When The Silence Seems So Loud

The car seems uncomfortably warm, but then again the April winds are blowing so hard and we cannot let the cold rain get in. One, two, three voices all join in at the same time; it’s an argument over who can tell what song the radio is humming. They turned the volume up because of the piercing awkward silence, the distinct air of something tense and tight about to erupt. They don’t know, they don’t really care to know, it’s always like this, we are always fighting, nothing new here; they don’t know, they don’t care to know. Lights, lights, all red lights, all Stop signs, all car breaks; when will we get there. If only the lights would change much faster, if only, if only.

Again with the irritating heat in the car, he will not turn it down, he likes it hot. There is no more space on the other side of the car; I am sandwiched in the middle of the back seat. On my right sits my best friend in the world, on my left sits my abuser and bully, the one person I know will pull a knife on me one day and this time it won’t be for kicks, this time it will be real, he will explode, I know this. I thought he was my friend, I thought we had a connection; I thought I thought I really thought. They don’t know, they don’t really care to know, it’s always like this, we are always fighting, nothing new here; they don’t know, they don’t care to know.

He knows I am stiff, uneasy. He reads me well, it’s what he does, he’s had so many months with me to know me like the back of his hand. I can feel his elbow nudging me in the ribs, it is very painful and he knows this, he likes it when I hurt, when I cry, when I plead. And I cannot move further, the car is too small, there is nowhere for me to go. I am trapped, I am trapped I am so trapped. And so the hyperventilation, ha..ha..ha..ha deep breaths, you got this, deep breaths. We will soon be there, just hold on.

I want out, let me out of this car right now…..can you not hear me scream, he is hurting me, please please please…and the tears and the sobs, and the tears, I have never been so terrified.

Oh come on Helen, you are over reacting, you guys are always playing, we cannot stop the car, how will you find your way home, it is dangerous out there. Just tell him to leave you alone.

And the car radio is turned up, hip-hop and r n b, I could dance to that, all the songs seem so familiar, the car seems so familiar, the air, the night, the mistiness, the moment seems like de ja vu, I have been here before, lots of times before. But this time it really is happening.

Please switch seats with me, he is hurting me, I swear he is hurting me.

No, we will be there in 20, just sit still, get a room or something, why don’t you two just kiss and get it over with, be adults you two, hehehehehe…

And the laughter; the careless, annoying, stupid carefree laughter. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them so much, I will die here, and he will kill me, and I will hate them, I will die hating them. They do not know, they do not know, oh my God help me, they do not know.

The jabbing in the ribs has stopped now, maybe my prayers are working. Noooo…..the sharp sharp piercing pain. What is he holding in his hand, I think I have been cut, pinched, lacerated…stabbed? No…..yes…my shirt feels wet, is that a red stain? Why is the music so loud, what is this. And then his words, So you think I’m the bad guy, so you think I’m the one to blame for everything bad in this world. I will show you who the bad guy is.

There is the sign, finally, we are pulling up on to the college campus, I cannot scream, I cannot cry, they will not believe me, it is excruciating. This is not how it was supposed to be. I am free, I am safe, I shall stumble slowly out of the car, no one can ever know. We fight all the time, this was no different, I have to make it to my door before he follows me, he can’t follow me, he heads to his door, to his boys, to his bed, he heads away, head held high, chest puffed out, I will show you bitch, he screams, but I cannot hear him so clearly, I think I am badly injured.

Face my abuser, I must

But what if I do not want to, ignōtus, I see nothing
Deal with this like every other
Run, runaway, run as fast as you can
But know this; one never gets far enough, it is never adequate.

It was not always like this; there was friendship once, joy before, all sincere too, never believe for one minute that it was not real.

Feeding off the courage and confidence of others is what he does; he has told me this before
His mother beat him up and his father beat his mummy up, he has told me this before
Everyone thinks he is the bad person; he just has one of those looks, so he says
He likes a girl who hits him back, beats him back, threatens him back with fists and fights
He hates rich people, he hates anyone who has anything more than he has, this too he has said

And the whole time I was so blind, I did not think that one day he would turn on me

I have been saving things ever since I was little. I once took in a stray dog (his name was Terry), a stray cat (his name was Julius) and a stray bird (her name was Wendy)

And as I have grown older, I have taken in stray people; stray men, stray women, girls, boys all

Stray animals with a history of abuse, will not re-act out their assault, will not let it mold them into duplicate abusers, will not let it taunt them, somehow they move on

Stray humans with a history of abuse, sometimes, sometimes, will reproduce the very abuse they suffered, will repeat it on victims friends or foe

How could I have not seen this coming?

