Bound

What is this hold you’ve got on me?

Inhale/exhale and still can’t breathe.

I tell a tale but it just can’t be

as strong a story as your hold on me.

You smiled at me, I took a step.

You winked, I blinked. My heart it leapt

to you and using all it felt

I ran to taste, no haste, the waste.

Your floor was free. Twas new to me:

a treasure I was bound to hold.

Twas gold in light, in dark a spark

that bound me to your love.

The days went by, the weeks, the years.

I danced my pain. I sang my tears.

I dreamed, it seemed, with what I found

Yet what I got was bound.

This hold you have, you won’t let go.

I run away, you pull the rope you tied. 

I cried for mercy, longed for joy.

You lied, seduced, made me your toy.

With wings anew I fly away

Yet as I leave I long to stay.

This hold you have, it choked my breath.

it choked my heart,  it choked my head .

I stand in fog, my life in pieces

Longing for what your soul releases.

Frozen, static place in time.

 A line you say, my heart  I bind.

Little Green Soldiers in a Pageant

When I was a little kid, of about oh 6 or 7, I used to love playing with those little green soldiers- you know the ones. Except that I've never enjoyed violence, so instead of having them fight, I would make pageant formations and parades with them.

Now settle down my gays and gay-friendlies! I didn't dress them in drag and make them win a crown, or anything of the kind. I just enjoyed switching them from straight lines into circles or feeding them in between diagonal lines into new formations. They were still soldiers but sometimes they were marching in a parade while other times they were in training and I was their commander ordering new positions.

A couple years later, when I discovered my "leadership" skills, i.e. became a bossy child, I would do this with my neighbors and cousins. I would've done the same at school but that was Mr. Garcia's territory for Spring Festivals, and the HAM (Humanities, Art, and Music) department's for our seasonal assemblies. Around that same time I started loving beauty pageants, for the glamour, sure- but these girls got to strut around a stage from formation to formation with their only intention being getting to their next spot. I LOVED IT!! They were my own little army of little green soldiers, except prettier, and in standing without a rifle, and in fierce sparkly outfits with big hair and lots of rhinestones. (Okay gays and gay-friendlies- have that one.)

Soon enough I found a place that allowed for formations and formation changes...actually that encouraged them and existed because of them...THE MUSICAL! Besides the fact that I finally understood what singers were singing (yeah, I don't understand most pop/rock singers so I make up my own version of the lyrics), they actually broke into song and dance to express their feelings and, you guessed it, formation into formation into formation. It was my own little heaven; cause in heaven angels move about in perfectly choreographed routines!

Sitting at my desk today and working through the overall movement of a choreography (formation to formation), I found myself wanting a set of little green soldiers so I could work it out. And I caught myself thinking: "gee, among all the stress and uncertainty of this career, the constant financial hiccups and the wondering how it's gonna work out, I get to do exactly what I always wanted to do."

This is Tony...and gratefulness is what's going on!

Courage. Faith. Love.

The New Harlem Rennaisance

The current post-Harlem-renaissance Harlem Rennaisance is having a big weekend. 100 years after the first renaissance redefined the cultural realities of 'Negroes' through literature and music movements, the neighborhood is now redefined for a new generation. This time it's not just black people, though, and it is certainly not through musical or written art forms.

After months of busy labor and weeks of anxious arrival of a liquor license, Harlem Tavern, SoHa's outdoor beer garden, is now open. The neighborhood has seen cafes, restaurants, and luxury buildings pop up in the past couple of years, but Harlem Tavern now shows off the variety of people in the neighborhood like mannequins in a storefront window, beer in hand and burgers in all their glory.

A local businesswoman (Ok, the gurl who gets my hair did) wondered the other day how they'd be able to keep the riff raff out. I suggested that maybe by keeping higher prices. Her response, "That don't keep the riff raff out. Riff raff always manage to have money in their pocket."
I guess that's the thing about change and embracing new people and things. You never know what you're gonna get. Throughout my life I've seen that every socio-economic class and every race has their share of riff raff.

The thing with Harlem is that in the two years I've been here, I can see the change on the faces of the people walking down the sidewalk- women of West African descent in traditional garb and matching turbans, twinks in Lady Gaga inspired outfits, preppy bankers with traditional families, young black men with sagging jeans and a dream. Now, though, with this big outdoor bar in a prominent location, you can see the change conglomerated into one street corner. It is no longer just the nice facade of a trendy new restaurant; it's a restaurant with the nice faces of a new trend.

Is this new Harlem Renaissance gonna give us the next string of artists and inspire generations of artist across the globe like the Caribbean and Western African communities that eventually settled here? Are there artists of the caliber of Fats Waller, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Langston Hughes, Louis Armstrong, and Billie Holiday emerging from this cross cultural intersection of differences? Here's to hoping.

Until then, this is Tony...and Harlem's what's going on.

Push the Wheelchair. Get a Pickle.

This beautiful and sunny morning I was asked by a man in a wheelchair to please help him across the street. The man’s tone was not pleasant. It was somewhat demanding and aggressive, but underscored with frustration and desperation. The answer was obviously yes, but it took a second to figure out what to do with the bagel, coffee, and bags that were occupying my hands.

As I started pushing, he started telling me exactly how to handle the wheelchair. My first reaction was “Umm…. I know how to push a wheelchair.” Turns out, I don’t. The only times I have pushed a wheelchair were on after school moments in my dad’s office when I would push (actually shove) my brother and let the wheelchair wobble down the hallway until, by law of physics, something would stop it- most likely a wall or him falling to the floor. Other than this tweenage giggle-fest, I have never been in a position to push a wheelchair. So I quickly snapped out of my mental snippiness and carefully pushed him to the corner. I could feel this man’s weight on the chair and I could instantly feel his burden in my heart.

He let out a sigh and said, “Someone was helping me and then left me here in the sun. He said he wasn’t crossing that way and then he did.” His face glistened in sweat and sadness. My heart crumpled. “My name’s Tony. What’s yours?” “Will.” The light changed and he continued giving me instructions (I gratefully obliged) on how to get him up the ramp without tripping over and then to the corner where he wanted me to park him…I mean station him…I mean place him: in front of the deli, next to the Marlboro sign. As I was ready to leave, he asked me a last favor. “Can you go in there and get me a pickle?” “Excuse me?” “A pickle, can you get me a pickle?” The aggressive yet desperate tone was back.

Now, you’ve gottta understand something about me and pickles. I don’t like pickles. I have no sensibility for pickles. I don’t get why there needs to be pickles in my cheeseburger or next to sandwiches at diners. I usually don’t make a fuss about them, but I bring this up because we are generally more compassionate towards needs that we know and can identify with. If this man needed bacon, coffee, or wine, I wouldn’t have had to ask twice and just delivered. But pickles?!! Anyway…I get him his pickle, he gives me a last instruction. “See that bag behind me? Put the pickle in there.” I do. “That’s a turkey and cheese sandwich and now (pause) I have the pickle.” All the sadness, frustration and desperation in his face morphs into an impish Cheshire cat smile and he says. “Now I need to work somebody else for the soda.” (giggle) EXCUSE ME?! Did he just blatantly tell me that he “worked” me for his pickle? I tried to get mad but couldn’t. Although I felt used, the feeling of helping and giving to someone else, regardless of what I thought about his ‘need’ was far greater. Besides, next time I need to help someone in a wheelchair, it won’t be my first time.

This is Tony…And That’s What’s Going On.