Essays – Unphased https://unphased.space Space Sun, 29 Sep 2024 15:08:44 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.6.2 https://i0.wp.com/unphased.space/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/cropped-pexels-roberto-18517209-scaled-1.jpg?fit=32%2C32&ssl=1 Essays – Unphased https://unphased.space 32 32 226107242 The Farm in New Mexico https://unphased.space/the-farm-in-new-mexico/ https://unphased.space/the-farm-in-new-mexico/#respond Fri, 12 Apr 2024 18:12:40 +0000 https://unphased.space/?p=909 The Farm in New Mexico Read More »

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At dawn you could see the town in the distance. Right beneath the rising sun, the lights twinkled as if the Milky Way itself had come to kiss the earth. The roosters wrestled with the morning silence to awaken the day from its slumber, and of course the roosters won. So, through the gentle coax of nature I slinked out of bed to let the ducks and chickens out of their coops. Flanked to my left was my feline companion, escorting me through boxes, tools, and debris to reach the sliding doors leading to the early chill. This Southwest Spring morning was actually not too bad– pleasant, almost, with a light jacket and hood guarding my head from the steady breeze. What brought me to this little farm in the middle of a place that many might mistake for nowhere? Well, I had a visceral need for something and a feeling that this was the spot to find it. I was not disappointed.

If you’re like me, with very little knowledge about New Mexico, the public relations that greeted me at the door let me know very quickly that New Mexico is drugs, aliens, and desert. And where I stayed was certainly the desert. Cacti and thorned bushes grew freely around the yard, something that the animals were used to navigating. I, on the otherhand, was glad for the thick jeans and close-toed shoes I had brought despite still getting the occasional prick and snag. Dust seemed to easily coat everything  I owned with a vintage Western filter. However, the earth itself was striated in warm, lively hues ranging from the dark yellow of a coffee stain to a Martian red. And although I didn’t get to venture the sand dunes that I was told can be found in the state, I’m sure they,too, would’ve been sights to see. I think I like the desert.

Despite it being Spring and South, many of the days were similar to what I was beginning to experience before I had left Northern Virginia. It seemed as if the new season was struggling to push Winter out. Days peaked in the low 60s, often ranging in the 50s, and even dipping to rainy 40s, with the rare, but welcomed 70 degree day. The dry air made many of the cooler days more tolerable, however, nights brought a cold so outside of my expectation that I found myself turning to handy space heaters to be held in their warmth until the sun returned. 

But the nights weren’t all bad. On some nights, I donned enough layers and went outside just to take in the sky. Looking up at so many stars felt like gazing into eternity. Coming from the suburbs, I was used to seeing flickering dots speckled sparsely across the black backdrop. Out in nowhere, however, more of the celestial beauties that typically shied away from the bright lights revealed themselves with brilliance. I hadn’t seen so many in one place since I had visited my father’s village in Ghana years ago. I think I like dark skies.

My days consistently held two chores, letting the birds out at sunrise and feeding the variety of critters at night. During these chores I learned through the tickling of my palms as they munched from my outstretched hand that llamas grab pellets with their lips. I learned that donkeys, or maybe just this particular one, are like over-sized dogs in demeanor, cuddly and playful. However, they are as stubborn as they say, or, again, maybe just this particular one. Her name was Nymeria and she doesn’t like harnesses nor when you run out of treats. I learned of goats who like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. There were three of them who’d rush to me whenever they saw a bowl in my hand. And when passing out the cereal, I made sure to give the smallest one, Ebony, hers separately while the other two locked horns. 

I learned of the most affectionate cats. 4 of them. It took a couple days, a little longer for the biggest one, for them to feel comfortable to approach me, either keeping me company during my daily chores or demanding head scratches and belly rubs. Once the ice was broken, they’d even sleep alongside me in bed, nestling flush against my side or within the curve of my bent legs– an added bonus to the space heater. And lucky for me that I had them to help me write by sitting on top of my keyboard while I’m typing. I have never owned cats myself and so I sincerely ask: Is this a thing? Are cats drawn to laptops? Because I know it’s not just these particular ones.

The middle of the day varied. On most days we worked on the ongoing project of renovating the kitchen. My host instructed me in how to put a sink together which I was able to do TWICE with the help of tools I’ve never used before. Scratched up knuckles provided souveniers and evidence of the hard work. I learned how to use a caulk gun and was able to hear variations of the phrase “caulk it good” while keeping a straight face. We painted walls, stained cabinets and drawers, and I measured, cut, and glued wood for the trim of a tile counter. Handyman is officially on my resume and a miter box is on my wish list. For those who don’t know what a miter box is, it is a tool of sorcery.

