Hittin' the G-spot

Hola Everybody,
Happy new year! 

Some years ago, I was having a discussion with my boss regarding my work. I had been experiencing some major challenges and feeling stuck. At one point, she turned to me and said, “You’re not hitting your G-spot, Eddie, that’s the problem.”

I was a bit taken aback by the comment because my boss is more often than not more politically correct in her language usage. Then I started laughing. I asked her to clarify and how she explained that not hitting your G-spot is a lot like losing touch with your creative flow. I’m known as a creative individual who makes it a habit to think “outside the box,” but sometimes, as we all do, I lose focus and can get stuck on what I can’t do, rather than what I can do.

But more importantly, “hitting the g-spot” is really about enjoying the process of what one does. It’s about being immersed in the work, of finding that balance between flow and dynamic tension. It’s hitting the g-spot even during difficult times or when doing mundane stuff, like washing the dishes or sharing times with friends and family. 

Life is full of countless opportunities for hitting the g-spot.

Sometimes when I sit down with my friends as we get together, sharing food, laughter, and good feelings, I am reminded that life’s greatest riches are found in such moments. As human beings, we are social creatures and connection and contact are like psycho-spiritual food. Without it, there is no meaning and we starve and wither. In the midst of our support network, we find common ground, we feel safety, and we rejoice, partaking in sustenance and good feeling.

That’s what life is all about.

I grew up in an environment rife with poverty, ugliness, and violence. But I was fortunate in that I grew up in a community. I was fortunate in that I grew up in neighborhoods where people looked out for one another, helped rear each other's children, and created some measure of sanity in a world that was at best apathetic to our existence. It’s sad truth, but community -- real community -- is hard to find these days. It seems to me that we have all contracted into solitary pockets of isolated small groups living in fear of one another and living lives of quiet desperation.

When I connect with friends and loved ones, I am reminded once again that community is not only possible, it is necessary and wonderful. Sure, there will always be personality issues and egos and pettiness -- the full catastrophe of life -- but at heart, when we come together, it is the principle of community that outplays the personalities.

When we’re too old and sent to nursing homes, our true possessions will be these moments of connections -- instances of hitting the g-spot. The only thing you will be allowed to take with you when you do “the transition” are those moments of joy that you accumulate throughout your life. And that joy will reverberate long after you’re gone and in that way, you will live through your actions.

Personally, I will always strive for community, whether it’s a cyber community, or a fellowship of men and women, or me acting out when they throw my nasty ass in some nursing home when I get old and cantankerous.

Oh yeah, if you came here thinking you were going to read something about female sexuality, then you need white Jesus!

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization… 

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, please consider helping me out by sharing it, liking me on Facebook, following me on Twitter, or even throwing me some money on GoFundMe HERE or via PayPal HERE so I can keep calling it like I see it.

On Friendship

Hola Everybody,
Yeah, it's Monday, but I was born on a Monday, so it can't be all bad. J

For anyone in the New York area, I am selling a Trek bike that cost me a little more than $500 for cheap. Send me an email, or leave a comment, for more information.

Fellowship and Friendship

Friendship and community are, first of all, inner qualities.
 -- Henri J. M. Nouwen

True friendship begins as an inner quality or attitude before it can be expressed outwardly. As a young man, I wasn’t careful about who I chose as companions because I always thought I was too fiercely independent to be affected by others. Not true... Oh yeah, I was independent enough, but the power of the group should never be underestimated, my friends.

My father used to tell me, “If you hang around the barbershop long enough, you will eventually get a haircut.” I didn’t fully understand what he meant at the time, but he was expressing an old truth about how our choice of friends is a reflection of our character. For Puerto Ricans the dicho (saying) goes, “Dirme con quien anda, y te dire quien tu eres... ”

As a young teen at 14, I sought friendship and popularity as a way of validating myself because I felt small inside. My response to this felt inadequacy was to create a persona I thought people would like: humorous, crazy, charismatic, outrageous, fashionable. The problem was that it worked. Starting with high school and after, I was one of the popular kids, becoming part of the “in crowd,” setting trends, and defining an experience. To this day, I still get people I don’t recognize coming up to me as if I know them.

But this all came at the price of losing my true self. Moreover, staying popular was work -- there are rules to this shit, you know. Eventually, in an attempt to escape popularity, I would break all those rules, but by then I was too popular to escape it. Breaking the rules became part of my mystique -- the basis for even more popularity!

