranoia as much as they do gasoline. It's both a good and bad thing that I have friends that know infinitely more about cars than I do, because I'm constantly asking them what's up the minute something feels anything less than 100% fine. It would be downright embarrassing if my lack of car knowledge weren't thankfully supplemented by actual useful data, like pro wrestling world champions, or how many 5-star high school recruits Mizzou has ever had. Equal trade, I'd say. 

I will say, however, that I wish someone had warned me how expensive owning a car would be before I got one. Between gas (which is thankfully at the lowest it's been in forever), insurance, being towed, tickets, maintenance, inspections, and the like, I'm paying both arms and legs at this point, but in the grand scheme of things, TIS MERELY A FLESH WOUND compared to the pain of not having one again.

With 3 of the 4 major hindrances in my stunted adulthood now (more or less) taken care of, the only thing left is my love life, which I'm glad to report is......

....commensurate with where it was last year, at least. My romantic life at times seems destined to frustrate me in perpetuity, but there are so few constants in this world, so it's nice to have one I can count on, I suppose. You know what they say - the more things change, the more they stay the same. But the window dressing of my life at least halfway resembles that of a real adult's, which is not something I could have always claimed at this time last year, so at least it LOOKS like I have more to offer someone else. It definitely helps to not have to stink of arrested development on at all times, so if part of my year of growth means embracing romantic patience as a virtue, then I can dig it.

*******

Let's not be confused, folks - I'm FAR from a finished product. But I've definitely grown a lot in the past year, both mentally and physically (which is something of an accomplishment for someone at 26 unless they recreationally wear lifts or break their legs to straighten them, two things I hardly ever do anymore). Still, I'm proud of where I am, for the most part. Not a huge "New Year's Resolutions" guy, but one thing I said I'd do in 2015 was try to write more, and here we are in mid-January with me already having matched last year's output. I might have been slower on the tick with getting a lot of things done as an adult, but if you compress it all into one day, it looks pretty decent. Watch out, kids, I'm apart of polite society now! Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off...

You crazy kids take care and stay classy out there. 

A New Kind of Fierce

For a good amount of his time at the University of Missouri, the word "fierce" could be used to describe Michael Sam's competitiveness and play on the field, most notably during a senior season that just saw him become Mizzou's first unanimous All-American player in over 50 years. Anyone even remotely familiar with Mizzou football history knows how big a feat that was in and of itself. But on Sunday, February 9, 2014, Sam found a way to put perhaps a bigger exclamation point on a great season than his Cotton Bowl-clinching sack for Mizzou in January: he came out of the closet publicly, becoming the first openly gay NFL draft prospect, and should he be drafted as expected, the first openly gay active NFL player. There have been quite a few athletes to come out of the closet in recent years - John Amaechi and Jason Collins of the NBA immediately come to mind - but thus far, they have pretty much been either retired or athletes in sports with nowhere near the visibility of the NFL. Sam would be the first active homosexual player in one of the major sports.

The significance of that last line cannot possibly be overstated. Pro football is, by all accounts, a gladiatorial sport where hegemonic ideas of masculinity reign supreme. It's a fraternity, with all of the positive and negative connotations that entails. Michael Sam is, by all accounts, a hard working, dedicated football player who may not be the most athletically gifted guy on the field, but he's made a career out of playing and driving harder than his "athletic superiors," and 10 times out of 9, that's exactly the type of player that can help a team win consistently. Sam coming out of the closet means that there will potentially be a stigma attached to him forever; a disqualifier that might label him as a "good gay football player," when in reality, Michael Sam is a "good football player who just HAPPENS to be gay." Nothing more, nothing less.