In my free-time, I explored the wealth of reading material available. Music books, encyclopedias, magazines spanning decades filled the many bookshelves making this hideaway just as much a library as it was a farm. Although, I was able to finish some magazines, with more time, I would have loved to take a look at the science fiction and fantasy books which took up the greater part of the south facade of the house. According to my host, it is a collection she has been growing since childhood. And although a couple of days were also set aside to see caverns, aliens, and some of the natural landscape, she wondered why I wasn’t itching to go out even more. Part of it was my determination to finish this kitchen project and part was because I felt her library was the cooler option. 

After spending weeks getting to know my host and her animals, leaving was tough. I’m not good at goodbyes. But like any adventure, I left with what felt like new incite and definitely some new skills to show off. No promises, because I haven’t asked her yet, but my hope is to record some of the life stories of my host, because she has lived some lives. As for me, the next part of my journey was a train trip across the country. 

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The Autobiography of Malcolm X https://unphased.space/autobiography-of-malcolm-x/ https://unphased.space/autobiography-of-malcolm-x/#respond Mon, 25 Mar 2024 00:57:39 +0000 https://unphased.space/?p=893 The Autobiography of Malcolm X Read More »

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Sometimes we have to go digging ourselves in order to gain our own understanding instead of relying on parroted perception. We may find consensus, or we may stumble upon a different perspective. A while back I read The Autobiography of Malcolm X and wanted to discuss my thoughts. The autobiography was released in 1965, retelling events in his life from his early years in the 1920s to his untimely death in 1965. And in reading it, all I could think about was how ain’t ish changed. Y’all ain’t ish changed; at least, not in some pretty interesting ways.

One example of how ain’t ish changed is the ways in which individuals, groups and organizations seen as a threat to the status quo are brought down and how members themselves willingly and unwillingly play a part. These methods tend to involve devised internal division, discrediting, intimidation, and assassination. In The autobiography of Malcolm X, Malcolm himself takes us through all these methods with an eerie level of self awareness starting with his time in Nation of Islam (NOI). When building NOI programs and hosting events, Malcolm acknowledges how some of the attendees could be infiltrators sent to spy. Not an outlandish idea. They had quickly gotten the attention of the local authorities and media in New York through bold acts against unjust policing, an equally bold stance on Black liberation, and their growing number of supporters; and with that attention, a target was placed on them.

Later on, Malcolm X talks about how he was essentially ostracized from the Nation of Islam through rumors attacking his character which seemingly circulated from people’s jealousy and paranoia. His perceived favoritism from the Honorable Elijah Mohammed and the media as well as misperceptions of his wealth were used to fuel dissent among members. And it is probable that this dissent was stirred or fueled by government plants and provocateurs. It’s actually heartbreaking seeing it play out line by line in the book, reading the praises he spoke of his teacher and chosen family, the caution he took with his position, and the pride in fulfilling duties for the Nation especially when one knows how it turns outs. He explains the ways in which he tried to back off from the spotlight in service to his devotion to the organization and the greater mission as well as his frustration and sadness when none of it mattered in the end. He was excommunicated.

After his departure from NOI, Malcolm X eventually started his own organization, the Organization of Afro-American Unity (OAAU). During this time,he and his family were being followed, receiving death threats,and less conspicuous acts of intimidation which he originally assumed was from his former organization. But as time went on, he also suspected that this, too, could be the work of outside influence, more specifically government involvement. Malcolm grew increasingly uneasy, a change even noted by author Alex Haley who is responsible for interviewing X over the course of years and compiling his autobiography. This highlights the pervasive and sinister effects of psychological warfare. It is designed to throw you off, affect your sleep, your sense of safety your sense of reality, your decision-making, and trust in your allies, but what’s even scarier is without the number of witnesses and evidence, the traits he displayed could have easily been written off today as schizophrenia, psychosis, or some other psychological disorder. Schizophrenia is characterized by ideas of grandeur, paranoia, and aggression things that can be evoked if one was in fact being targeted and can be used to discredit one’s account of the very real things that were happening to them.