LOL!!! Ahhhh... to be young...

Today I realize how fortunate I am because I can count many true friends. People who have been there for me through the years in good times and bad, who tell me what I need to hear rather than what I want to hear, and who accept me as I am -- a deeply flawed but loving person. These are people who help me be me, and not just the celebrity Eddie who is fun to be with, and who does and says outrageous things, but also the introspective -- dare I say even shy(?!?!) -- person who cares deeply about the world.

Truth be told, I like to say I’m a “people person” but I’m really not. I’ll never forget the day my mother turned to me while we were watching the movie, As Goodas it Gets, and said, “That’s you!” -- referring to the Jack Nicholson character. Not the obsessive/ compulsive part, but the character’s penchant for saying and doing things everyone else is only thinking. LMAO! I guess she’s right. Sometimes I can be brutal. Today, I like myself a lot better than I used to, but there is a dark side still lurking in here somewhere.

But to get back to my point: it is through relationships and community that we create and recreate ourselves. If we can create a space, both psychological and “real,” in which we can accept ourselves in a community or web of relationships that will accept us also, anything is possible. Ever notice how sticking to an exercise program is easier if you have a partner? Imagine building a community like that -- where the participants, instead of competing with one another, encourage each other to be the best person they can be on a daily basis and be accepting when we fall short (and we will). 

Others are quicker to latch on to the negative and create a Jerry Springer-like atmosphere. These very same people are the first to point out the pathetic or unrealistic quality of such an ideal, but the true irony is they are the perpetrators. Some of us define ourselves in terms of negativity. It’s all we know.

I am fortunate, I belong to a group of men and women who love me for me and who encourage me to realize who I am. The thing is that we can all have this, every moment of the day. Whether we are stuck in a traffic jam or walking down the street, this kind of life exists only as a possibility until we grab the opportunity by the throat and decide to be part of this insane world. 

True friendship should exist as a mutual feeling of admiration, unconditional love, and a desire for fellowship. It should exist without demand. Sure, there are times some of my friends “fail” me in my expectations of them, but they’re human too -- they are bound to disappointment me! LOL Shit, I sure ain’t no walk in the park.

The important thing is whether we can love each other unconditionally and without malice. Maybe one more aspect about friendship is to accept it without trying to change people. That’s always an obstacle because sometimes our feelings make us believe we want one thing over another.

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization… 

Asalto de Navidad/ Christmas Assault

¡Happy Holidays!

A couple of people have asked that I post some of my holiday stories. This is the second story.

After doing some service yesterday, I went to see Selma (here). Ordinarily, I'm very skeptical of anything Oprah does regarding the Black Experience/ history. The Butler, for example was a disservice to many who were in the struggle (especially to Black nationalists and others whose refusal to moderate served an important function in the movement). However, Selma accomplished some things I think are crucial. For one, it humanized MLK, something that's desperately needed. He was a man, after all. Secondly, the director did a good job of shedding light on the role of women in the movement, something we almost never see. If anything, Selma helps put the current movement/ struggle against state-sanctioned violence against people of color into an important historical context.

* * *

Asalto de Navidad/ Christmas Assault

(Or: Pasteles & Collard Greens)

One of my best friends (we were inseparable) when I was growing up was Al. We were born on the same day, one minute apart. He was born on a Monday morning June 6, 1955 at 3:28 AM and I was born a minute later. Al was a dark-skinned African-American with fine features, very handsome. He played trumpet and I played trombone and percussion. We wanted to become Latin Jazz musicians and Al came from a family of musicians. We were night and day, yin and yang, if you saw one, the other was certain to be somewhere nearby.

And we were trouble: devious Gemini’s to the core.

Al had 15 brothers and sisters and they all lived in this huge 23-room house in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Bushwick. I know it had 23 rooms because I counted. Ms. Pearl, Al’s mother, would tire of throwing me out of her house. She used to refer to Puerto Ricans as, “All you mira, miras.” I think she got that from constantly hearing PRs exclaim, oye mira, mira! On the streets of what was at the time a diverse neighborhood. She would chase me out of her house, but would send out her sons to look for me if I stayed away too long and then scolded me for staying away. Of course, she would throw me out the door and I would climb through the windows. Al got all his looks from his mother, she was a very dark-skinned, fine featured, woman with long, fine hair, still beautiful in spite of all the children. Her house was run like a conglomerate, with varying levels of management. I was totally fascinated.

