MJ

People hate Michael Jackson.

But at a time, his music was the only one that I was privy too.

The morning started like any other. The skies over East Los Angeles were overcast but the day would eventually turn hot and insufferable.  At the moment though, I felt relaxed and jaunt listening to the tunes of MJ’s Dangerous album on my hard earned Walkman.

It was at the corner of Hammel and Gage Avenue that the altercation happened.

He was a young man about my age but experienced beyond my years I think. He wore a crisp white shirt, a cleanly shaved bald head and a taught laundered pair of khaki pants one size too big.

At the intersection he stood. Confident and wearing a killer look that I interpreted as meaning business.

I took it seriously.

He hastily asked to empty my pockets. In shame and knowing that it wasn’t much I showed the the paltry allowance I had earned for bus fair. He did not care. $7.00 was enough and I gave it to him as I looked as what I considered to be a gun but was obviously his hand pointing at me under his clothes.

As items felt out of my pockets he laughed!

A pencil? A skinny wallet filled with school ids and lunch tickets?

Finally there was my Walkman. The one that had taken me months to earn. The one for which I had saved every penny, dollar and dime my parents had given me.

And now this bald headed ruffian wanted it.

I was scared and I gave it to him.

I wanted to live and I didn’t want to take the chance that there was a real gun under his shirt. People had died in my neighborhood for much less..

He looked at it and smiled and then took the CD out?

“Michael Jackson?, what kind of stupid music is that?” he said and chucked the delicate disk on the floor.

Then he ran out onto the streets.

My ego was hurt! He had stolen from me. He had laughed at my music.

He took my safety net away.

Body Image

For as long as I can care to remember I have worried about my appearance.

In younger days it was my thin legs.

In high school it was my big nose.

In college it was my lack of muscle.

In my early years of marriage is was my weight.

In my early thirties is is my receding hair line.

What I will focus in my later years is a mystery but it will be something.

It’s tough not being one of the “pretty people.”

White Belt

My father told me on many occasions that he needed to break my nose.

He felt that by doing so he’d prevent it from looking awkward should one day someone else break it.

Silvio had this concept that a man must to learn how to fight and defend himself physically from the randomness of life and that is how I came to be enrolled in my one and only karate class.

As we walked into the training center that chilly rainy evening I felt a rush of heat surge through my body and jitters making my hands shake. The first 15 minutes or so were spent on introductions and instructions on the appropriate way to wear the tunic and how to tie the white belt we’d been assigned.

Then for about 30 minutes we learned a few basic steps and repeated them over and over and over again. The entire time I felt growing hotter, slower, less capable. But he was looking on and expected sharp snaps at my elbows, fists and kicks and made sure I knew it with his cold glare.

It was only during the last few minutes of class where were paired with another child for some simple sparing. I saw the more senior boys pick other boys to practice on and it was finally a brown haired girl who picked me. It was a flawed choice.

With weak knees I stepped on the mat and in mere seconds I was pinned down for the first time. Experience, quickness, and boldness were overpowering and the inner heat I felt just kept on growing.

The instructor thanked us all and sent us on our way. I changed, folded my new uniform and stepped out of the studio to greet my father.

The first strike hit right before we hit the car. Like lighting his heavy hand hit at my ear and sent a shrill noise bouncing in my head. The second was was a hot slap to the face and the third a punch to the chin that felt colder because he wore his heavy detective ring.

I dropped my clothes on the wet floor and felt tears welling up. I didn’t understand that he was disappointed in my performance and that my lack of talent had embarrassed him in his mind.

We didn’t talk in the car. We didn’t talk for a week.

He only broke his silence many a days later when the chicken pox had subsided and I was on the mend.

I suppose I should feel lucky that my nose remains intact.