Instead, they tried to discredit him in another way, by painting him as a symbol of hate, anger, and ironically racism. In labeling him a villain, it effectively limited the reach of his message due to an almost instinctual defensiveness that causes one to eschew an entire argument based on the perceived character of the speaker. Malcolm X may have used the term “White Devil” a lot, but one of his greatest strengths rested in his ability to articulate cause and effect. That being the cause of the Black man’s strife and how it can lead to anger, hatred, and other ends whether deemed “justifiable” or not. Another strength was his ability to change his view based on new information. After his first trip to Mecca, Malcolm X took on a noticeably less extreme view on interracial relations after experiencing what equality could look like across nations, races, and languages for perhaps the first time in his life. It caused him to reevaluate what he meant by “White Devil”. He concluded that “White Devil” had little to do with skin color, but mentality. It describes those who uphold White supremacy and deny the Black man’s humanity. And he understood in a global context that anyone’s humanity can be denied. In one of my favorite quotes by Malcolm X, he eloquently states “I am for truth, no matter who tells it. I am for justice no matter who it’s for or against. I am a human being first and foremost, and as such I am for whoever and whatever benefits humanity as a whole.”

It’s this Malcolm that often gets buried by media of all colors. The persona they gave him was something he couldn’t shake. Not in his lifetime nor after. He pretty accurately predicts how he would be remembered posthumously in saying “You watch. I will be labeled, at best, as an irresponsible black man” when referring to his leadership. And so it became. To this day, Malcolm is often compared to Martin Luther King as two major civil rights figures symbolizing violence versus peace, respectively. However, I find that to be a gross oversimplification. El Hajj Malik El-Shabazz was a master teacher and life-long student. His tongue lashed like a double edged sword, but behind the sharpness of his words were history lessons, philosophical observations, a demand for recognition of the Black man’s humanity and for more Black people to demand it of themselves. He preached self defense (not violence), economic power, political power, and self sufficiency to combat a biased system. He was a debater. He was confident enough in his stance that he welcomed challenges to his ideas. It only helped develop and strengthen his position. With wisdom came his ability to wield his anger and frustration with precision. He was a coalition builder. X sought to organize with whomever genuinely shared his vision of equality regardless of race, ethnicity, nationality, or religion. In a speech, Malcolm once said “Islam is my religion, but I believe my religion is my personal business. It governs my personal life and my personal morals. And religious philosophy is personal between me and the God in whom I believe. Just as the religious philosophies of others is between them and the God in whom they believe.”

He was more than a militant. And it reminds me of how we treat many public figures, even people in our personal lives, today. Sometimes, we tend to have difficulty looking past public personas, our personal perceptions, or even memes to fully appreciate human complexities. Furthermore, in attempts of accountability, the public tends to not be too forgiving or open to the fact that people change and expand. This has been a problem during the internet age where every moment is memorialized, but seeing it happen decades before the dawn of the world wide web makes it really hit home that ain’t ish changes.

Malcolm X was not the first nor last person to be subjected to this style of takedown. Leaked and declassified files from the FBI led initiative COINTELPRO (1956-1971) describe in detail how these tactics were used to systemically destabilize civil rights groups and other, often peaceful, social movements including OAAU, Nation of Islam, the American Indian Movement, the Puerto Rican Nationalist Party, and Black Panther Party. The documents detail infiltration, wire taps, covert operations and more. And to think it ended during this era would be naive optimism. Prominent figures including activists, celebrities, and politicians are believed to have been surveilled well into the 21st century with national intelligence agencies being caught several times. Surveillance is a powerful tool that has historically been used maliciously at will, giving great cause for concern especially when victims don’t always get justice. Political prisoners such as Mumia Abu Jamal are still in jail and it leaves room for plausible theories around some coincidentally timed public takedowns. The scary thing is, these are only accounts of some of the more prominent figures. Due to the effectiveness of these methods in neutralizing dangerous minds and the repeated examples of the governments willingness to use them on movements of social change even peaceful ones (MLK), one can only speculate the number of people impacted that don’t make the headlines; the ones locked up, unnecessarily drugged, and/or bullied into dysfunction.

It also reminds me of the most recent US civil rights movement, the Black Lives Matter movement (BLM) which started in 2013 following the killing of Trayvon Martin. Surveillance was used in protests following, although we do not know to what extent. In 2015, it was discovered that at least 10 FBI surveillance flights were conducted over the city of Baltimore alone from March 29 to April 3rd following the death of Freddie Gray. Flight footage was only publicized after the ACLU requested transparency under the Freedom of Information Act, however, the reason for the surveillance and what the footage was used for remains unclear.

