Lost in Translation

I'm not used to being the oldest person in the room. For most of my life I've been the little guy, the smallest, the least experienced, the most sheltered and naive standing amongst his older siblings. But now in adulthood the script has flipped. Now, as my original Justice League has disbanded, I more often find myself kicking it with those who have fewer years on the clock. Such is the case as Negarra and I teamed up to play a little cards with a crew of twentysomethings at my homegirl's crib.

The inciting incident occurs even before the actual game starts. A young man of 24 enters the place dripping with sweat from a lengthy bike ride. I am not sure of his relationship to our hostess but I know that is first act among us is to make his way to the length bar and fill half a glass with a half a pint of watermelon Bacardi. He drinks it down without hesitation and then, without pause, process to chase it with another shot or two of vodka. No water. No food. He's doing that thing where he wants to catch up with where he thinks everyone else is. Because being sober in a room full of buzz just isn't the move.

Everyone tells him that he needs to slow down. We put him on repeated glasses of water and a bag full of chips hoping to undo the damage. But withing two hours he's unconscious on the bathroom floor, his head resting oh so comfortably on the not-so-padded seat. While I had rarely been that gone (Only two times come to mind) I find myself wondering what he was thinking underneath if anything. It takes me back to freshman year when I ended up having to carry my boy Steve up three flights of stairs after he'd overdone it. I remember him clutching one of the columns in Spelman's Lower Manley, repeating over and over that the room was spinning. At 17, forgivable. At 24 acceptable. When you're damn near 33 the shit just seems downright silly. But I am surrounded by folks for whom this is still a weekly fact of life. There's something about the scene and the conversation after that makes me feel out of place. I'm the soul who sticks out, the guy who doesn't belong. Like Danny Glover's Roger Murtaugh, "I'm too old for this shit."

Fast forward 48 Hours and I'm in Fort Greene. Two friends who have found love together are getting off our island to make their way to A-Town. It's a potluck: drinks and cheesecake and two sets of barbecue chicken (of which one in Negarra's fave whiskey sauce). I find myself sitting there with my homegirl B. Ed Gordon interviews Obama on the muted TV before us and there is music all around. It's the kind of shindig where the couples mainly stick with other couples, where our attempts at politeness and idle chatter with would be acquaintances have been almost predictably thwarted. Conversations swirl around things like the job market and the demand for air conditioners. A hip hop zealot extols the virtues of Lil Wayne vs. Andre 3000. But B and I just sit there looking on, marveling at how we are both there and not there. We both know we'll be doing at least a few more years until it's time to make our getaway, until we can feel truly safe with spouses and families in parts unknown. We understand all the words that they day but for us they are not enough. For us there's a whole other part of the day-to-day, a something we can't verbalize in polite chit chat.

"We're too deep," she says with a grin, reminding me of something a Taurus always says to me often (even if at the most inappropriate times). But we both agree that we're more than OK with that. I leave that party with the perfect jar for my Asian soup noodles and a food processor. As the hosts are moving at the end of the week, I just might be back for more free going away goodies.

The next thing I know I'm standing on Brighton Beach just after dusk. The water before me extends at far as the eye can see. Nine pieces of fruit are at my feet in the sand. As the Russians who own this part of town stroll past me, they say hellos in broken English, trying to figure out what in the hell the black guy is doing there, trying to figure out why it appears that he's talking to the water. But there's a warmth to it, a kind of "Hey if you're ok being here then we're ok too." Couples have seized the lifeguards chairs and snuggle five feet above the rest of us, taking in the stars in the now clear sky ahead. The storms are over for now.

It's in the quiet like this that I find that I'm becoming increasingly OK with the changes all around me, the changing of guards, a past that is nothing more than streaks of light in the rearview mirror of my spaceship. Thoughts of peppered orange chicken, hopes, fears and trying to follow Isaiah 30 to the letter. The number eleven is coming for me again. But this time I'm not running. This time I'm standing firm as the waves rise miles above my head, beginning the long process of finally bringing me home. Out.