Last month he gave me a slap, we tangled, I fought back, we laughed about it
Last week he gave me a blow, I spat on him, called him names, come morning and it was forgotten

This time I don’t think it can ever be forgotten. It wasn’t always like this

It hurts because I let it happen again
It hurts because I let it get so bad
It hurts because our friends know but they will not do anything

Most of all, it hurts because I will not talk, I will not report it, I will tell no one

It hurts because I will take the secret with me wherever I go, the scar to remind of my cowardice, my pathetic helplessness, my reminder that he won, and I lost. And it will hurt and hurt and hurt.

BRIEF FORESIGHT

The screams came first, or did they. No, I think the screams came first, then the stamping. It was a lot of stamping, commotion, noise, extreme noise, too much noise.

The blot on the roof; when sight starts to fail, you start to miss things, but at other times, you actually begin to see things, confusing things, never sure about what is what. Bright neon lights will often fuse together in a gory embrace of blurred colors; letters, words on white paper jump at you like little toy soldiers. Sometimes they march in uniform cognitive awareness, other times they lie dead and far and unknowable.

When sight starts to fail, you start to miss things, but at other times, you begin to see visions of a kind, visions of redemptive annoyance.

The little blot on the wall, no, not the wall, I think the blot was up on top of the roof. Wall or roof, it all looks the same depending on where you stand.

At some point, the blot seemed static. At other points, it started to change form, like a shape-shifter, enchanting little wonder at a distance, enthralling almost. It grew smaller, and larger, smaller still and static again.

Had to tear attention away from the magnetism that was the shape-shifter, back into the four walls that surrounded sanity, back to cognizance that was the failing sight, the big huge windows, shutters half closed and the flapping of the curtains. The clock drags, full bellied and procumbent, along a sea of timelessness, as the four walls echo the drone of he who is pedagogue, to they who assume role of docile novices. Modulation passes, throbs a sway, everything’s normal here, nothing seems out of sync.

Beyond the flapping of the wind, beyond these shutters, the glass windows, timeless zones and the four walls; beyond all of this…the blot on the wall, or is it the roof.

Maybe it’s a bird, this far-off thing. And just as soon as one thinks one knows, there goes the shape-shifting thing again. It cannot be a bird because now it is no more a blot, it is upward and straight. Still too far away to tell so well, but pretty sure it is erect now, like a distant tooth pick, typical shape-shifter, no less enchanting.

My oh my, one does perceive strange things when the mind wonders out of space.
And just like that; the screams, the noise, the commotion. Still do not remember which one came first. Was it the confusion out and down below, or was it my enchanting little shape-shifter, leaning forward, and forward, and still more forward, until the sounds of closing books, moving chairs and slamming doors begin the end of yet another school allocution. But in all of this, right before the awakening, pretty sure there was a thud outside.

Or maybe it was all a mistake, eyes fail, sight deceives, ears lie, sights and sounds can be misleading.

When they found him, my enchanting shape-shifter, my little allurer and attention grabber, he was gone on contact, and there was a great big red halo of warm fresh blood forming on the ground where his head hit first. His eyes were open, almost as if looking up to the sky, up to the heavens, in supplication.

Is that a smile on his face, his slowly dying warm face? He did smile a lot, but that was before he became my little shape-shifter. I know the eyes lie, I know sounds deceive, all is not always what it seems; but I could have sworn I saw him stand, and think, retract and jump. And on he smiled, even as they carried his limp-self away, even as they doused the red halo with water, brushes and a lot of soap.

Commotion rose as the cries rang out, and the panic set in. But he just kept on smiling, smiling on to sweet NIRVANA.

Because I Was Not There

A day we will all remember,
A day which tested the American Pride,

A Marine You Stand
Ambition awaiting inside of your soul,

"You've a long road ahead, my friend, and It's very cold"

Just a little toy soldier, forced to fight, told to kill, cold at nights. You eat so little, you've been on the run.

The men march asleep. Many have lost their boots
But limp on, blood-shod. All men lame; all men blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
This is no case of petty right or wrong
That politicians or philosophers
Can judge.