The BLM movement died down some time after, but was revived following the highly publicized killings of several unarmed Black People by police in 2020 and 2021. Naturally, many of us took to the streets, but this too was reminiscent of some of the experiences described in the the book. In Malcolm X’s autobiography he calls the 1963 March on Washington the “farce on Washington”. The march required permission from the government through a permit, featured celebrity guest appearances, had live performances, and was televised. He felt the march was turned into a spectacle and, thus, rendered harmless, like a parade. When things begin to cater to the masses over the honest voice of the minority, the message can often be subdued. Even John Lewis had to edit his speech for the march after being accused of coming off too militant. And not to diminish the efforts of BLM, but once we had Congress kneeling with kente cloth sashes and the BLM slogan synonymous with bumper stickers, restaurant windows, and categories on streaming sites, I knew it was over. Meanwhile, according to Statista, not only have the number and disproportion of Black people killed by police not changed, but the overall number of people killed at the hands of police have increased. The BLM movement was also believed to be subject of infiltrators and provocateurs in order to discredit the movement by inciting looting and violence during protests with several reports claiming that plain clothes agents were often a part of crowds to instigate its escalation and was further discredited when information leaked of the founders using donation money for personal use.

So if ain’t ish changes, what does this mean for future social movements? These destructive tactics have been perfected over the course of who knows how long. The success of any future social movement that aims to shake the status quo depends on recognizing these patterns and responding (or not) in appropriate ways. And I think one of the reasons the Autobiography of Malcolm X is so important, and likely why he was seen as such a threat, it that he demonstrates his ability to recognize and navigate these patterns so well. His actions exemplify what it means to adhere to a set a values as to not discredit oneself or movement. Provocateurs are meant to provoke reaction and trigger you to turn on allies so recognizing what the desired reaction is and practicing self control is key. So is maintaining a calm nervous system. Paranoia, anxiety, lack of sleep can all affect decision making skills as well as reactivity and overall well-being. It means being willing to be apart of a coalition, understanding that allies do not need to mirror you. Inflated differences and manufactured beefs are often used to polarize groups with otherwise the same goal.

These were messages that he preached a lot, especially in his later speeches. And it wasn’t just talk. Malcolm X vocalizes multiple times in his autobiography his disdain of how organizations and camps of Civil Rights leaders are pressured to turn against each other when they often have the same goal. He made the conscious effort not to attack or diminish the Nation of Islam’s work because he knew that’s what “the man” and “the media” wanted. This also means recognizing the importance of putting ideology over class. Malcolm X was able to speak to everyone from the “street cats” he grew up with to the multiple degree holding professionals. He understood how the system effects everyone and class division unneedingly disjoins two things required for a successful movement: resources and numbers.

To achieve success means being comfortable with being uncomfortable. Being able to handle transparency, confrontation, difference of opinion and triggers without jeopardizing the greater mission. Malcolm X enjoyed debating. Not just for the sake of being right, but he understood the value it had in expanding his views. He would even speak of people who he debated against who he respected and felt had respect for him despite their opposite stances on issues. Offense wasn’t trauma, disagreement wasn’t shied from. It was iron to sharpen one’s mind and work towards coming to a greater solution. To be able to set aside ego, who gets credit, favoritism, and the like is to overcome many natural human tendencies, but it’s also not surprising that Malcolm X displayed many of these. And that’s what made him so dangerous. Anyway, y’all read the book.

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I Will Torment You https://unphased.space/i-will-torment-you/ https://unphased.space/i-will-torment-you/#respond Tue, 09 Jan 2024 16:30:00 +0000 https://unphased.space/?p=878 I Will Torment You Read More »

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The last time I fought anyone, before last week, was in Nigeria.

Decades before that, on an elementary school playground in Cork, Ireland, I was pulled out of a fight with a classmate that thought it was appropriate to tease me for being new and African. I learnt in the aftermath of that experience that my potential for violence, even if it was reactive, was not something that people would welcome in any way, so I tried to refrain from then on.

However, years would pass, localities, countries and cities would shed like skin and I would find myself in a handful of fights. I remember one with a classmate called Chibuzor who I thought was an individual I could play with because I was the go-to male nerd in my class. I even got into a couple fights with my siblings and cousins during those moments where our drive to be recognized as more dominant in our relationship trumped the obvious love we held for each other.

There was the fight with the _ in my grandpa’s apartment; the one that ended with him falling over while he was trying to break it up. That event nearly sent me to public school, which in Nigeria is almost akin to being sent to a juvenile detention center. Punishment was practically baked into the curriculum.

When I returned to the West, this time the US, I was informed in unceremonious ways that if any type of authority were to catch whiff of me being physically violent, I would be dealt with like any other black person in the country. But beyond the risk of a misplaced (or well placed) bullet in a critical area of my body, I was told to remember that I could be deported, sent back to the place that I had spent so much time escaping. So I did what I needed to do and stepped up my aptitude for diplomacy.

