Post by Deleted on Jun 27, 2016 18:34:58 GMT -5
You just a grown ass kid, who the 
do you think you is?
The sun is only half way lit, you haven’t come out your crib
You just a grown ass boy, get up out of here with all that noise
You ain’t ever gonna find your joy with yourself acting tough
Boy you just a…
[Grown Ass Kid by Chance the Rapper featuring Mick Jenkins and Alex Wiley]
OOC: This is a prelude to a bigger story, hopefully shared throughout the following events. That, and real life turned this into more of a preamble.
do you think you is?The sun is only half way lit, you haven’t come out your crib
You just a grown ass boy, get up out of here with all that noise
You ain’t ever gonna find your joy with yourself acting tough
Boy you just a…
[Grown Ass Kid by Chance the Rapper featuring Mick Jenkins and Alex Wiley]
I’m certain I’m not the only person who wished they never really grew up once they’ve reached adult age. I’m certain I’m not the only one who lamented adult responsibilities like paying bills, paying rent or mortgages, making sure there’s gas in the car, making sure that ticket was paid or especially making sure that one pair of drawers you have still clean actually IS clean and you weren’t just thinking that was that weird basement smell when you leave clothes down there for too long and so you’re paranoid when you’re walking wondering are you a walking septic tank in the ONE place you really shouldn’t smell like one.
But enough about my questionable laundry habits.
Color me another statistic, another Black boy growing up to be a man, having to do so without a father around to assist him. Not that I’m saying the few men in my life who were around didn’t contribute, because they did or that the women who had to play both nurturer and disciplinarian in the same breath were not more effective than any one man could despite the fact they shouldn’t have to because they were. I consider myself lucky that I had three phenomenal women to shape me into the man that I’ve become.
I’m just saying, maybe I don’t care for Father’s Day as much as some other people might.
Point being, sometimes your family, for better or worse, expects things out of you before you’re ready, if you ever are. And when you have to be the de facto ‘man of the house’ before you even learn to drive, that can take its toll on how to grow up. Because, there’s something about masculinity, Black households in particular, that doesn’t allow Black boys to be vulnerable. To react with emotions that aren’t based around physicality. But not too physical, or they might think a certain way about you which somehow decreases your worth to them. And there’s a problem with that. Especially when you know you aren’t like most of the others around the area you live in for various reasons and they exploit that and you. So you emulate them. You put on a character for self-preservation, succeed or fail.
Ironically, that also makes you a damn good fit for being a professional wrestler.
Unfortunately, that also means sometimes that character shows up during the wrong moments and you don’t get the chance to say what’s really on your mind and you feel terrible for it.
Like when your mentor goes to sleep but never wakes up.
Imagine waking up late to practice again, rushing to get to the gym, expecting another earful and squats and suicides until you puke, pre-warm up routine, and the first thing you see when you walk in is a handful of muscled up people showing more emotion and grief than you ever were accustomed to.
I don’t think a ring full of nearly a dozen people could feel so empty at the same time.
You know, part of me wants to laugh. One of the hardest shelled outside, soft cored inside people you know, one of the few men in your life that wasn’t a disappointment in some way, who took his time to put you under his wing, not like you deserved it, just goes and f*cking dies on you. No warning, like most of the important men in my life. It sounds way more bitter than I’m intending, I guess it’s difficult to have to parse that and be an adult and remember you have responsibilities.
Like wrestling. I wonder how long it’ll take before I stop seeing him in that gym ring. I always wondered who first set it up. Just another for granted question I’ll never get an answer to. I guess this is the part where I comment how I’m supposed to stay strong, set an example for others. Stay professional and work through emotional pain.
But I’ll be honest. I have zero damn desire to. Somedays, I’m full of energy and train my ass off sure of the world’s challenges. Other times, it’s a reward getting out of bed. Not crying in front of people not quite close friends, but not quite strangers. Even acquaintances would be inaccurate? Peers, I guess? Maybe.
That’s another thing about hyper-masculinity I can’t stand but still fall into the trap of: crying’s normal. Every being cries. Humans. Animals. If you didn’t cry at the end of Toy Story 3, you are an uncrying monster and no one should associate with you freely.