While the reaction to Sam's announcement has by and large has been overwhelmingly positive - a testament to how far we've come as a society just in the last decade or so - there are still those who denigrate this as either a cheap ploy for ratings or attention. Even worse, homosexuality is and will be, at best, a polarizing topic for a long time, and there are surely many NFL players who won't want an openly gay player on their team because they're concerned about being a target or prey to wandering eyes and desires. As if homosexuality is some sort of predatory disease. As if women are the only ones that should be objectified. This coming from a league that has made stars out of guys accused and/or convicted of a litany of major crimes, including but not limited to: obstruction of justice in a murder case, vehicular manslaughter, and sexual assault. But hey, at least those guys aren't sexually attracted to other men, right? To call this line of reasoning ridiculous and asinine would be selling it woefully short.

Look, we've come a long way since the homophobia that many of us grew up in - I literally cringe when I hear someone who still uses the embarrassingly archaic word "faggot" as a pejorative towards someone they consider less manly - but perhaps no sport values masculinity and toughness like pro football does. There's certainly no question that being tough is a big part of football, but the two concepts have become synonymous unjustly. Being "tough" doesn't necessitate valuing the ideals of "manly" men - female sexual conquests being chief among them. His NFL future is only the secondary story here, but if Michael Sam becomes a successful pro football player, it'll get us THAT much closer to a day when no one is afraid to be who they are and love who they love, regardless of the arena they're entering. THAT'S what's at stake here.

Now, is it convenient for Michael Sam to announce his sexual orientation right before he hopes to hear his name called in the NFL Draft? Maybe. There's no question that at the very least, the timing of Sam's proclamation will cause NFL front offices to talk about him, perhaps even more than they would have even after his fantastic senior season. That's just a given, and there are people everywhere who find the timing to be just a little too "convenient." I've spent the better part of the last decade in Columbia, Missouri where the Missouri Tigers call home, including the entire duration of Mr. Sam's career. I don't know him personally, so obviously, I can not speak to his true motivations. But regardless of whether it was done for publicity or not, tantamount to saying that welfare is bad simply because of the people who take advantage of it, reducing something like this it to something so trivial and negative is just too simplistic. It misses the entire point, which is that Michael Sam represents a new, exciting hope for the entire LGBQT community specifically BECAUSE he announced it publicly when he did while trying to break into such a "manly" sport. NFL general managers and front offices can talk the talk about being accepting of all cultures and lifestyles all they want, but now, Michael Sam has publicly dared them to walk the walk. There are 32 NFL teams, 31 of which are for sure not going to able proudly say they employ Michael Sam after the draft in April, and Sam isn't a surefire elite NFL prospect, but most of that hardly matters. There's a chance that he might be drafted higher than expected because of this announcement and the guaranteed good will it will bestow upon the team that does so. There's a BETTER chance he'll get drafted below expectations or not at all because of a team wanting to avoid the media microscope, so if anything, it's probably braver for him to come out now. That would be a shame either way, because it does his announcement a grave disservice.

As a fan of both equal rights and sports in general, I have to acknowledge that possibility, but truly hope it doesn't come to that. The goal is to one day make it to a time when a player's past, ethnicity, religious beliefs, or sexual orientation are immaterial to the conversation of their merit as athlete, and announcements are no longer necessary. But Michael Sam's decision to come out of the closet is a step in the right direction, and it means he did nearly the impossible for fans in Columbia, Missouri - he found a way to top what had been an incredible football season. A monumental amount of credit goes to the Mizzou football team and athletic department, who have known about this since at least August and never said a word. For the world and media to not find out about it until Sam decided to come out on his own terms here in February bespeaks the loyal, family-like atmosphere that Head Coach Gary Pinkel has worked hard to cultivate over his tenure at the university. The outpouring of support from fellow Tigers, both past and present, has been awe-inspiring. Many things have been said since Sam put himself out there, but the picture below says more than any of us could have ever hoped to:

Awesome photo of Faurot Field this morning. #Sam #OneMizzou via Virgil Jeffery pic.twitter.com/roJ5kfH3Ia
— Zach Paul (@WeatherZach) February 10, 2014

In my time at Mizzou, I've seen many proud moments, but nothing has made me prouder to be a Tiger than the way this event has galvanized my community. If someone has to break down the walls of sexual orientation in major sports, it might as well be a Missouri Tiger. We have truly become "One state, One spirit, One Mizzou."