During my first few months in Indiana, a neighbor would tease me from the back of the bus and I would pretend not to understand English. The nonviolent posturing became my persona, I didn’t necessarily turn the other cheek, but I definitely did not punch back and I would often do all I could do to avoid making the first blow.

I was able to enter college and graduate without the temptation to physically resolve conflict because, fortunately, I didn’t find myself in such circumstances.

I studied abroad in Toronto and, for a brief moment, I found myself in a situation with a drunk man that thought to call me a faggot for walking behind him on the way to the train (or out of the station, I can’t even recall). But my study abroad cohort prevented me from doing anything major and to my retrospective pleasure, my nonviolent streak remained intact.

After that, I would move at least three more times, visit cities that I had not even had the bandwidth to dream of before it was time to make the travel plans, I would cop a masters in Human Rights, and in all that time, the thought of laying my hands on another person would not exist even as a possibility in my mind. For all intents and purposes, I was just not a violent person and because I carried that identity in my soul, I rarely found the need to fight for or defend myself.

This all changed on one fateful 22nd of December (or maybe the 23rd, it was quite early the next morning). While I was living in a shelter, a fellow shelter-mate decided it is time to escalate the harassment he had been heaping on me from the very first day I arrived there.

This man, self-named Snoop, but known to the government as Robert, latched on to me as a subject of his frustrations. It started with comments about my jalabiya, then he moved on to comments about my supposed lack of adherence to Islam, then most recently, it was the fact that I stunk (which was an objective lie, but that’s beside the point). This man found me as an individual to victimize and every time I brought it up, it was either nodded away as part of the shelter living, homeless experience; or I was told that he had latent feelings for me and he didn’t know how to deal with it; or even more absurdly, he was drunk.

For weeks I took the higher ground, avoided this man despite him sleeping two beds down from me. For weeks I listened to this man make slick comments under his breath, acting like a child despite being in his mid 40s. For weeks I told myself I was above the violence. And it was true– until I found myself laid up on this dude, his neck beneath my left arm and his head being pummeled by my clutched fist. I had missed pounding flesh to inflict injury, I was ready to kill him or die in the process.

Everyone that was familiar with the situation, even those in Snoop’s camp, knew that he was in the wrong for his actions; but there was also a shared understanding that there was no way to control another man’s behavior so I had been advised over and over again to either ignore his ass (pardon my language) or whoop his ass again (accept my double apologies).

I decided to return to my diplomatic ways and advocate for his removal from the shelter before I laid my hands on him again but I would be lying if I didn’t say that he activated my bloodlust. That in his attempt to diminish me, he reminded me of the fullness of my power. He pulled back memories of my physicality from the back of my mind. All of a sudden, I remembered the taekwondo classes I took in elementary school. All of a sudden, I remembered helping my mom discipline my sister during one of her rebellious moments in secondary school. All of a sudden, the idea of choking out an individual and watching the life slip from their body didn’t seem so far-fetched and unappealing; and then I remembered what stopped me from doing so the last time, the police.

On the day Snoop and I fought, we had at least four argumentative interactions beforehand. The first was when I walked by him and he started to scream at me in one of the main rooms where everyone hung out and ate. That was the time he told me that I stunk and that was the cause of his anger.

 

That passed, but once I put on some proper clothes (I had been wearing a set that I had expected to sleep in) and I went outside to confront him, I told him to beat me up, to kill me like he had been threatening to do. But like the coward he was, he made excuses about cameras and I went back inside.

The next time was by my bunk, he was repeating his tired threats and I told him in one of my clearest tones that since he wanted to kill himself, he would die, and even then, I had meant it in a metaphysical way– that the spirits that protected and guided me would finally give him what he sought when he drowned himself in liquor or when he mixed that boot powder with his weed and tobacco. I had not even imagined that I could be one of the angels of death in his life.

During the last throwing of words, I told him very directly to go and find something else to do and he responded by suggesting we walk up the street so he can prove to me that he can kill me. My friend told me to ignore him. I did and moved on with my life. However, one thing I’ve learnt is that madness, insanity, by definition, does not respond to reason. Meaning that despite the fact that I chose the high ground consistently, the permission he gave himself to disturb me would not wane if I did not show him, in all the ways available to me, that I would not stand to receive it. Basically I had to tell him, take it elsewhere because I was not the one.

I had tried to appeal to Robert’s humanity. I had tried to be friendly, to listen when he recited a ‘come as you are’ hadith. But none of it worked because what he probably really wanted was to fuck me.

