The following is my version of an autopsy for the 2016 Presidential election. If you have had just about enough of this varietal of Farm-fresh bullshit, please take the opportunity now to save yourself. I will make some of you mad. I will remind most of you how insane the whole thing was to begin with, and it is my fervent hope that by this article’s end, y’all will have a laugh. Although since I am not running for high political office, you probably don’t believe me.

Let’s see…

November 7, the day before America was to decide the next president, I was on a treadmill. (Hard to believe, I know, but it’s the truth) A slight jog energized the end of my workout routine. I was sweating the good sweat, and on the monitor attached to my machine was live coverage of Hillary Clinton’s last campaign event before the polls opened. She was in Philadelphia in front of a primetime crowd, and joining her on stage was then President Obama, the First Lady, former President Bill Clinton, and Chelsea Clinton. The royalty of the Democratic Party, as it were. Everyone was smiling, waving, and happy to be on the way to victory; all in a good day’s work. I reflected on that moment to my friend Shomari and said something to the effect of: “She’s got it. That was her closing argument, now it’s up to the jury.” We all know the end of that story, so I want to tell you a different one.

Rewind to March 18, 2016. A rowdy St. Patrick’s Day in East Lansing has left the city immobilized and nauseous. Windows fogged and T-shirts stained, the Spartans were rebuilding after one of the most holy and ceremonious holidays in MSU lore. Only ten days earlier, though, the entire state was voting in the Michigan Primary. I cast my first ever ballot for any presidential candidate that day, and I am proud to say I checked the box for Vermont Senator Bernie Sanders. What Sen. Sanders pulled off that night has been described as the single most unexpected result in the 2016 election; except, of course, the ultimate result. That will be revisited. The polls had it all wrong, and Michigan’s open primary system made it harder to predict and thus, more competitive. Iowa was a statistical tie, New Hampshire was Bernie country, and the Super Tuesday states mostly favored Clinton. But in Michigan, the progressive agenda was given new life and provided momentum for Our Revolution to continue all the way until July of 2016. For a point of context, the Sanders Institute – a democratic socialist think tank started by Jane O’Meara and Bernie Sanders – launched officially just a few days ago, precisely one year after the last primary vote was cast. The progressive ideology lives on.

At the time, however, it seemed antithetical to give Bernie a fighting chance. By March 15, there were only three remaining Republican candidates left in the race and the entire conventional wisdom had been obliterated by the audacity of one man and his hair. Hillary’s team was projecting an erre of confidence so dense that it seemed like they were patiently waiting for that crazy old socialist to come inside from the rain. Not because they were concerned for his health and wellbeing, but because he was really cramping their style. A few of those early primary debates between Sanders and Clinton – which were routinely scheduled during NCAA tournaments or season finales of The Bachelor, so it is understandable that you may have missed them – always raised the question of electability. There were questions implying that Hillary Clinton’s vast array of analysis and expertise was so superior to that of Bernie Sanders, it was almost pointless to even have an election at all.

And Michigan changed all of that. So come March 18, I was rather defiant in the face of a true believer in the Democratic Party, and especially the gospel of Secretary Clinton. That evening, there was a conversation had that I will surely never forget. We all gathered around the countertop at my apartment and we set off on a free-wheeling discussion of current affairs that was fueled by drugs and alcohol, and propelled by a multiplicity of cigarettes.

Let me make my bias known: I was raised to think the Clintons were everything bad about politics that had morphed into one anti-Christ couple of Bill and Hillary. As I grew up, I began to see the Clintons doing some good deeds, of which there are many. But in 2016, I really dug in and began noticing a relationship between how the Republicans acted and how the Clintons acted; both essentially being the same. At the dawn of her political age, the young Hillary Rodham was a Goldwater Girl. Liberalized by her education, she met a dashing young law student at Yale named Bill. A southerner and a smooth talker, Bill Clinton was elected president and single handedly put more young black men in prison than Ronald Reagan. Ain’t that somethin’?! Mrs. Clinton, for her part, is cited in a 1996 speech as calling those delinquents that are given only three strikes before they are out of civil society forever, “superpredators,” who need to be brought “to heel.” President Clinton also instituted the Defense of Marriage Act, which defined the union of marriage as only existing between one man and one woman. People change with the times, and I understand that. Which is why it was even more confusing when then Senator Hillary Clinton stood on the floor of the U.S. Senate spouting that same policy only ten years ago. But that was all in the past, I learned. That didn’t matter, I was told. She had changed, and so had the country.

“Think of the alternative,” a friend said to me.

“I am,” I said back. “Donald Trump cannot lose this election. Even if he loses, he still wins. And if he wins, then he just out and out won. She can’t compete with him, it’s impossible. So why not vote for him at that point?”