Shouldn't Have Come to This

Mental stability is something that I've always taken for granted. I've been blessed to heretofore have always been able to claim control of my mental faculties, so I've always been quick to dismiss claims of mental instability as "just an excuse." That's no longer the case.

Whenever there's a big national tragedy, especially those involving guns, I hear people say "It's not guns that are the problem - we're just not doing enough to combat mental health issues," and I roll my eyes because it sounds like a copout. It's no secret that I'm no big fan of guns, and I'll always believe that better gun control laws would do more help than harm. But a couple of recent events have made me stop long enough to lend an ear to the mental health argument. Twice in the last year, I've had my eyes opened to the true fragility of mental health, and consequently, life itself. Two friends from my young adulthood - one from high school, the other from my prolonged college years - lost their struggles against mental instability. Both times left me absolutely floored by the news because they were of the "Well if it can happen to them, what chance do the rest of us have?" variety. Maybe it's a testament to how well they were able to put on a happy face for the rest of us. Maybe it speaks to how neglectful I had been as a friend that I had no idea that either had secret personal demons. But it should never have come to this for me to wake up.

It's a shame that it takes death to make some issues hit home for some of us, but that's how it is sometimes. Having grown up never knowing anyone with a diagnosed mental disorder, it was simply never something I faced. Absence often begets ignorance, and while I can't claim that my ignorance towards it was exactly blissful, I just didn't always take claims of mental instability very seriously. I wrongly and carelessly assumed that official diagnosis was reserved for those with mental defects so obvious that they needed watching, a la patients in an insane asylum. It's shameful that I could have been so nonchalant and dismissive of issues that are very real and more than likely in far closer proximity to me than I thought. The tragedies that have befallen two good friends in the past year tells me that mental health issues are tangible every day.

Fortunately for my previous ignorance, someone with whom I've grown close in the past year has told me about her own struggles with mental health. Having, at different times, been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder, she's been my constant (albeit unofficial) source of information about mental health issues. The most common one - i.e. the one that likely claimed the lives of both of my fallen friends - is bipolar disorder, one that she says is characterized by dizzying highs and soul-crushing lows. Oscillating between states of mania and depression, a person with bipolar disorder can often become a danger to themselves when alone, especially if said disorder goes undiagnosed or untreated. But as of this year, it's no longer a foreign threat to me; it's right here, right now. It should have never come to this.

Never again will I hear someone say "I'm depressed" without it giving me pause. Never again will I so callously say that "It's too easy to just claim to have mental issues to excuse one's problems." It's an embarrassingly obtuse viewpoint for me to have carried for so long, and all along, I should have known that it isn't just that black and white. Now admittedly, neither friend ever came to me about their personal demons, so there wasn't much I could do from afar. But at the very least, I want to be more aware now. If writing this means that one more person is able to go to their friends and talk about their problems, then I'm happy. My hope is that we can all do something to learn more about the signs of mental unrest. All I know is that I don't want to have to face this situation again because I took mental stability for granted. I don't want to lose someone again because of my own ignorance. I can't. I won't.

Religion in Sports

Hola, blogosphere! Sir Marcus back here with what is hopefully a thought-provoking topic. Let's get the ball rolling, yes?