In my community, a man crying makes you seen as weak. As fragile. It doesn’t acknowledge the turmoil one must be going through to have to resort to such measures. So imagine how it looks for someone once described as a compact linebacker to be crying. But considering the person? Yeah, I cried. Numerous times. Not just for what I’ll miss, but what he’ll miss, because unfortunately, I’m not much of a person regarding spirituality.
Not enough to claim something is looking out for me. You learn early on to do that yourself. But ultimately, I know if I sat around doing nothing but feeling sorry, he’d make me feel sorry in other ways. There’s little more motivating than disappointing the maybe exists spirit of a dead person. But in some ways, my upcoming match should be enough of a motivator as is.
I’ve only a handful of matches here. Less than that. And my opponent here is the first big task I have. He’s been around here much longer comparatively. He’s had wars and survived with some of the baddest WFWF has had to offer. Even if he didn’t win, he’s survived, that’s the most important. He’s a former champion.
He’s also a fellow Chicagoan. But it’s not like Cam Nitta and I share the same social circles, you know? We’re two different materials on the same cloth. This city’s one of the most segregated, that should tell you how different two men from the same city can be. I won’t deny his hardships, or his hard work. But I’ll be damned to let him say he’s ever worked harder than me. That he’s ever felt the prospect of loss to the amount that I have.
I’m not interested in turning this into an oppression Olympics, but I’d imagine I’d place all three times on the podium.
And we might never have met that often but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of his existence. Even when our styles are even different. He’s calculated but isn’t afraid to get reckless. He’ll use speed as an advantage. He’s definitely not afraid to fly. But what’s gonna happen Cam, when a guy who’s lucky to be a buck fifty soaking wet goes against someone who can flick you into the 2nd row with just a shoulder block?
I mean, I’ve never been one to go there but come on. Can he even body slam me? I’d like to see him try. Not saying the kid isn’t strong, looks can be deceiving but the only way he’s gonna get off the ground willingly is he’s a robot. Based off how he looks like your typical J-Pop stars like he was made in a warehouse, I wouldn’t be surprised. In all seriousness, I’m not expecting him to take me lightly, and I certainly won’t with him. But beating him would garner a lot of attention. Not just locally, but nationally.
I’m not gonna be one of those people and dedicate presumed victories. I mean, I am one of those people, but I’m not going to in this instance. Not because I don’t think I can win, I’m sure of it. Because I’m gonna go it at my speed. I’m not gonna follow a particular path, I’m gonna do it with my intentions. What is ‘it’ anyway? In-ring? Personal life? Methods of coping? Maybe forms of all of it at once. I guess that’s what I want to figure out.
But enough about my questionable laundry habits.
Color me another statistic, another Black boy growing up to be a man, having to do so without a father around to assist him. Not that I’m saying the few men in my life who were around didn’t contribute, because they did or that the women who had to play both nurturer and disciplinarian in the same breath were not more effective than any one man could despite the fact they shouldn’t have to because they were. I consider myself lucky that I had three phenomenal women to shape me into the man that I’ve become.
I’m just saying, maybe I don’t care for Father’s Day as much as some other people might.
Point being, sometimes your family, for better or worse, expects things out of you before you’re ready, if you ever are. And when you have to be the de facto ‘man of the house’ before you even learn to drive, that can take its toll on how to grow up. Because, there’s something about masculinity, Black households in particular, that doesn’t allow Black boys to be vulnerable. To react with emotions that aren’t based around physicality. But not too physical, or they might think a certain way about you which somehow decreases your worth to them. And there’s a problem with that. Especially when you know you aren’t like most of the others around the area you live in for various reasons and they exploit that and you. So you emulate them. You put on a character for self-preservation, succeed or fail.
Ironically, that also makes you a damn good fit for being a professional wrestler.
Unfortunately, that also means sometimes that character shows up during the wrong moments and you don’t get the chance to say what’s really on your mind and you feel terrible for it.
Like when your mentor goes to sleep but never wakes up.
