A Quasi Reintroduction..
by Lawrence Quincy Milton Jr
…. Allow me to reintroduce myself- Jay Z — Public Service Announcement
…EVERY NEGRO BOY — IN MY SITUATION DURING THOSE YEARS, AT LEAST — WHO REACHES THIS POINT REALIZES, AT ONCE, PROFOUNDLY, BECAUSE HE WANTS TO LIVE, THAT HE STANDS IN GREAT PERIL AND MUST FIND, WITH SPEED, A “THING,” A GIMMICK, TO LIFT HIM OUT, TO START HIM ON HIS WAY. AND IT DOES NOT MATTER WHAT THE GIMMICK IS-JAMES BALDWIN
…THE BLACK MAN WAS MOTIVATED BY THE NEED TO ESTABLISH AN IDENTITY-JAMES BALDWIN
For the last Seven Years, I’ve had trouble introducing myself. Our world as you know, loves to operate within the realm of asking, “what do you do?” And I’m completely positive many of my fellow humans aren’t asking because they care about your contribution to the progress of the world. The ability to place someone in this box, whether its next to us, above us, or below us, comforts us. Weirdly. The fear of being placed in a box was, and still is terrifying to me. The question when asked, is followed by a slight pause, then a smile. Hesitation honestly. (Unless I was on my third glass of Old-Fashioned then whatever I was passionate about in the moment flowed out seamlessly).
My dream of being the next MJ (either one) stopped at 17, when I realized I wasn’t getting any taller and my voice cracked when I tried to sing in staccato or legato.
Not that I have hated the variety of hats I have been blessed to wear over the years. US Air Force Veteran, basketball coach, being from Memphis (yes, it’s a thing) videographer, audio engineer, producer, podcaster, writer, indie music video director, black man in corporate, drug trafficker, prisoner in a foreign jail etc. etc.
Ok, maybe the last two I mentioned, but I won’t bore you with those stories just yet. Two years, five months and 29 days incarcerated, 901 days, but who’s truly counting.
The quasi-introductions have mostly been a facade. I was emotionally and mentally incarcerated, in perpetual pain, longing for freedom.
Intuitively, I understand this to a certain extent, but I couldn’t verbalize it.
So as any man who is incarcerated, I pursued freedom. Dreamed of it. Freedom from a lack of emotion. Freedom, from living within my head. Freedom from the constraints of our ego driven society.
The pursuit was in vain. My definition of freedom was rudimental. Sex, alcohol, marijuana, and money. A quadruple threat of faux comfortability for a black man in an American society where the threat of a bullet with no man striking you seems to never cease.
Yet, those vices allowed me to feel alive, if only momentarily. And as with anything that makes you feel alive temporarily, it can possibly kill you as well.
The way I yearned and chased freedom led to heartbreaks. An odd type of death.
But as my favorite writer James Baldwin says, “my story would be a very different one if loved had not force me to deal with myself.”
My continual search for freedom outside of these heartbreaks drove me away from my hometown Memphis, lead me to Denver, then Oakley (where I encountered and debate the oddest Pro Trump LGBTQ individual inside a bar) San Francisco, and finally Oakland.
The question “What do you do, along with what are you doing here” seemed to follow me into every bar, every party, every job, every date, every event. Honestly, I wanted to just be, at least for the moment. I could easily throw out a title and walk in the confines of whatever someone believed, though what good would that continue to do me.
“San Francisco is just another American city, and if you’re a black man, that’s a very bitter thing to say”
-James Baldwin, Take the Hammer
San Francisco was the straw that broke the camel’s back. A seemingly liberal city, I was in amazement of the beautiful juxtaposition of architecture and nature it possessed. Initially, it felt like freedom. Until I ran into the inquisitive white and Asian liberals within the financial district who wondered:
“who is this negro in a suit with a beard and locs”
“What is he doing here?”
“And what can I do to challenge his intellect, humanity and place here tonight after several beers.”
They did not hide their cruel curiosity.
I embraced the challenge, if for a moment only being slightly annoyed by their sporadic use of AAVE(African American Vernacular English).
I knew what they thought. The political and intellectual jabs disguised as discourses weren’t new to me at all.
I ‘ve read James Baldwin, lived and understudied with Ted Winn(my dear cousin) , faithfully read the New York Times, and understood their uptown linguistics. At least the conservatives let me know up front what they disliked about us. Some said liberals it would take a few passionate rounds of debates on Obama, racial equity, crime and their personal favorite, affirmative action. (It incites them for whatever odd reason).
Now every liberal isn’t some closet racist, but I must question those who use cliche l language that minimizes the black experience and always has that one black friend in tech.
I quickly grew tired after I noticed a peculiar thing. I was not attaining freedom or progress with these fruitless debates. I was still enclosing myself into a box. Becoming the one negro they wanted around. Slowly, yet surely allowing them to define who I was. Isolated in a room full of people who smiled at me. I had entered the devil’s room lair with a false sense of security. And I didn’t see anyone like me. If I did, it was a quick nod, an acknowledgement in the daytime. As if we were phantoms temporarily transitioning through this alluring, yet chilly city with no time to speak.I longed for my people. There’s an affixation for research and search engines I gained as a child so of course I googled “black poetry night” recalling my time in Osan, Korea where a collective of us blacks would gather at a lounge for that poetic, serene, yet invigorating type atmosphere. At my core, I was an artist. Always have been. A part of me hoped I could find that same sense of belonging. That space. That community.
I quickly discovered Second Mondays hosted by Gold Beams. My first time there, I sat in the back and quietly observed, soaking it in. The energy in the room was vibrant, palpable, and infectious. Singers, poets, magicians, comedians, hip hop artists who stood outside the realm of traditional rap soothed my soul. Everything felt acutely familiar. It felt like home. As if I belonged. I immediately anticipated the next one.
My second visit I met Denzel Herrera Davis, unbeknownst to me, he was the founder/CEO of an organization called Create The Space, a concierge service for community and wellness. A simple “How you doing brotha” introduced me to a community of black men who inspired healing, encouraged vulnerability, and dismantling of the performative norm. I had no idea that I was walking into the opportunity to understand my narrative. I just knew I needed to be there.
I enrolled in the “Drop the Act course” led by Denzel. A six-part Self Exploration workshop, which honestly didn’t feel like a workshop. It reminded me of black men in a barbershop, though this time we were solving the intricacies of who we are as black men and why. Healing through provocation of thought. The physical, psychological, and moral complexities faced by men are real. And I particularly was facing the man in the mirror.
The Drop the Act course led me to 2ME4U, a live talk show focused on intimate self-exploration for men of color. An opportunity to stand on stage for ten minutes and own your truth. After I I graced the stage, it initiated something within me. I no longer desired a gimmick. I had no desire to put up a farce anymore. Or feared introduction. I knew who I was. The box the world tries to place me in cannot contain who I am or what I offer. I’m forever evolving as a black man.
Yes, you may assign a title regarding what work I do if it makes you feel comfortable. But for me, I’m so much more. Do I still give a pause, followed by a smile when introducing myself. Of course, old habits die hard. But now it’s because I’m in much better space.
So, with a smile, and a slight pause. Allow me to reintroduce myself…
Lawrence Quincy Milton Jr is imaginative connoisseur, writer, creative producer, director, and whatever else God leads him. He loves James Baldwin, Eric Jerome Dickey and adores Ari Lennox. He hosts a bi-weekly podcast, Create The Space: Tru Colorz . He hates boxes.