“Dan…” eyes widened and voice lowered, my friend continued. “Are you really saying you don’t know what the difference between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton would mean for this country?”

“No!” I sniped back. “I’m saying your blindness bothers me. I’m saying that he is playing a whole other ball game and she can’t see it. I’m saying that I, as well as many other Americans, think she broke the law and should be held accountable.”

“Honestly,” the friend shot the fatal blow, “I don’t care if she broke the law.”

Our discussion ended about then. To help illustrate the picture for you, this was just after tears were shed but just before we started taking off our jewelry. I was devastated. The democratic process had boiled down to a flawed and pathetic candidate that had her supporters out in the world defending nefarious behavior and frantically babbling “She’s gonna win” until they were blue in the face. Bernie Sanders ultimately suffered defeat in the Democratic nomination, but not before instilling progressive values in the body and soul of a new generation. The moment Sanders and Clinton stood on the same stage in front of the banner that said “Stronger Together,” I cracked open a beer. I knew what I had to do, but I really didn’t want to do it. I began listening to many people, resigning myself to gain a wider perspective. I grabbed a copy of Hard Choices, a memoir by Hillary Rodham Clinton from her tenure as Secretary of State, and read it to try to be sure that we were literally on the same page. I analyzed polling data, I encouraged people to get involved with the issues and see where they lined up and go from there. Pillars of the national security community supported Clinton, prominent republicans were switching teams to Clinton, and even George W. Bush did not openly support Trump.

Speaking of George W. Bush, arguably the last GOP president, he did not vote for Trump. That much is certain. But, he also did not vote for Clinton, a Bush spokesperson confirmed. Apparently, the former president either didn’t mark a ballot at all, or he left the top section blank. This approach to the November 8, 2016 presidential election was not uncommon and caused a staggered result that defied all the numbers and gave birth to the Presidency of Donald Trump. I do not mean to shame anyone that voted this way, that is your business. Although, I am about to depict an unfortunate pattern that led people to believe Hillary Clinton really did have it all along, and why she ultimately did not.

Eric Gerson:  supports Bernie Sanders in primary, declares it an easy D to vote for Clinton in the general election. Studying in Hungary at the time, his absentee ballot arrives and he fills it out only to realize that it would not make it in time even if he did send it in.

Mitch Timmerman: supports Bernie Sanders in primary, has serious doubts about Clinton in the general election, but declares her the lesser of two evils. Studying in France at the time, his absentee ballot arrives. He votes Clinton, correctly addresses the envelope, and drops into the French mailbox where it is lost forever. His ballot never made it to East Lansing.

Houston Smith: supports Bernie Sanders in primary, wavers occasionally on who he would support in the general election. Ultimately deciding to vote for Clinton, he goes to the polling place in East Lansing and casts his ballot on Election Day. After a tabulation error, his ballot is invalid and he has to get back in line to vote again. So frustrated at his clumsiness and apparent illiteracy, he goes forth on a more self-destructive route. On his second time through, he votes for Gary Johnson.

Shomari Tate: supports Bernie Sanders in primary, has serious doubts about Clinton in the general election, but states that the most progressive platform was on the Democratic ticket. Votes absentee for Clinton and pays to have his ballot overnight delivered to his hometown of Grand Rapids by the filing deadline. He checks the tracking number two weeks ago; his ballot was never delivered.

In a stunning turn of irony and comedy that is usually reserved for a Broadway show, I end up being the only one of my fellow “Bernie Bros” to actually cast a ballot in the name of Hillary Clinton, and I am the one who couldn’t stand the bitch. I should note that my younger brother also voted for Clinton. And I should also note that all of the people mentioned above did as well, it just didn’t count. Now chaos reigns supreme and our collective imaginations have truly been tested with just how unstable the whole thing can get.

If there is any single message that should be derived from this revelation, it is simply this; make it count. I did not write all of this to say I Told You SO! I do not think Hillary Clinton is as bad as Donald Trump, and I did not say as much during the campaign. And I remain a true believer in democracy because I can live with my decision. I know I made the right one for me.

Hillary Clinton came out a month ago and said something so asinine that I hesitated to think she was not under the influence of a drug. She said, “If the election been held on October 27, I’d be your president.” I found myself asking the following question: how comfortable does your fat butt have to be in that reclining chair to suggest to a nation of tortured souls living in a constant state of fear that if God himself could have changed the seasons sooner, only then would it have worked out in your favor? She basically said, “Sorry America, if I had been awoken from my nap at a reasonable hour, I could have stopped the raging fire from engulfing the living room and spreading to the garage.”