Mr. President
I'm writing you a letter
that perhaps you will read
If you have the time.

I've just received
my call-up papers
to leave for the front
Before Wednesday night.

Mr. President
I do not want to go
I am not on this earth
to kill wretched people.
If blood must be given
go give your own
you are a good apostle
Mr. President.

If you go after me
warn your police
that I'll be unarmed
and that they can shoot.

hEY hOLD uP mRS. JOnEs...

There are certain essentials in life that are plain and obvious to everyone, those things that you cannot do without because they are necessary for the very survival of man. Air, water, land, that perfect pair of shoes that goes with all of your outfits, that cute purse that you can always trust to pull through any formal occasion, that tie that lets everybody know that you may not know much, but you sure have taste. There are certain essentials in life that you dare not go through life without; and one of these is Mr. Jones.

Let me explain. As you go through life, doing what you usually do, there is always a chance encounter of unfortunate disproportions and disturbing realism; when you meet a being who you know your friends must never find out about. Because of the disruptive labels we mark on people, because of the images on television, in GQ and Glamour, we are prone to severe undulating moves towards what we think is an “acceptable” image. A size ten is preferable to a size twenty, 120 pounds, better than 300 pounds of flesh, blonde hair definitely better than nappy hair, the lighter you are (sometimes…sometimes…) the better for you (sometimes…sometimes…). We know what we want and the image has been imbedded in us ever since we watched that music video with Rihanna, or noticed how Brad Pitt’s abs glistened as he tore down bodies and souls in the land of Troy. We think we know what constitutes the acceptable image and hence forth we set out in life.

Once in a while, ladies, there comes a person, who not so much fits that picture you had in mind. And I know you know what I am talking about. For some reason, when the two disproportionate worlds clash, it is starry and even magical; but there is one problem. You dare not let your friends find out, you dare not let the world know about your Mr. Jones.

See the thing is, Mr. Jones is a necessity, an essential being: a lady cannot go through life without him. He is an ego booster, always ready with the compliments even when you do not need them. Sometimes life is easier with Mr. Jones around because you do not have to work too hard to please him…the “love” “fancy” “infatuation” bug is rolling in wondrous cadence throughout his person. You can name a handful of reasons why you like him; but you can name a million and one reasons why you should not even be giving him a second look. He is not exactly the person you are going to take home to daddy, or sing praises about when you call up mummy, he is not the one you are going to introduce to your enclave of friends, definitely not the name you will be uttering in general circles of known associates. Simply put, you know that Mr. Jones will not fit into your world, but for some reason you like him and would like to have him around, so you keep him, hang him up in your secret closet, if only for a little while, if only for as long as his role plays out, as long as his essentialism runs out, then you can wave Mr. Jones goodbye.

Everyone has their reasons for having a Mr. Jones; maybe its loneliness, maybe its boredom, maybe its selfishness, to make one feel better about oneself, or maybe, just maybe, it is fear and pressure, lunacy and intoxicating liberalism; but one thing is clear: he has a purpose and he serves it well. And there are many reasons why he is Mr. Jones, and not a prospective mate. Maybe he speaks a different language from the one you and your circle of friends speak, maybe he is from that abhorrent part of society that no one dare speak of, maybe he does not look like Cruise, does not dance like Brown, can’t think like Chan, or maybe, and here we get into more hairy stuff, he is an ex-convict and your preppy life style just cannot accommodate him. Sometimes you just know that you don’t really have a lot in common to talk about, maybe you don’t even speak the same fashion or read the same books. If you put Mr. Jones next to the previous men in your life, he would look like the lost alien landed in the middle of Antarctica, completely lost, no comparisons there. Whatever the reason, you have your Mr. Jones and a secret he will remain as long as you live.

A word of caution though; do be careful that Mr. Jones does not dump you; it can be a real blow in the face, a nerve wrecker, a train crash, adverse, repugnant, very unfitting, definitely something you should avoid. Usually this never happens because he is probably so glad to have you in the first place that he would roll out a red carpet for you, he would kill for you, die for you, act foolish for you; and that is the reason why you are with him in the first place, because you know that no matter what you do, he will forever be sincere and loyal, fearing that if he isn’t loyal for thy being, you will leave him; how endearing!