Last night, millions of people around the world tuned in to watch the Super Bowl, which saw the Baltimore Ravens knock off the San Francisco in an epic battle of will and dueling shifts of momentum, the fulcrum of which was a puzzling 34 minute stretch in the 3rd quarter when half of the stadium lost power. Given that the location for last night's game was New Orleans, this occurrence gave rise to many a Mardi Gras/Hurricane Katrina joke: 

Go home, Louisiana Super Dome, you're drunk.
— Marcus Williams (@SirRantAndRave) February 4, 2013

Last night's game featured no shortage of storylines, from the brothers Harbaugh coaching against one another to the rise of 49ers' young phenom quarterback Colin Kaepernick. But the story that got perhaps the most press in the two weeks leading up to the big game was that of Ray Lewis, the ferociously passionate star middle linebacker of the Baltimore Ravens. A Baltimore win stood to be the culmination of not only a storybook season, but of a career for the embattled Lewis, a man who may-or-may-not have been involved in a murder around the time of Baltimore's last super Bowl win in 2001. Always a well-respected but fiery competitor, Lewis has worn his emotion and his religion on his sleeve for years. Given what was believed to have been a career-ending torn triceps during the regular season, the fact that he was able to play in the postseason at all was somewhat miraculous, a fact not lost on Lewis, as Baltimore's improbable playoff run gave him just the podium he needed to essentially provide sermons for the American public anytime a camera or a microphone were within earshot of him. This all begs the question: what place should religion hold in sports?

Religion is one of those topics in our society that, while very pervasive, often gets the hush-hush treatment. When you go on a first date, it's one of the topics that one is often advised to steer clear of. Why is that, though? Most likely because it's an incredibly polarizing topic that has driven millions of people to war. Or something like that. 

I love sports. As someone who has been raised a Christian, I have no qualms with someone professing their faith, whatever it is. I do, however, recognize that the line between tasteful mention and overkill is razor thin, and in a public media forum such as sports, that line can be easily trampled. Over the month or so that led to last night's win, many sports fans would argue that Ray Lewis played jump rope with that line. His uncanny ability to have a scripture and some tears ready whenever a camera were around made many people roll their eyes, especially in lieu of his status as an "alleged" murderer who had managed to circumvent any criminal punishment. 

Another athlete who's been subject to much criticism for his evangelical usage of his faith is Tim Tebow, though his proselytizing is juxtaposed against his unorthodox and widely-believed-to-be-questionable skillset, especially for someone who gets paid to play quarterback. The more that Tim Tebow succeeded against all convention for how a quarterback was supposed to play, the more opportunity he had to spread his faith, and the more he did that, the more people turned on him. And even as a fellow Christian, there are admittedly times when athletes who can't open their mouths without a scripture cocked and loaded make even me roll my eyes. Obviously, I say that without knowing these guys personally, and in the case of Lewis and Tebow, I even believe that they are genuine. But the eye-rolling comes because it just seems too convenient at times. Much like when actors win some sort of award and begin their acceptance with "I'd like to thank God...", it's a contrivance that can often come off as opportunistic and exploitative, as if it's apart of their contracts. It's a cheap pop, tantamount to a pro wrestler shouting out the city hosting the event, or interviewing child survivors during the WORST MASS SHOOTING IN U.S. HISTORY. Oh, wait a minute...  

My guess? Athletes and other celebrities know what some of the easiest ways to generate good will are, and while whether they are saying things out of sincerity or not is purely speculative, they know that they are working in a profession that makes them spokesmen and women, one way or another. So the question is, can religion cross over into mainstream media (sports, entertainment, etc) without becoming cumbersome and polarizing? I believe that it can. For every Ray Lewis and Tim Tebow, there are guys like A.C. Green, a longtime journeyman NBA player in the late-80s and 90s who never hid his Christian beliefs, but also didn't allow them ever become something that defined him negatively. It's wrong to say that someone should stifle their personal beliefs, but it is also incorrect to say that there aren't less divisive ways to spread the word (no pun intended). 

*******

Well, that wraps up today's offering. Hope it got you guys thinking a little bit. As always, find a brotha on The Tweeter or by email (Gsuswalks88@gmail.com) for any thoughts, questions, suggestions, or feedback. Or just on here. Until next time, this is Sir Marcus T. Williams signing off...

You crazy kids take care and stay classy out there.