The entire nation knew when Election Day was. Everybody could see that big X on the calendar. Donald Trump was about to go back to being the Celebrity Apprentice and we were going to have a woman as president. And then, she fucked up the end game. At fourth and one, she took the sac. If it’s a horserace, her jockey fell off the stallion and was dragged through the dirt. She showed up drunk to her own surprise party.

If Mrs. Clinton really can’t stomach her failure, then I hope she gets to read this one day to see how much effort I have put into it.

In Solidarity,

Daniel J. Neebes

By: Ewurama Appiagyei-Dankah

It’s easy to take some things for granted, like the health of your family members. This is especially true of parents, who, to their children, seem to have an air of invincibility about them. In their infinite wisdom and care, they seem immortal—at least, that’s how my parents felt to me while I was younger than I am now. And then, slowly, over the course of months, that illusion came crashing down around me and my family. Far too early, given her age, I was forced to contend with the mortality of my mother—my rock, the woman I love who seems infinitely energetic, and a woman who is amorous to the point where it is almost overwhelming. She carted me around to my various extracurricular activities—she tolerated my incessant flow of questions, and she always took care of me in the most loving way. My mother, my world. Seeing her in a hospital bed, hardly able to recognize me, and contending with the thought of losing her was almost too much to bear; seeing her in that setting made me realize that as much as it may have seemed to me, she is not immortal.

No, she is not immortal, but what she is, is a fighter. I think her recovery can be attributed in part to God and (largely) in part to the amazing fortitude she possesses. She is smart, insightful, and analytical in ways I can only hope I will someday be. She loves, deeply. She inspires me every single day to be the best version of myself: to treat others with compassion and grace—to support the ones I care about however I can—to love, fiercely and without abandon. She fought the illnesses that held her down and came out triumphant. She still fights now, and my family fights along her, trying to give the depth of support she always gives to the rest of us. She gave me her fighting spirit, and the world. So here’s to you, mom—thank you for being the warm, gracious, and loving person that you are. Thank you for being yourself, unabashedly—thank you for your passion for people, the care with which you cook, and the love that underlies every interaction you have with everyone who encounters you. You are a miracle of a person, and I love you dearly!

 

Love,

Sunshine

I’m the kid who laughs at every opportunity, the one always ready to crack a joke. The student who gets his work done on time, and shows up early to everything. I care for my friends and family, and I walk amongst you as a normal person. I’m also depressed.

For what seems like unending periods of time, I want to die. I feel an aching existential pain of worthlessness and insignificance. Some nights I go to bed and hope to pass in my sleep, other nights I lay awake fantasizing about ways to kill myself.

These thoughts wax and wane, but they never go away. There are times when they dominate and I snap at the people I care about the most. Saying words that I know will cause maximum damage just so I have the satisfaction of bringing someone to my level, my threshold of pain. Then the feelings pass and I am left to apologize for the other guy’s mess. But I never apologize, I just keep moving forward as if nothing happened.

I stay silent because to out myself would mean that I have to confront the problem I have. Instead, I drink and do drugs-and for some time changed smoked like a fiend. But I know full well that this is no way to live.

I seek out those who are like me and help in any way I can. I do this to forget the fact that I need help.

I am a normal person just like you. I smile, laugh, and go about my day as usual. But when I get into my bed at night it’s a battle to go to sleep and wake up the next day and do it over again, and again, and again.

You don’t know who I am or maybe you do. If you don’t I’d like it to stay that way. If you do: just ask me how my day is going and give a damn when you ask.

Signed,

-xxxx

 

There are coincidences and happenings in your life that you can’t quite explain, but you’re happy they happened. I’ve been reflecting on those moments, as I’ve been nostalgic as a second semester senior.

My favorite unexplained coincidence happened in April 2016 when I was flying to Italy. I was traveling by myself for the first time to see my now ex-boyfriend whose family was living in Turin at the time. After a sketchy 15-person commuter flight from Windsor to Toronto, I boarded a flight to Rome. I had a window seat, and the seat next to me was vacant. I was so hoping no one would sit there so I could stretch out on this 9 hour economy hell ride. Instead, I got Fran.

Fran was the gentleman that occupied the aisle seat next to me. He looked to be in his early 60’s, and had a full head of white hair, dark rimmed glasses, and a gap in between his two front teeth. When he was putting his bags in the overhead bin, he said a friendly hello and got settled. He briefly asked me where I was travelling to, and I explained myself. I asked him the same, and he said that his daughter lives in Rome and she just had a baby. He was going to meet his granddaughter for the first time, and I thought it was so sweet and pure. We took off, and we both went back to our respective books. My book was in English, his was in French.