On the surface, he made it about my sexuality, but he was friends with the other gay (but admittedly less visibly so) people at the shelter. He tried to latch onto the stench of my section of our aisle, but the truth is, even if it was stinking, he would still be out of pocket to go to town on me like that when he could have easily involved shelter staff and have my ass reprimanded. I’m pretty sure he didn’t even understand why I got on his nerves, but it happened regardless and his actions precipitated the tormentor in me.

As an individual literally trained in human rights, the harm of others has been outside my frame of mind for years. Even the most vicious of criminals were (and are probably still) undeserving of capital punishment if there are other viable alternatives. But when you are in a closed space with an individual that is unable to process their vendetta with you and, because of that, unreachable in the halls of negotiation, you cannot see eye to eye with such a person. They do not want to humanize you because then they will need to explore the feelings and emotions beyond and below the anger.

If we were to sit down and talk about what had been going on in front of a third party, I’m sure he would find it difficult to articulate his grievances and would rather clamp up or storm off. And although I do have empathy for mental health in need of thorough healing, but I will not condone an environment where a mad person thinks that I am a person they can police and dehumanize. Before I could advocate for his removal, I felt I had to show him in the way that he could understand that I was not scared of him (or anyone for that matter). That whether he was drunk or not, he needed to stay away from me and keep my name out his mouth. In fact, he needed to forget I existed.

But after being reminded of the cost of a murder charge in the criminal system, even one in self-defense, for a Black, immigrant man, I had to bring forth my diplomatic side in fuller force, and this might be the grander lesson. Because even with the adrenaline rush (similar to what could be achieved with vigorous exercise), I still had bruises to tend to. I still had the metal bottle that was squashed during the fight. My glasses cracked and bent out of shape. There is a cost for everything, and because of the distance between me and my last fight, I had forgotten the cost of the fight on the body; talk less of the social, legal, cultural, statistical, spiritual selves.

On Christmas Day, I ended up reporting it to the staff at the shelter. Not much came from it, but I made a report so if something were to happen, they would know that I had complained about unwarranted harassment. I guess it was a grace for all of us. I set up precedence so the staff could start prepping him and his case load team for his temporary or indefinite departure. I was also providing documented evidence that would support my need for emergency assistance and to leave that place. One of us had to go.

There is also the fact that I did not want to go to jail, prison, or even enter the court system. And this is why I couldn’t discount the shelter. Because even as it brought me so close to the animal that I had tamed so well, it also brought me close to people who had crossed lines into the places I might have been heading; and they were advising, in their most sincerest voices, to not let this man be the one that sends me to jail, that ruins my life, that steals my freedom, my light.

And I guess that is what it ended up being in the end. My potential for violence was and is still strong, but the way violence is treated, even when justified, makes it so that one really needs to think twice about it; but we also have to consider questions like is violence ever justified? Would I be in a better position if I was in an environment that did not persecute violence as harshly as here? Unfortunately, I do not have the answer to those questions.

Our first fight ended because we were separated by cops and, in all honesty, I only stopped because the cop threatened to mace me. I already have bad and sensitive eyes; I couldn’t imagine having to wash out mace at the shelter and be essentially blind while Snoop and his homeboys tried to jump my ass as soon as I came outside.

This isn’t a theoretical exploration of violence, and that does change the scope, but it can be interpreted in many ways; it can be a sign to tap into the tormentor in you and be an angel of death, or it could be a reason to work extra hard to put distance between you and the source of the need to be violent. I will choose the latter because this is a pit stop, not a final destination.

About Vasilis: Vasilis-Chukwunonso Onwuaduegbo is a queer Greek-born Nigerian American artist, entrepreneur, and human rights advocate. In his capacity as an advocate, Vasilis has worked at several social cause institutions in cities like New York, Paris, and Indianapolis on issues relating to immigration, the LGBTQ community, African development, human trafficking, amongst other pressing issues that disempower and dehumanize individuals in favor of capital or bigoted ideologies. Vasilis has served as a co-curator of the ‘Where is South’ exhibition at The Africa Center in NYC, where his art piece Full Reflections was showcased. He is also a former Gotham Writers Workshop student, and he has received several accolades for his essays and short stories. Shedding the Archive, For New Beginnings is his self-publishing debut, and he currently lives and creates in Washington, D.C.