And you gentlemen too have your Mrs. Jones. They are tucked away in some corner, hidden from the knowledge of all those guys who you know will never give you a break once they find out about her. She is probably not your type, not the kind of girl you would go for, or maybe she is the kind of girl you would definitely go for but because of “image” “looks” and a dying need to preserve “social order” you make her your Mrs. Jones. She’s not blonde enough, tall enough, smiley enough, good God why the hell are you with her! You can’t take her to momma for a number of reasons; could it be that she does not know how to cook, could it be she dresses different from what momma is used to, could it also be she weighs more than is “acceptable” according to the standards that you simple-mindedly invented. You like Mrs. Jones because there are needs that she, perhaps, fulfills that nobody else can. And, to get more controversial here, maybe you know that she has always dreamt of a guy like you, an Adonis of sorts, and she probably doesn’t stand a chance with you in the first place, and so you play on this little insecurity of hers, and she becomes simply, obedient, all adoring, Mrs. Jones. And when her task is fulfilled, when her job is done, please remember to send her on her way-with a box of tissues and a copy of “He’s Just Not That Into You.”

Please don’t allow yourself to be a Mr. Jones, or a Mrs. Jones. I hereby grant you permission to have, to own, to keep a Jones, but I forbid you from becoming one. Give yourself a hard look in the mirror today and ask yourself whether you are someone’s Jones. And if you think you are, slap yourself once, then twice, then three times, snap out of it and get over it.: It is only fear, insecurity and a dangerously low feeling of self-worth that can put you in a that position. But know this, the world will always have its Jones’ no matter what we do; just don’t be one of them. Have I ever had a Mr. Jones…wouldn’t you like to know…Have I ever been a Mrs. Jones…I am not giving you the satisfaction of revealing that either (actually I probably have, I’m just too proud to admit it). But I love watching people around me turn into Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones, always without realizing the transition, it is like they cannot see what is happening right in front of them. It is fun to watch and giggle over, but it does not make it any less disparaging. For all you sorry, pathetic Jones’s out there, boo hoo to you, get a hold of yourselves and don’t be so misused; and as for you owners of the Jones’ good for you, congratulations, you just ascended the throne to selfish-liberalism.

Lounge Dwellers, One and All...

Dear Lounge Dwellers one and all,

I greet you in the name of ethical paradigm of fidelity. After much contemplation and endless rumination, I have come to the sad decision to abort my participation in this much loved Club, The Lounge Dwellers, of which I have been a member since November of last year.

Although I have found my membership to be fun filled with jokes shared, games played and intellects compared, I am of the view that this is the most latent club I have ever been a party to and as such, must seek quick and swift exit. I do not feel, in any way, shape or form, improved by this club. And what is the use of being a part of something that doesn’t work to make you more than what you are. Instead, I feel saddened at the demise of my attributive intellect, which, ever since I joined the Club, has seen a massive decline, from quoting people like Emerson and Socrates, to ludicrous acts of total buffoonery all in the name of entertainment.

We share the same jokes and our sense of humor, dear Club members, can be called a synchronicity of perfection. But I am appalled at the repetitiveness of our jokes; every other day it is the same old jokes, told over and over again, as we open up our ridiculous mouths in selfsame laughter, over and over again, at jokes told way too many times that I fear we are turning into one big, fat, idiotic cliché. And is it just me, or can you all see how senile the things are, that we talk about. The food that we swallow in eager gulps-we repudiate, the people we call our friends-we laugh at in naïve judgments, the place in which we dwell-we quickly and unabashedly dismiss, as if we could do better than where we are. If we are going to ostracize our very own Academia, then pray let us work as hard as we really can, to transcend to an even “better” Academe. I find that the more we talk and insult, during club meetings, vilifying this Academe of ours, which, by the way, we have the power to transcend over, the more barbaric and immature we seem; it is no wonder that the rest of the world is laughing at us. I can no longer be a part of this depreciation of intellects.

So farewell dear Lounge Dwellers, I wish you all the best in life. I am sure that you will have more enlightening moments without me there. I, on the other hand, have got to move on to bigger and better things, The Lounge Dwellers is static, I need motion, action and better acumen. It was not all bad, we have had some pretty amazing times, some loud, some sweet, some hairy and some violent; all in all, they have been pretty amazing. I promise to drop in once in a while to see how you are all doing, friendships are precious and in you all, I found a pearl.
But for now I will join in with the rest of the world, to make fun of all of you remaining Lounge Dwellers, I will be an instigator to put you all to shame and expose you for the weak manipulators, users and downright showoffs that you all are. But I love you all still, of course I do; it’s a different kind of love, a more malicious kind of love, but it is love all the same.