We were served our surprisingly decent dinner on Air Canada, both of us ordering complimentary wine. Mine was white, his was red. I was minding my own business when he looked at me with his raised cocktail glass of wine to say cheers. I took my headphones out and we made a toast to new adventures. After dinner, we both fell asleep. I woke up to Fran tapping me on the shoulder because breakfast was being served, and I had my head on his shoulder. Who knows how long I had been invading this kind man’s personal space. I was a little embarrassed, but he didn’t even mention it. As we landed and disembarked, we said our goodbyes and went on our way.

A week after my lovely trip in Italy, I boarded a flight from Rome to Toronto. I was lucky enough to have an empty seat next to me on this flight, so life was good. I landed, and I had 3 hours till my flight to Windsor. I was standing in the chaos that is customs in Toronto, and guess who is standing 20 feet away from me? FRAN! I could not believe it that out of the 20,000 people that go through Toronto Pearson a day, I saw him. I got out of my line, went into his line and tapped on his shoulder. He greeted me with that same friendly hello he had given me when we met, but this time it was accompanied with a hug. We were both in awe that somehow, we arrived back in this airport on the same day, at the same time, on different flights.

I asked him when his next flight was, and he said that it wasn’t for a few hours. We just so happened to be flying out of the same terminal for our connecting flights, so we sat at a Tim Horton’s for two hours. We showed each other pictures of our respective trips. He showed me the beautiful pictures of his new granddaughter, and it was so special. He was glowing, and I found myself realizing that our meeting may have not just been coincidental.

My grandpa had died a week before I embarked on my trip. I had the trip planned for months, and it was only 3 days after the funeral I jetted off to Italy. I believe that Fran was put on my flight next to me for a reason. He gave me such a great sense of comfort and kindness that I needed at that very moment. I told him about my grandpa’s passing, and he agreed that forces of the universe brought us together, as he was a very spiritual person. We never exchanged information, but I felt like we didn’t need to. We connected exactly when we needed to, and that was more than I could have asked for my first solo traveling experience.

Signed,

Mary Herman

To preface this post, I am not trying to gloat or be self serving. These are situations I never hoped to find myself in, but I did. I would just hope a stranger would help me if I ever needed it.

 

In the past 7 months, I’ve called 911 five times for strangers. In August, I saved a random woman from being sexually assaulted, and then had to call 911 because she had alcohol poisoning. Two weeks after that, I discovered a man having a seizure in a party store, with no one helping him. People were quite literally stepping over him, paying him no mind. I called 911. A month after that, I witnessed a massive car accident. I called 911. 2 weeks after that, I witnessed another car accident. This time, the car caught on fire. I called 911.

This past Sunday, I witnessed a heroin overdose while grabbing a drink with a friend at a mainstay Flint bar. He fell out of his chair, and my friend and I thought he was just drunk. After he wasn’t waking up after a couple minutes, I knew this wasn’t just alcohol. His “friends” were telling everyone in this bar to not call the cops. I knew this man was going to die if he did not get medical attention. I told them, “Your friend is barely breathing, he needs help.” They responded, “No, he’s just tired!” I called bullshit. While on the phone with 911, one of his friends started yelling at me. I said, “I don’t care what he is on, but he needs help.” After I said that, his “friend” searched his passed out friend’s pockets. He pulled out what looked to be heroin.

This last instance shook me. I truly could not process or believe what was happening in front of me. This man was clearly in distress, and his “friends” did not know what to do, so they chose to do nothing. They were thinking about themselves, because I’d safely assume they too had some kind of substances on them. They let him lay there, while the staff of the bar had no sense of urgency to help this man. It was not till I called 911 that the staff decided to do something besides stare at the man nervously. That mentality is exactly how people die. It also made me realize that addiction is everywhere. I’ve never known someone that has been an addict, so witnessing that opened my eyes to exactly what that looks like. My friend that I was with asked me, “Why do these things alway happen when you’re around?” I can’t say for sure, but maybe it’s because I’m not a bystander.

I’m writing this to make the case to not be a bystander. Be the person that does something. Don’t be the people that stepped over that man having a seizure in the party store. Don’t be the store clerk that let him lay there and suffer. Don’t be the bartender that did nothing. Don’t be the driver that sees an accident and doesn’t call 911. That’s all it takes. Most of these events took up maybe 20 minutes of my time. That time saved lives. Call 911 when someone is in trouble. Most people reading this post are college students. We have to know when to act in a situation. Young people make mistakes, but they don’t have to suffer because, “It was none of my business.” Make it your business. I know I’d want someone to help me.

I don’t really know what to write about. It can’t possibly be that there is a too much to write about because that is an outright fallacy. From international events, to national and statewide events there is a smorgasbord of topics to discuss and debate. So why do I not have the motivation( or is it the gumption?) to write and talk about events that are so pertinent to the sociopolitical fabric that plague us?

Could it be that these things are happening too fast? Preposterous, if you call yourself a writer then you have to be able to keep up!(who ever said I was a writer?).