More From Vasilis: 

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I Bought a Bike https://unphased.space/iboughtabike/ https://unphased.space/iboughtabike/#respond Wed, 03 Jan 2024 01:10:37 +0000 https://unphased.space/?p=857 I Bought a Bike Read More »

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electric bike parked on gravel road

I don’t think my parents know how to ride a bike. And if they do, I have never seen it. My sister and I had sorta taught each other how to ride. I remember my mom had brought home a bike for no reason at all which means it must have been either cheap or free. But there was never any intention to teach us how to use it so one summer, my sister and I had decided upon  ourselves to learn. It was, we believed, a necessary skill for survival in case we were ever caught in a zombie apocalypse. We took the bike to the creek in our neighborhood. At one part of the creek, there was a large cemented area and there, we took turns riding around in circles until we were both able to do so without falling over. By the time we both felt we had nailed it, the sky was a pink and orange haze. Twas a victory well earned. Unfortunately this never really led to the biking adventures we had hoped for. We only had the one, usable bike. Others were brought home, but the tires would be flat or a part would be broken and “eventually” was a time that never came. We got used to adventures on foot, which ended up not being that bad. I think that was the early conditioning for my fondness of walking because we surely walked a LOT in our childhood.

However, I recently bought a bike– almost 20 years after the last time I rode one. And not just any bike, an electric one designed for cargo. The assembly was the first challenge. It came 90% assembled…but still. At a whopping 77lbs, the bike weighed more than half of me. Couple that with the fact that I didn’t consider myself a very “handy” person, made its completion so satisfying that I now consider myself a “handy” person. The next challenge was actually riding it. The old adage goes that you never forget how to ride a bike. Well, I put that to the test. I walked my bike to a field by my house which had a gravel track. It brought about a feeling reminiscent of my sister and I all those years ago. Except, this time, it was just me, by myself– a grown adult who has fallen enough times, both literally and figuratively, that I had structured a life with safeguards to minimize the chances of it happening again. Yet, here I was. 

It felt awkward at first. How does it go again? How do I stay upright? How do I turn? After a series of fumbles while trying to balance on my new steed , something clicked back into place. Thanks, muscle memory. Like a baby giraffe, my bike hobbled toward the first bend of the track. Steady yourself, girl. I continued to pedal at a cautious pace. The melanin in my hands did well in masking the bloodlessness of my knuckles from gripping the handlebars so tight. Easy, now. You’re too tense. Seeing as I hadn’t fallen over yet, I began to relax my grip. My pedalling increased in tempo. I gave myself space to enjoy the experience. It was a nice fall day. Cool, but not cold. The breeze, as I zipped around the track, still had a warmth to it. I had my phone mounted to the handlebars and it was playing a rap-heavy playlist (because I thought I needed all the confidence I could get). But until this point, it had only acted as ambient noise. I was finally relaxed enough to listen. I bobbed my head to the drums and sang what words I knew and mumbled the words I didn’t. Nothing mattered, I was zooming. 

Eventually, I got confident enough to turn up the pedal assist and, therefore, the speed so I was really zooming– zooming a little too hard. And then I crashed. I had made too wide of a turn and lost my balance riding over a divet on a grassy part next to the graveled course. A nice cushy chain-link fence caught my fall. But you know what? I was ok. More than ok, I was having fun. I hopped back on the bike, played with the speed some more, and fell some more as well. Each collision taught me how to better prevent the same mistake in the future. Life has a way of sucking the vibrance out of you, if you aren’t intentional with protecting it. And it’s been a fight for me. However, I felt like I earned some xp points with this side quest. Relearning how to ride a bike had me feeling more comfortable making mistakes, more comfortable in my body, and more open to seeing what’s next. At some point enough was enough. It was time to go. The sun was still bright this time as I rode my bike home.

I wish I could say that was the beginning of my biking adventures, but fast forward a couple months and the bike has been seldom used. “It’s the cold”, I say. When I had gotten the bike, the air was already crisp, although comfortably so. However, the drop in temperature crept in like a frigid sigh. And cold is truly my kryptonite. It’s an internal battle making it outdoors, typically requiring an extensive pep talk. Maybe throw in some bribery, because to step into a freezer knowing my African blood is allergic deserves a prize. I solidify this argument by thinking back to something I remember a middle school teacher telling us. It was something along the lines of “spikes in violent crime occur during the extremes of  climate temperature because it makes people more irritable”.  I don’t know whether that’s fact, but it’s convincing enough. So when braving the cold, why would I, then, add the challenge of maneuvering a bike I’m not yet comfortable with? 