She didn’t like PRs and let me know it, but I think she loved the heck out of me. She would call me “Black” and laugh because I was so light-skinned. The name stuck, I was known as “Black,” as in “Yo, Black,” in her house. However, she couldn’t abide by those noisy “Po’ Reekans” as she referred to us. 

Therefore, it didn’t surprise me when she was initially outraged when my family decided to show up on her doorstep one Christmas Eve in observance of the Puerto Rican tradition of the paranda. She looked at me and said, “Nigga, what the fuck are all those mira miras doing out there on my front door?” My family also had its share of musicians, my uncle having led a salsa band for decades. My stepfather was also something of a musician and my mother, much to my embarrassment, can’t sing to save her life. But there they were, on Ms. Pearl’s doorstep singing some whacked out PR Christmas song with Al, her favorite son, at the head playing trumpet.

For Puerto Ricans, the celebration of Christmas is more of an assault than a normal celebration. You see, a group will get together and march en masse to each doorway. They come complete with instruments, real and makeshift. Puerto Ricans consider pots and pans, for example, instruments. As are beer bottles (full or empty) or anything else that makes a percussive sound. There are, of course, the real instruments, guitars, congas, cowbells. For Puerto Ricans, anything – any kind of instrument -- is considered game. If you played a harp and had one handy, you would be “encouraged” to tag along, harp and all.

So, there they were, my whole family and what looked like the rest of the PR community, banging on pots and pans, congas, bongos, and guitars, with my mother screeching at the top of her voice. Now here’s the real kicker: PR paranda tradition holds that you go from door to door. Each household gets hit (el Asalto). Once outside your door, Puerto Ricans will not leave until you feed them and get them drunk and then you have to go out there with them to the next house.

“Edward,” Ms. Pearl said (you know you’re in trouble when grownups use your real name), “Tell them muthafuckas and my son to get the fuck out of my door before I call the police.” This is where I had to explain the part where they wouldn’t leave until they were well fed and drunk and, with a “Hell no,” under her breath, she opened the front door to give my people a piece of her mind and that’s when the whole group just rushed in, mistakenly thinking they were being invited in.

That was a helluva Noche Buena, as PRs call Christmas Eve. Ms Pearl ate lechon (pork suckling) and pasteles (meat embedded in mashed plantains and yucca wrapped in plantain leaves) for the first time and her sister, Aunt Gerty, got so drunk, she literally lost her wig. In the process, traditional PR food collided with soul food. Flan mixed with sweet potato pie, greens crashed with pasteles, James Brown mixed with Willie Colon, the rum and the gin flowed, and Ms. Pearl and my mother formed an uneasy truce, each knowing that their sons were inseparable.

I don’t know how many people were there that night, some we didn’t even know. Every Christmas Eve after that, I know Ms. Pearl would anxiously await the ruckus of “All dem mira, miras.” She would never admit it, but I know she loved those parties. She would say that “Porter Reekans” knew how to party like black folk and that’s probably the greatest compliment Ms. Pearl could give.

Ms. Pearl could be stern, but she was so supportive of the young people in the neighborhood. She would allow, for example, her son George’s band, The New Breed, to practice in her basement. Now, you have to understand this was about a 16-piece band with Marshal amps. We also played loud, performing songs from diverse sources, like Buddy Miles, Grand Funk Railroad, Kool & the Gang. Her son, George, was a gifted drummer who practiced at least 8-10 hours a day -- everyday. Ms. Pearl supported all of that. Eventually, she would lose that big house on Bushwick Avenue.

George would go on tour with Gloria Gaynor. Al and I worked as freelancers for various local bands, mostly salsa. Some of the horn players of The New Breed would break off and play with BT Express and other groups of the day. I would become discouraged with the music business and leave it all behind. When Ms. Pearl lost her house, she moved to a smaller one much further away – somewhere in Jamaica, Queens. I would visit, but not as often. Al and I would go our different ways, with Al beginning to get involved in petty crime that would eventually lead him to small stretches of time spent in and out of jail.

The last time I saw Ms. Pearl, she hugged me and tenderly caressed my face. She told me to make sure to take care of myself. Shortly thereafter, I left New York for some time. The last time I spoke to anyone from the family was when George called me while I was living in Houston. He was on a world tour with Gloria Gaynor and had left some tickets for me at the Forum. When I saw him, I hugged him as I would a brother.

I never saw any of them again... 