Could it be that I just don’t care? No, my friends and family always get an earful of daily events and it usually starts with me saying: “Did you hear what happened today?”(this is coupled with a psychotic grin and a twitch in the left eye(a stiff drink is optional depending on the the day)).

Maybe it is because if I kept up with the news and prolifically wrote on the absolutely horrific, Orwellian, draconian, asinine, idiotic, half witted, and downright dimwitted policies and deals that are going on in Washington D.C.(D.C stands for Dunce Congregation), then I would lose my sanity,

Or, I could be making excuses for my lack of gumption(or is it motivation?) Anyway: the only thing we can do now is keep a keen eye out for bullshit, protest when necessary, look out for one another, and mobilize for the midterm elections in 2018.

Signed,

Snitchell

P.S. Yes, that is a double parentheses that I used. If you were uncomforted by it: sorry. But if we learned anything form the Bowling Green Massacre it’s that: fuck it you can do whatever you want!

As a feminist, I often spend my time talking to others about the many difficulties and mitigating circumstances of women’s lives. The horrors, big and small, that women face that make our lives more challenging than that of men. I talk about these things to educate others about what it means to be born female in our society, and how those big and small challenges can have large impacts on our lives.

I do this to educate, to advocate, and to help others gain a deeper understanding of themselves or the women in their lives. More recently, however, I’ve found that perhaps I have not applied these ideas and tenants to one of my earliest and most important female relationships- the one with my own mother. My relationship with my mom has always been a tumultuous, complicated, often ugly affair. My childhood was spent walking on eggshells to avoid traumatic outbursts, and then comforting my mom as I assured her she wasn’t actually a bad mom, all while wishing I could have had anybody else as a mom. I saw my mom as mean, cruel, emotionally abusive and manipulating. When she wasn’t those things she was sad, guilt-ridden, and often drunk.

These things are all true, and I cannot sugar-coat my childhood nor try to rationalize my way out of these facts. All of those things happened and all of the damage done is there. I have spent the better part of my adult life trying to undo that damage, and to somehow find my own peace with the trauma I experienced alongside my three younger sisters-who will surely spend their own adult lives trying to fix their broken parts, just in the way I have.

In my own journey, I have come to a point where I can no longer find anger in the memories of my childhood. Becoming an adult and a feminist, I have begun to understand the own mitigating factors and horrors of my mother’s life; horrors that have left her with her own brokenness. In my adult life, I have learned that my mother was sexually assault by her own father, that shortly after her divorce from my dad (a divorce she never wanted) she made the hardest decision of her life- to go against her Catholic faith and have an abortion in order to devote herself to caring for me and my sisters, and that these events have scarred her in ways that as a child I couldn’t fathom, and as an adult make me want to cringe.

Even after learning these things, it took me a long time to understand and appreciate how this must have affected her. After learning of her sexual assault, my first (selfish) thought was not sympathy or understanding, but why didn’t she get help? Why didn’t she recognize her own damage, as I have done, and seek healing? Why couldn’t she let herself off the hook for her abortion, one that allowed her to marry my stepfather and have my youngest sister? Why did she believe that she deserved all the pain and heartache she endured, instead of fighting for herself? At the very least, couldn’t she have gotten help for me? For my sisters? Weren’t we worthy of that?

As a feminist, I know that sexual assault (particularly in childhood) often leads to Borderline personality disorder, anxiety disorders, control issues, drug and alcohol abuse, PTSD, and many other emotional issues that take years of deep-digging to even scratch at the surface of. As a feminist, I know that many women feel so heavily the stigma surrounding abortion that they never tell anyone, instead living in guilt and fear of being found out. As a feminist, I know that going to therapy means re-living the trauma of your abuse. And I know, as a feminist, that sometimes that trauma is too much to try to endure. That it hurts so deeply and so profoundly that it is often easier to bury it deep, where it (supposedly) won’t hurt you.

But it hurt me. And it hurt my sisters. And it continues to hurt my mother. So what do I do with that? As I continue to grow in my feminism, the more I recognize that I cannot begrudge my mother her own self-protection. I cannot blame her for how she chose to cope with her trauma, and I cannot hope to ever understand how much these events caused her pain. What I can do, as a feminist and as a daughter, is recognize that my love and understanding are what she needs. She needs to be told that her mistakes are forgivable, her trauma was not her fault, she is deserving of the love and care she should have received as a child and as an adult. I hope to heal myself and move past anger and into forgiveness. I only hope that I can continue to grow in my feminism and in my relationship with my mother, and to someday be able to bring my sisters into the fold of understanding that I have come to be a part of.