Imagine waking up late to practice again, rushing to get to the gym, expecting another earful and squats and suicides until you puke, pre-warm up routine, and the first thing you see when you walk in is a handful of muscled up people showing more emotion and grief than you ever were accustomed to.
I don’t think a ring full of nearly a dozen people could feel so empty at the same time.
You know, part of me wants to laugh. One of the hardest shelled outside, soft cored inside people you know, one of the few men in your life that wasn’t a disappointment in some way, who took his time to put you under his wing, not like you deserved it, just goes and f*cking dies on you. No warning, like most of the important men in my life. It sounds way more bitter than I’m intending, I guess it’s difficult to have to parse that and be an adult and remember you have responsibilities.
Like wrestling. I wonder how long it’ll take before I stop seeing him in that gym ring. I always wondered who first set it up. Just another for granted question I’ll never get an answer to. I guess this is the part where I comment how I’m supposed to stay strong, set an example for others. Stay professional and work through emotional pain.
But I’ll be honest. I have zero damn desire to. Somedays, I’m full of energy and train my ass off sure of the world’s challenges. Other times, it’s a reward getting out of bed. Not crying in front of people not quite close friends, but not quite strangers. Even acquaintances would be inaccurate? Peers, I guess? Maybe.
That’s another thing about hyper-masculinity I can’t stand but still fall into the trap of: crying’s normal. Every being cries. Humans. Animals. If you didn’t cry at the end of Toy Story 3, you are an uncrying monster and no one should associate with you freely.
In my community, a man crying makes you seen as weak. As fragile. It doesn’t acknowledge the turmoil one must be going through to have to resort to such measures. So imagine how it looks for someone once described as a compact linebacker to be crying. But considering the person? Yeah, I cried. Numerous times. Not just for what I’ll miss, but what he’ll miss, because unfortunately, I’m not much of a person regarding spirituality.
Not enough to claim something is looking out for me. You learn early on to do that yourself. But ultimately, I know if I sat around doing nothing but feeling sorry, he’d make me feel sorry in other ways. There’s little more motivating than disappointing the maybe exists spirit of a dead person. But in some ways, my upcoming match should be enough of a motivator as is.
I’ve only a handful of matches here. Less than that. And my opponent here is the first big task I have. He’s been around here much longer comparatively. He’s had wars and survived with some of the baddest WFWF has had to offer. Even if he didn’t win, he’s survived, that’s the most important. He’s a former champion.
He’s also a fellow Chicagoan. But it’s not like Cam Nitta and I share the same social circles, you know? We’re two different materials on the same cloth. This city’s one of the most segregated, that should tell you how different two men from the same city can be. I won’t deny his hardships, or his hard work. But I’ll be damned to let him say he’s ever worked harder than me. That he’s ever felt the prospect of loss to the amount that I have.
I’m not interested in turning this into an oppression Olympics, but I’d imagine I’d place all three times on the podium.
And we might never have met that often but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of his existence. Even when our styles are even different. He’s calculated but isn’t afraid to get reckless. He’ll use speed as an advantage. He’s definitely not afraid to fly. But what’s gonna happen Cam, when a guy who’s lucky to be a buck fifty soaking wet goes against someone who can flick you into the 2nd row with just a shoulder block?
I mean, I’ve never been one to go there but come on. Can he even body slam me? I’d like to see him try. Not saying the kid isn’t strong, looks can be deceiving but the only way he’s gonna get off the ground willingly is he’s a robot. Based off how he looks like your typical J-Pop stars like he was made in a warehouse, I wouldn’t be surprised. In all seriousness, I’m not expecting him to take me lightly, and I certainly won’t with him. But beating him would garner a lot of attention. Not just locally, but nationally.
I’m not gonna be one of those people and dedicate presumed victories. I mean, I am one of those people, but I’m not going to in this instance. Not because I don’t think I can win, I’m sure of it. Because I’m gonna go it at my speed. I’m not gonna follow a particular path, I’m gonna do it with my intentions. What is ‘it’ anyway? In-ring? Personal life? Methods of coping? Maybe forms of all of it at once. I guess that’s what I want to figure out.
OOC: This is a prelude to a bigger story, hopefully shared throughout the following events. That, and real life turned this into more of a preamble.
