It's been almost a year and a half since I published "Invisible Men," the heavily- hacked Essence essay that brought more readership to this blog than I'd ever seen. The prospect of a man complaining about the failures of women in their choices in men brought hundreds to my doorstep via email and most likely thousands of other casual discussions on the topic. The biggest irony about that piece is that I wrote it just as I was on the verge of romantic bliss. The idea of it had come up with in a lunch meeting with an editor over there. To be truthful I had just wanted a featured and figured that it was my best shot. There wasn't any personal attachment. But in the six months that it took the idea to cycle through the Essence machine it ended up as essay on the page in the book designated for boys. And the rest was history.
But just yesterday, while in conversation with some female friends of mine on another topic completely, I can to a strange epiphany. If you can't see a good man or a good woman when they're right in front of you, then you don't deserve them. Plain and simple. Perhaps some of you may think this statement is harsh, but for me it's not different than one noticing the 100 dollar bill in the snow and failing to pick it up.
If you're too slow on the draw and or if you don't know what a Benjamin looks like in a country where the dollar is the national currency, then either way that's on you. Hindsight is 20/20. You snooze. You lose.
As Laura told me oh so recently, my biggest problem is that I call them like I see them. I'm not a master of one-liners, not smooth moves, nor any type of "game" in general. I'm one of those dudes who understands enough of the human condition to know what makes sense for me. Nothing more. Nothing less. Yet in a world where far too many of my brethren have failed to do the right thing time and time again, the very prospect of my existence has seemingly become a longshot. I wrote the essay the way I wrote it because I thought that that was a problem, that I was being discriminated again in dating practices, that I wasn't being given a fair shake. This was not the truth. The truth was that I was looking for someone as discriminating as myself, someone keen enough to pick up my signal when it hit the airwaves. I've come to the conclusion that such women would be as "invisible" as I was, and even more likely feeling just as awkward about the whole thing.
As part of my journey back into a "Kenji" state of mind: workaholicism, fiending for debate discourse and a general desire to help whomever I can whenever I can, I'm also trying to shed all the guilt I've carried about not taking the blue pill and the missed faux opportunities that came with that decision. To quote the B-man "Sometimes you just ain't that nigga." Definition being: You can only deal with one goes in and out of your own door and not what's cracking with your ghetto-ass neighbors down the street.
Pretty often as I moved amongst the mob of people who congregate these streets where I live I will try to excuse myself past folks. Someone will try to walk through me in a crowded room. Someone I know will look me right in the eye and then walk past me. Sure much of it is that a place like this requires a certain kind of self-assuredness. If can't at least do the speed limit you'll get runover. But on the other hand if you're trapped in a certain kind of thought, one that brings about a certain kind of vision, discerning between one soul and another can get difficult. Sometimes you just don't see people at all.
Sometimes I like translucence and complete transparency. Other times its' an absolute pain. But it's a part of who I am, a gift and a curse given this time around. And for once I'm holding it tightly as it was handed down onto my head from the only folks who really matter. Out.
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