I look back now and realize, as I did then, that those were special days. I lived during a time where there was community and while times were hard (they always were), people somehow looked out for one another's children. Today, I don't see these traditions practiced as much as in those days, and I'm saddened a bit because our children don't realize how much they're missing. Here’s to Ms Pearl, to my brother from another mother, Al, and to music. I hope that wherever they are that they never lost their zest for life in the face of hardship.

            My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…

An Open Letter to the People in My Life

Hola mi Gente
I plan to write a few posts based on my participation in the #OccupyWallStreet movement, but I have to get this off my chest first. Some who know me will find this offensive, fuck it…

* * *

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m harder to find these days, more distant, less talkative. There’s a reason for that (aside from my natural tendency toward solitude). Recent revelations have forced me to reevaluate my relationship with you. As I listen to you complain about all the little things in your life, please understand that I’m part of a social movement that forces me to witness the ruthless dispossession of human beings.

While you were bitching about your relationship with your daughter the other day, for example, I was spending time with an elderly woman who has lost everything she owns. She’s in her 80s. The last time I saw her she was sleeping at Zuccotti Park. Yeah, she’s one of the people you’ve been mocking.

As you griped about your baby momma drama, I couldn’t help but reflect that the other day I was sitting with a young lady, a recently graduated Latina, almost $100,000 in debt and unable to find a job.

As you were snidely pointing out to me that the people shopping on Black Friday are part of the 99%, I thought back to the brutal take down of a sixteen-year-old honors student at the hands of the police. Her crime? Challenging the assumptions of a society that makes Black Friday possible -- even a necessity.

I listen to you, my friends, lovers, my family, my network of loved ones, and I am thrown by the banality of your frame of reference. I am repulsed by your self-centeredness; you’re utter incapacity for empathy. But most of all, I am saddened.

And it’s not about whether you agree with my politics or not. Believe me, most people don’t agree with me. My frame of reference is Marxist and I advocate for a democratic socialism totally foreign or repugnant to you. People disagreeing with me for my political stance isn’t anything new or traumatic. What appalls me is your cynicism, your cruelty, your apathy, and your fucked up judgmental bullshit.

It’s not that you ridicule, or make fun of my participation in a social movement. That’s been a constant for as long as I can remember. I have always taken unpopular stances, fought for unpopular causes, and people have laughed at me for even longer than my tired eyes could ever tell you. What horrifies me is that you have no real stance. You have no solutions. You have no passion and it seems that when you see passion in others, it brings out something ugly and ignorant living inside of you. It seems to me that sometimes your soul has been starved or that you’ve become so hardened and calloused there’s no real heart at your core, only contempt.

And what’s ironic is that a lot of you don’t have to go too far back in order to acknowledge your own wreckage. Your children have been shaped and warped by it, your relationships have been destroyed by it, and there was a time when you felt as if the world were laughing at you and you felt like nothing. Most of all, I remember when you felt like shit, when your self-worth was almost zero. I remember that. So, today, you’ve managed some measure of social acceptability and now you have the arrogance to look down at others. How arrogant of you, how thoughtless, and how ugly you seem to me.

And let’s not get it twisted: I remember when your mother used food stamps, when the guys thought you were a hallway ho’, and when even your own mother wouldn’t open the door for you. I remember you crying because you couldn’t pay the rent and then rejoicing with you when you cried because you could pay the rent. I knew you when someone sacrificed their mental and physical health so that you could go to college and “be somebody,” and now that you think you are somebody, you’ve bought into the propaganda and laugh at those struggling to make a better or fairer society.

The sad thing, for me anyway, is that I’ve been struggling. I’ve been facing my own really tough challenges. Now I have to face the fact that, at that time when I need you most, I have to choose to love you from afar because I can’t stand to see what you have become. I can’t abide the realization that when you marginalize others, you’re also marginalizing me.

As I struggle, along with many other good people, people you can’t hold a candle to in terms of courage and will, I have to come to terms with the reality that perhaps I haven’t chosen well or wisely in creating my support network, and I have to say that I’m moving on, without you. I am, however, grateful that you have forced me to take an inventory and question: how does my friendship with you reflect on me as a person and, most importantly, am I truly living my values? I realize that many who even bother to read this will attempt to analyze me and label me “angry” or “hostile” or whatever the fuck the flavor of the month is. But I’m not angry. If anything, I stopped being angry a long time ago. I’m even moving past the sadness, and moving on.

I hope you do as well…

Love,

Eddie