I am broken once again. It’s happened so many times that I am surprised there are still pieces large enough to put back together. But back together I must become, because I cannot fail. It is not a matter of choice or preference, although I have wished it so many times beyond measure or memory. If it were a choice, I could abandon it, allow my identity to wither and die, and become exactly what society wants me to be, what many of them assume I already am. That would be the easy route, and there is no shame in it. It is a fool’s errand to rage against the machine. Alas, I am no fool. Nevertheless, I cannot fail.
It is not pride, not after the first half a dozen falls. With each rebuild, I am diminished. Something gets left behind. Some part dies. For a long time I thought that was the reason: humility, and maybe it was. It was certainly necessary. Inevitable, even, as the wisdom of Icarus would suggest. I have crossed poverty lines and picket lines, and found pleasure castles on both sides, literally and figuratively. I no longer carry the bias and arrogance of my limited youthful experience. What remains of my pride is but a shallow, solid stone foundation to endure the tremors and quakes that knowledge and wisdom beset upon the ego of the woefully ignorant. My pride is neither shield nor sword. At best, it manifests as a dance to distract attention away from the softest parts of me: my passion for the arts, for love, for harmony, for creativity and story-telling–all vulnerable and inextricably bound by insecurities.
I am not the lesser man that my skin commands me to be in this society. I am not an arrogant fool, incapable of self-awareness and lacking the capacity for change. I am broken, and when the world sees a broken black man, these are the only two explanations that grace affords him. But the truth is actually much darker, and far more sorrowful. The truth is I broke myself. It was inevitable, as the wisdom of Icarus would suggest.
I have been burning the candle at both ends for quite some time. Desperate to establish myself within my community and to succeed in a role that others have failed at for years, I allowed my goals to consume me. My therapist has been warning me about it for months, imploring me to take more time, care and attention for myself. But my goals were so close. I was starting to feel accepted by my peers and establishing a local social network. My boss was grooming me for a promotion. I just needed to hold on a little longer. I sacrificed the only time I had left to spare–bedtime–in order to meet all the demands of my lifestyle. I would sleep in small intervals of two to three hours at random times of the day or night, relying heavily on melatonin supplements. Alas, such acts are made of wax, and the sun is not the realm of men.
I am broken. I am burned. I am a victim of the pursuit of happiness. I am not unique in that circumstance. I am afraid, embarrassed, disappointed, angry and sad. I am facing felony charges in a boy who cried wolf case, and I am a black man. Worse, I am a black man who is intelligent enough to understand that all my pedigree and accomplishments (basic, though, they may be) mean very little in the eyes of the American justice system. I am afraid, embarrassed, disappointed, angry and sad, but more than all that, I am tired. So very tired. Too tired to even put pretty words to it. I am tired of having to defend my character as a man while suffering the indignities and disregard from a culture and a society that will reap the fruits of my labor but never endeavor to reward or even recognize my value. They call me the criminal when they steal the very hope for peace and prosperity from my existence.
Jail is a terrible place. Incarceration is the worst thing you can do to a man. To deny someone the opportunity for purpose, passion, hope, and love, it is to strip away the very thing that makes us human. There is a morbid solidarity that exists among the confined. It is an unspoken understanding of your irrelevant place in society, and a silent fury at being forgotten that is shared by all. Skin color, age, and in most cases, even the crime you allegedly committed is forgiven by your comrades behind bars. You realize just how insignificant all your machinations on the outside were, and how quickly you can be dismissed without a thought. If there is peace to be found in despair, it exists only in the shared misery of the deprived.
I am broken, but I am not worthless. I am fragile, but I am not weak. I am vulnerable, but I will not be misguided. I am flawed, but I accept no failure. Icarus be damned. I will not drown for my hubris. Hard times are here, and more ahead, but so, too, someday soon, shall they join those hard times behind.