Author’s note: I have made this piece anonymous for the simple reason that my mother, as a victim and as a person, deserves her privacy. I am one of three people who know the facts enclosed. Not even my sisters fully understand the reasons behind our childhood, and while my heart aches for them to know and understand what has happened to our mother, I’m not sure they are ready to find forgiveness. They still live in anger, and until that day when they are ready to forgive, this piece will remain a secret from them. This will most likely stay secret from my mother for the rest of her life.

Give me all your worries

Give me all your fears and  doubts

 

With these I will spin a quilt

So beautiful and warm

So elegant and divine

We will both look upon it and shout:

“How lovely and how strong, how colorful and long!”

 

Wrapping ourselves into it we’ll get lost

For days, weeks, months and years

Shutting out the world and letting the fears disappear

As we dry each other’s tears

 

We’ll tumble and turn

Topsy turvy

And eventually forget all of our worries

 

Finally: the doubts will dissipate

As we levitate

Wrapped in the quilt

and each other’s embrace

 

Floating off into infinite time and space

 

Her feet shuffled in their place. It was a new pack, still firm to the touch. Thumping on the broad side of her left palm, she saw views of glistening cellophane that twinkled in the light. She unwound the silver lining, unfurled the top of the box, and coaxed the sweet little cylinder out from its hiding place. Lorraine raised the cigarette to her chapped lips, and struck a match. She had a lighter in her car but couldn’t find it, so she was using a book of matches she snagged from her last stay at a motel. At first strike, it made a perfect little flame, the scent of sulfur shifted in the misty autumn air. She inhaled; feeling the warmth penetrate deeper and deeper, fingers of smoke massaging her, caressing her until ‘whoosh!’ She exhaled; watching it all flow out in a lovely sinuous cloud, no two ever quite the same.

Lorraine set back on a picnic table that was under the tent, looking east toward the airfield. A train’s whistle blew; at about four miles away, the train can be heard clearly but at a drawn out delay. The two short blasts meant it was the passenger train that came through town twice a day. She crossed her legs, and puffed on her cigarette again. A slight wind came in, brushing against her coarse brown hair. Most of the grey strands came from when her son was deployed overseas. Having been home now for about two years, Luke was now working in HVAC and volunteered with the Fire Department.

“You still smoke Reds?” Bob asked, ducking into the smoker’s oasis.

“Yeah…I had some Menthols last week but I couldn’t keep up.” Lorraine was sliding over to give Bob some room on the bench. She slipped him a cigarette, which is against the advice of Bob’s doctor and against the orders of Bob’s wife but it was a secret precisely so that wouldn’t be a problem.

“How’s your boy doin?” Bob inquired, still reeling from that first glorious intake after what was an excruciating three days without a smoke.

“Oh he’s alright. He’s working a lot of hours, trying to change his days off to Sundays so he can come with me to church.” Lorraine was delighted at this prospect, feeling especially glad that Luke was making an effort to see her and comfort her.

“I was worried that he would go in the Marines and come out a changed man, more of a hard ass. Like his daddy. But when he came home, and I thank God almighty that he did, Luke was more grounded.” Lorraine paused briefly, realizing that her smoking partner saw the worst of the shit and is also very down to Earth.

“Well…” Bob sighed, “being a Jarhead sure straightened me the fuck out.”

Lorraine laughed, took one last pull on her Marlboro before tossing it in the bucket in the corner.

“Hey.” Lorraine crossed her arms and shifted toward Bob, “So what’s this guy’s deal?”

“Brady? No, Brandon.” Bob was dusting off the memory from a few minutes ago. “Yeah he, uhh. Well his sister died. About this time last year, and he came back to spend some time in the area I think.”

Lorraine asked the all-important question, “How did she die?”

Bob could only reply what he knew, “He said it was drug related.”

“Oh no,” Lorraine was shaking her head, “God Bless her. I heard on the news about the Heroin out here. People start on these prescriptions and get addicted overnight. Heroin is filling the gap.”

“I don’t know if it was Heroin” Bob lamented.

“Well, what else could it be?” Lorraine was confused, she had it figured out.

“I don’t know,” Bob was emphatic, “all he said was she died and it was drug related.”

“She must have overdosed then. It must be so hard for him to talk about, that’s why he says it like that. That poor thing. Frank McAllister on channel 6 said that you can get Heroin faster than you can get a pizza.” Lorraine was saddened by this but decided to adjust her mood. She put her cigarettes back into her purse, and glanced at Bob to see if he was done smoking.

“If these kids would lay off the hard shit they could probably change the world,” Bob said as he stood up. “But, let’s see how that card game is going and maybe we can sit in a hand.”

