Much of this can be explained by taking a look back at my own life. In retrospect, yours truly, fameONE, grew up in a household that should have been the model for the Black American dream; two parents, two incomes, a father who actually stuck around, etc. However, as Roger Clemens can keep a batter guessing, life is that asshole on the mound that wants nothing more than to strike out a player that made an unimaginable transition from tee-ball to the majors. The witnessed spousal abuse (physical/verbal), suffered child abuse (physical/verbal), and a man’s inability to comprehend the challenges of parenthood landed a young me in a position where I was bounced from home to home, being passed around to relatives like a poorly rolled blunt in a freshman college dormitory. It happens.

As life progressed, and the critical years of accepting and acknowledging my surroundings came to light, I harbored a distinct hatred and anger for, well, everyone. The angst was a laughable. Unlike a suburban youth from a privileged home, I didn’t turn to sad sonnets to annoying guitar riffs nor did I change my dress to look like a Marilyn Manson follower; I fought. I fought because it made me feel good. In retrospect, its the same feeling I’m receiving at this very moment, rambling vaguely about my past, or even the feeling of Sunday morning fellatio from my “pun pun rider (sexual partner).” My parents took note of this, from different households at the time, and both had their own take on my behavior.

My mother, being the literary scholar that she is, and an English professor at the time, stripped me of all freedom, forced me into the basement with a notepad and a ballpoint pen, then told me to write. She laid down the ground rules, which included; no rap songs, no poems, complete sentences, proper grammar, and a minimum word count of 500; and I discovered prose at the age of 9. Smart woman. My father, being the refined 20th century caveman he was, made me box. All skin and bones, with piss and vinegar flowing through my veins, I would get into the ring and exert all energy in a matter of seconds because I swung wildly, as if someone were really trying to kill me. I fit into the C-grade script of an ABC after-school special from the mid-90s.

Lo and behold, I’ve grown to appreciate both. Writing encourages me to paint a portrait, capturing the essence of the moment without physically harming another human being. Its a means of using my intellect to express every emotion imaginable, even when these thoughts are sometimes to contorted to be discussed in everyday conversation, and it was therapy. Squaring up in the ring is a life lesson of it’s own. My father may have forced me into boxing just so I can release my aggression, but as a result I learned a life lesson that I’m not sure he intended to teach. Each battle in life, whether personal or professional; emotional or physical; needs to be attacked the same way. To not square up like a man and attack each of life’s battle with strategy, patience and precision is to bring a knife to a firefight, for lack of a better analogy.

As I began to experience death, despair, poverty, a broken home, and the everyday struggle of staying alive in the urban jungle, I was required to know when to fight and when to write. When fighting, I’m taking care of business, and being the man that I am. When writing, I reflect, overcoming ill thoughts and seeing the humor in life’s misfortune. Which brings me back to my initial, somewhat sadistic, statement of being able to find humor in the misfortune of other’s; once the fight is over, reflect, and you’ll realize how comical something as routinely sorrowful as a funeral can be. But if it isn’t my fight, I relax on the sidelines and enjoy the entertainment of another title bout. Thanks for tuning in, folks. I’ll drop by from time to time. I like this place.