“It’s the roads”, I say. We don’t have the infrastructure for bikes. Bike lanes are barely wide enough to safely accommodate bikers on the same road as cars. Regardless, my neighborhood doesn’t even have bike lanes. And sidewalks are not reliably large enough for bikers and walkers so bikers tend to have to yield to the street anyway. It’s terrifying. People drive aggressively and mindlessly and a nascent bike rider is no match for a 2 ton steel behemoth. Where is one supposed to go to learn and build confidence on the roads?–where a mistake isn’t fatal. Why would I risk it?

“I have too much to focus on”, I say. I had the wonderful idea to begin several projects simultaneously and make my livelihood immediately depend on them. I’m starting from scratch. I’m juggling so much. I’m tired. I’m defeated often. I’VE GOT BILLS TO PAY. Bike riding seems silly when my mind needs to stay on the grind. Forget the freedom for which I bought the bike in the first place. Why would I waste my time?

These were just excuses. All of them. Not wrong, but truth has a debatable impact on an excuse. It felt like what began as a story of discovery and triumph turned to one of regression and, honestly, frustration. It was quite an expensive promise that I felt like I wasn’t able to keep to myself. It’s now winter and I can tell you for a fact that I will not be getting on that bike. However introspection has allowed me the gift of a new perspective less rooted in stagnant shame. To frame it as a failure is a great oversimplification. Not when I actually assembled and rode the bike. Not when the seed has already been planted. I’ve known me my whole life and my progress has never been linear. And I have a good streak of keeping the promises I make to myself, even if it’s in my own time. This isn’t quitting, it’s a pause. We’ll resume in the Spring. Stay tuned. Oh, and I later found out that my dad can ride a bike. Well…supposedly. So he says. Still yet to be seen.     

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A Letter From the Publisher https://unphased.space/a-letter-from-the-publisher/ https://unphased.space/a-letter-from-the-publisher/#respond Sun, 29 Oct 2023 14:24:29 +0000 https://unphased.space/?p=555 A Letter From the Publisher Read More »

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When I was younger– late teens, I used to follow this website which featured a collection of personal essays, works of fiction, think pieces, reviews, and guides to navigating everything under the sun. I would check in regularly, mesmerized by how these diverse writers converged to a singular space to sing into a sort of void, somehow managing to piece together a fragmented world in a way only thoughtful storytelling could. It was a refreshingly human space within a digital world. I remember the coming of age stories of which I could cozy up with in relatable comfort and the stories far removed from my own where I could still participate as an interested observer. I also remember when the site started to change. 

At first it was fun. They made interesting additions to the already diverse content they provided. More lists popped up. And I now know the perfect gift according to my zodiac sign and 10 reasons why I should leave my job. It was fun until the change started taking over. The type of content that had originally drawn me in was overtaken by a monotony of listicles. And if you aren’t familiar with the term listicle, it is an article that is presented in list form and what probably makes up the majority of content on the internet right now due to them being easily digestible and often entertaining. But it wasn’t just the lists. Posts became a lot less personal and what once seemed to be a broad spectrum of thoughts, became noticeably more narrow. Eventually I stopped visiting. But out of curiosity, nostalgia, and honestly just a deep need for such a space again, I checked in to see how they were doing, much like an ex lover hoping all is well. But as stories like that often go, the space was unrecognizable. 

That’s ok though. One, because after some good ol’ cathartic bitterness, I eventually accepted the change for what it was. Sometimes I have to remind myself that change is natural. It’s to be expected, really. Second, it had been 10 years since I was introduced to that site. In those years, I, myself, had changed so much. I had grown to the point where I no longer expected every space to reflect me and my wants. I’ve learned that I could create exactly what I want to see in the world. And the truth is I’ve had so many experiences since then, that I’m in a position to be one of the voices I sought for 10 years ago and what I’ve been needing now. 

So here I am starting Unphased; a space by my design. For now, I would like to use this blog to share stories – personal experiences, essays exploring ideas/topics in real time, and fictional stories because, as the author LLoyd Alexander once said, “Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.” 

And I want to open this space for interaction and discussion. Please do share your thoughts on posts, or even share a story of your own. This is an mbongi.

Mbongi: a house without rooms, walls or separators; learning circle. The first time I heard this term was my freshman year of college. One of my Freshmen Seminar professors, Dr. Carr used it to awaken us to the idea of collective knowledge. Formally, this could look like a town hall, a think tank, or an interactive classroom. Informally this could look like telling stories around the campfire. Like when my dad was a kid. He and the other kids of his village would meet around a particular tree at night and trade stories. And although I want this space to grow organically into whatever it is meant to be, I do hope to maintain a similar spirit.  

Sincerely,

Cynthia 

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