Bob held open the door for Lorraine and they returned to find Brandon talking to Kevin up at the bar. They seemed to be getting on well. Kathy was talking to Sam, a new addition since the smoke break. Sam was short for Samantha, and she worked in the Dialysis Center at the hospital. Sam is very familiar with Lorraine; she was a warm and comfortable presence that helped make Larry’s last few days a little easier.

“Hey lady, how you doin’?” Sam said to Lorraine from across the bar, a casual attempt at starting a new conversation that didn’t revolve around Kathy.

“I’m doing okay,” she replied. “Keeping myself busy.” Sam put her hand on Lorraine’s back and rubbed softly.

“That’s great. Busy is good. You call me if you need anything, but staying busy is one of the best ways to move through grief.” Sam was confident in this assertion.

“You are so right Sam,” Kathy agreed. “When my Grandma died, it was in the middle of my senior year cheer season. It was tough, but I think one of the reasons I made it through was because of those girls. And, of course, those boys on the field.” Kathy smiled wide with her eyes closed, showing a glimmer of lust for her glory days.

Kevin came along and grabbed a cocktail that was just melted ice and a wedge of lime; “Refill?”

Lorraine looked up at the clock before responding, it was only 8:30. “Yes, please. Oh and could you bring a cold rag for Kathy? She’s about to start speaking in tongues.”

The three girls laughed together before Kathy could interject, “I mean you girls laugh, but I was a star athlete. And I had certain standards I needed to live up to. There were some expectations of me.” Kathy was being intentionally crude. As the youngest one of the bunch, it never hurt to rub it in.

“Yeah I’m sure it was tough giving so much head between practice and the football game.” Lorraine was over it at this point, “That just leaves you such a small time frame to have worked with. How did you do it?”

“Oh…just like this,” Kathy gestured to Kevin with her French-manicured hand, “Can I get a shot of Patron, with a lime and salt please?”

Lorraine rolled her eyes, and Sam was laughing as she took off her coat. “You enjoy that one girl,” Lorraine readjusted back to Brandon. He was nearing the end of his drink.

“Where did Mary Beth and Patty go?” Lorraine wondered.

“Oh, they took off. We only played to five points instead of ten. Mary Beth seemed a little tired,” Brandon responded.

“Oh no, honey. See that only means that you were better then she expected, she ended the game early so you would take pity on the old bat.” Lorraine was very matter of fact with her Vodka gimlet in tow. She tilted back toward Brandon on her bar stool and started the uncomfortable conversation.

“Bob was telling me about your sister,” Lorraine spoke softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” Brandon hunched over the bar. “It was really unexpected. I was too sad for too long not to get to find out…” Brandon drifted momentarily, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I just need closure.”

“I understand,” Lorraine assured. “When my husband died, I needed the closure of a funeral. I needed the casket to be open, it’s important to the process.” Trying not to be indelicate but finding no better way to do it then to just blurt it out, Lorraine said; “was it Heroin?”

“No,” Brandon said, “well, at least I don’t think so. She was found dead in an abandoned house, not far from here actually. The toxicology report showed opiates in her system but even that can’t be trusted.”

“I’m sorry honey. That’s just terrible. But why wouldn’t you trust the coroner? He has no reason to lie.”

“He certainly has a reason to lie, I just don’t know what it is yet. Heroin is a simple answer for an unexplainable death. And my sister would not do heroin, she was a mother of two.” Brandon stopped short, a tear rolled down his cheek. He sniffled “…she is a mother of two.”

Lorraine was aghast. He thinks she was murdered. Is heroin that taboo, the family won’t even admit to it? She tried to start anew, “It’s important to remember how she lived, not how she died.”

Brandon drained the rest of his Manhattan. He already had paid his tab and left a handsome tip for Kevin on the counter. As he stood up, he looked at Lorraine and said, “It was nice meeting you.” He gave a big wave to Kevin, and got an over-the-top hug from Kathy.

“You gonna be in town for a while?” Kevin asked.

“Probably a few days. I’m staying in town at the Oakmont motel,” Brandon said.

“Yikes!” Lorraine reacted, “that dump?”

Brandon laughed it off, “yea, well I’ll see you guys. I have an early morning.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday?” Bob was in the mix now, just as confused as the rest of them.

“Yea, I have some people I need to see. But uhh, will the game be on here tomorrow? Green Bay plays Atlanta at one o’clock.”

“You bet,” Kevin was smiling wide. “We have it on the big screen and make popcorn and everything.”

“Nice,” Brandon said with glee. “I got money on the game. Take care everybody.”

The crowd shouted back with a resounding “You Too!”