AS YOU ARE

they brought to him all who were ill or possessed by demons
he cured many who were sick with various diseases,
and he drove out many demons,
rising very early before dawn, he left
and went off to a deserted place, where he prayed
when the noise of the world gets too loud
and the times of life pass too fast

Contemplate

when things around seem so right
or maybe there’s too much too wrong

Contemplate

go to that place, that happy place
but go as you are, drop the pretence, the vanity
drop the masks, the strength and all the fights

go as you are

because it is not in action that we find our answers
it is not in this world, this brain, this mind that we find what we search
it is in the silence, the quiet, the peace and the darkness
it is in the nothingness that we hear the voice
the answers are in the silence, the gold is in the quiet, the strength lies in seeming weakness

so contemplate, go as you are

lay yourself bare, let yourself be vulnerable, let down the guards that you think protect you
it is not until you let go that you let God
don’t let the noise drown out the voice
don’t let your super actions defeat his need to help
allow yourself a few minutes each day to go to that happy place
do not speak, do not think, but just be
once you’re silent, you are open, once you’re open, you are blessed
and once you’re blessed, then you are your ultimate

magnificence

YOUR PLACE OR MINE...

Is there such a thing as a different breed of woman? Does the “new times, new woman” philosophy really hold true to life as it is today? I think that I have grown up in a time very different from that in which my mother grew up, and while I appreciate having a refrigerator, a dish washer and all the fancy things you could ever think of, I am curious to find out whether the woman of today is in any way different from the woman of yesterday. I lie about my grades, every time someone asks me what I scored on what test. Instead of giving them a grade figure higher than what it really should be, I give them a figure many times lower than what I actually scored. And the reason I do this is because last year, when I was dating a wonderful, handsome man, he called one day and decided to "end things.” The reason he gave, and I have to applaud him highly for being very honest, the reason he gave was that I knew more of Aristotle and Plato than he did, I dreamt like Picasso, and I read Emerson in every word that I touched. Basically, what he was saying was that he was not comfortable with the fact that I seemed to be doing better intellectually than he was, so he damped me!

When I look back at this incident, it almost seems like something to laugh. But it really isn’t. Learning new things has always been a passion of mine, and I thought that the world loved smart girls and reasoning women, I thought the world celebrated these gifts. What man wouldn’t want a clever lady by his side, a lovely trophy to show to the world? Turns out some people do not want you to be too smart. And I watch this everywhere I go; my classes are like my laboratories, I sit and I watch people and I learn their attitudes, reactions and feelings. No one wants a smart-ass woman.

I could be wrong, of course I could be wrong. My conclusions may be based on observations null and void, but is it not true, Dear Men, that you cannot stand a woman who is more successful than you are, a woman who makes jokes funnier than yours. Is it not true that you quickly grow to loath and hate a woman who out-smarts you, who seems to know more than you do, earn more than you do, work better than you do: you simply hate the disparity. And with good reason too. If I was a man I sure would hate a woman who was driving a better car than I was. Where is a man’s place in a home if the mortgage is paid by the woman, the bills are handled by the woman, the better job is taken by the woman, dear God, I think maybe we have displaced the men and they have no more place to occupy in our lives.