Lorraine went outside to have another cigarette. Her last one before bed. She sat on the bench and looked east again, feeling a bit colder now then she was before. A brisk wind caught her off guard and knocked the cigarette out of her hand. It fell on the cold, muddy floor of the tent and was instantly soaked in a puddle. She was pissed at first, but then she remembered that cigarettes kill you and she should stop anyway. But for a moment, a brief moment, she stood and thought of her man Larry. And what he might have thought of Brandon. What would he have said in the car on the ride home? What is the next move for that poor, troubled boy? Lorraine watched the last faint glimmer of the cigarette go out, and saw the smoke swirl out and away.

On a less than eventful summer day, I was having a nice conversation with two of my closest friends over coffee. We were discussing mental angst and everything that comes along with it; particularly, certain thoughts or memories that invoke despair. We dubbed these thoughts and bad memories as the “dark places” within our minds. My friends had so much to share about the things that upset them, but I struggled with the task. For most of my life, I’ve been conditioned to suppress bad thoughts, and to not put too much emphasis on bad things that happen to me. The saddest part about the psychosomatic conditioning that I’ve become accustomed to is that most, if not all, black men in America have been conditioned in a similar fashion.

I started to ponder the question: “What is my dark place?” I raked my brain over it day after day. It wasn’t until about a week later that I came to a conclusion. I realized that my dark place consists of the society which I am a part of. The two friends who I had this initial discussion with are both of Caucasian descent, and are very compassionate and understanding individuals. Their lack of empathy for the way that I felt was not taken personally, but it did make me realize that my situation is unique. Black people account for thirteen percent of the overall United States population, and I can guarantee that all of them feel the exact same way that I do.

What does it mean to be black in America? I was asked as I was speaking on a student activism conference a few weeks after the conversation I had with my friends. The gentleman who asked me this, an older white fellow, genuinely looked perplexed by the notion of living life as a black person.

I simply responded, “Being black in America means everything that it shouldn’t. It is frustrating, unnerving, and exhausting. We constantly have to be aware of our surroundings, for fear of being perceived ‘too black.’ Social stability is a luxury that we know not of. As children, we are in constant fear of our fathers being taken away from us by the hatred of troubled hearts. As parents, we train our children to only acknowledge the color of their skin only when no one is watching. Being black in America is hoping that the officer who just pulled you over is in a good mood today, and that he politely lets you off with a ticket that you most likely cannot afford. It’s a constant struggle for legitimacy, and an ever present misunderstanding of perception. Being black in America is everything that I wish it wasn’t.”

I confirmed all of this gentleman’s fears about the state of black America, and at the same time I confirmed my own curiosity about what my dark place is and what it consists of. I came to the conclusion that I am perpetually in a state of mental angst, and that this anxiety is a permanent facet of my mental capacity. Instead of appearing natural in social settings, I find myself trying to convey a sense of non-threatening civility. Even though I didn’t want to believe it myself, but most American citizens do not think that African American history is American history. This hyper awareness of my identity and of my surroundings relegates me to a constant state of paranoia. It did not take long for me to realize that my dark place is trying to fit into a society that I was never meant to be a part of.

Objectors to this perspective have contended that since I am an American, I should herald a certain pride about my citizenship in such a great nation. That because of the men and women who fight and die for my freedom on a daily basis, I should feel a great sense of patronage to this society. They call me a “black supremacist” or a “militant” activist for speaking out against the illusion that they call the free world. These people cannot understand why I have such contentions with this nation, and this is due to them viewing me as extraordinary. They ask, “Where do you get off? You attend one of the largest universities in the nation, you went to a private school from kindergarten through twelfth grade, and you have two well-paying jobs; all you’re doing is complaining.”

These objectors fail to see the scope of the experience from which I speak. They ask me to take pride in a country that enslaved my ancestors. I’m told that I should be grateful for the soldiers who fight for my freedom on a daily basis, while also being told to disregard and to forget the millions of slaves who already died for it. Imagine how frustrating it must be to not accept the ludicrous notion that someone gave your people their freedom. My objectors see that I am in college, but also believe that I took a deserving white student’s place. They see that I went to private school, but don’t see the copious amounts of odd jobs my mother worked just so her children wouldn’t be subjected to the neglected public school system. They see the two jobs that I have, but fail to notice that I have to stay up late every night just so I can study. They call me a supremacist and a militant minded person, when all I actually want is validation of my heritage. Instead of acknowledging me standing up for what I believe in, they perceive me as theoretically creating the conditions for my own oppression. They see my existence, but fail to recognize my experience.

The fellow which I explained all of this to looked lost. Honestly, I felt lost after my explanation. How am I, a twenty-one-year-old African American student, supposed to remedy a genocidal way of life? I immediately felt the despair of the picture I just painted for this gentleman.

The gentleman then asked me, “What emotion comes to mind when you dwell upon what it means to be black in America?”

“Rage,” I replied almost instantly, “unrelenting rage.”

In Power,

Shomari J. Tate