Gone are the days when the man was the bread earner, the woman a home builder. It made a man feel like a man, he had a purpose, he felt needed, wanted, desired and required. Now, there is really no need for the man if you can handle all of your affairs by yourself, Dear Woman. It is no fault of mine that I like to be the best at everything that I do, it is no fault of mine that I will excel in all matters wide and small and no one dare stop me. But I do miss the golden days in which my mother grew up, I miss the days when the woman was humble enough to let the man take all of the credit for everything that she herself had done, and not utter a word about his innate frailties and massive failings. I miss the days when men felt like men and women felt like mothers, when there was a need for man and woman alike. Times have changed and they are changing fast. It is not my fault that I am smart and choose to be better than everyone around me, but it is sad that I will be judged as too head-strong, too opinionated, too hot-headed, too much to say in too much a brain. I will continue to lie about my grades, and I will forever down play my excellence; but for how much longer can I go on with such unnecessary deception. Of course you will say there are people out there who have made it work, blah, blah, blah. The next time a man rejects me because I weave better sentences than he does, the next time the boy refuses to sit next to me in conference because he knows that I tramp all of his un-proven arguments, the next time I am looked down upon because of the abilities that I cannot help; I think that maybe then I will just come to a final conclusion that times indeed have changed and I’ll be damned if I don’t miss the good ol’days when women did not try to fight for the trousers in the wardrobe, the good ol’days when women knew they were smart, excellent and brilliant, but pretended to be submissive, docile, yielding and tractable. I sure miss the good ol’days when women were not so quick to show the men that they were bigger and better, in words, ways and Acts arrogant and proud. I sure miss the good ol’days and envy my mother who lived through such gentle deception. It is one thing to know that you are better than the next man and shout it out on the roof tops, inviting anger and jealousy. It is another thing to let the next man take full credit for your wonderful creations, if only for there to be peaceful existence between the two of you, if only for there to be a sameness of sorts. Because at the end of the day it does not matter how good you are at what you do with life, it does, however, matter how well you use that goodness to uplift the person sitting right next to you.

SPEECH, PRAISE AND PRE-MATURE ACCLAIM

When we meet a kind and awe inspiring stranger on our varied walks of life, it is very easy to put them up on a pedestal for the charisma that they emanate, the magic that they speak, and the hands that they wave in delicious gestures of healing, help and promise. I find in Barack Obama, such a stranger; one who comes as if to lead the lost and the wanting. But there is a danger always, to forget that even the stranger has one who sent him, there is a danger to forget to notice that before the stranger came along, there was one to whom we prayed to, hoped to, asked to save us. Celebrate the coming of the stranger, we must, acclaim him and his words, we shall, breath in his promises of course we will, but let us not be too quick to rise him up on a pedestal higher than the skies and let us not be blinded from recognizing the reasons for which he came, let us allow him, help him to fulfill the promises for which he so fought.

I have been reproved for refusing to watch the inauguration speech live on television yesterday, I chose instead, to go and have my warm lunch waiting for me. “How dare you,” a friend said to me, “this is history in the making, how can you not join in this celebration, surely even you can understand that this is progress being made.” These were the pre-mature congratulatory musings of one of my class mates, pre-mature because I do not see the progress he is talking about, I do not see the history-in-the-making that glitters his eyes. I do not see any of these things and maybe I am wrong, maybe I am blind. Just because I refused to watch the live address of the speech on television, did not mean I was going to ignore what the ever alluring stranger, Obama, had to say; and so before I could get a paper copy of his speech, I put on my critical glasses and I read the speech, digested it, learnt it and praised it.

It was of course not surprising that the first half of the speech was a chilling reminder to the people of America and to the world, that the country was in a crisis; a weak economy, threat from terrorism, failing healthcare system and declining educational institutions. Fear, fear, fear, you shall all fear, the fear had to be preached first, the fear had to make the first entrance, fear had be the first introductory, first I will make you afraid, then I will gently blow over your goose pimples with promises of hope and vigor. If I do not make you fear first, if I delve first and immediate into the dear messages of hope and positive being, I am afraid the effect will not be as dramatic, first you must fear, then I will give you hope. I do not disagree with the problems that, as Obama mentioned, are facing the United States of America, I see them as clearly as the next man, I disagree, however, with the grand entrance with which he treated them, it all seemed too Hollywood for my taste.

Then there is mention of everything else, all hope, all praise, fore-fathers, fight to right things, blah, blah, blah. God mentioned a miniscule number of times, if at all any, and all in good faith I have never heard a speech so well delivered. He can talk, this new president of the United States; Barack Obama has got a wonderful gift of the gab. His speech reads like an ode of hope, and I would love to read it over and over again.

But why all the applaud, why all the cheer. The man has not yet stepped into the White House and we are already building monuments in his name, roads in his name, schools in his name, dear God I think he is the new messiah. He is the first African-American to be elected president of the United States and to that I will say “hurray.” But I want to see more: do not give me great sentences and fancy words, I don’t want well spoken literature and smooth flowing dialectics, do not give me a great physical stance and elegant promises. I want to see work, I want to see action, things done and righted. I will hold off my praise, the pedestal will stay empty for now; I will not be putting anyone up there just yet. I think that I speak for many when I say that history has not yet been made, history is yet to be made, and if you do feel that this is the end of the road, then I am afraid you are in for a bumpy shock.