My relationship with a higher power and the accompanying institution of religion has been a tricky one to manage. For me, standing in the way of embracing belief is the institution and what I would deem as this mandate to accept "x religion" on "y terms". Such rigidity is truly the polar opposite of my ethos. And so for the better part of 29 years and some change, I've been in a sort of limbo with God, religion and the notio of a higher power. I've been content to label myself as agnostic, a place that felt vague enough to fit where I stood with it all. It doesn't take too long from meeting me to learn where I'm from: Newark, New Jersey. It's a badge of honor, yet my relationship with my hometown hasn't always been on the best of terms. I would credit the better part of the last 10 years for that, moving away to New England to attend undergrad, graduate school and begin my professional career.
Yet, there's one geographic relationship that has probably never been strained at any point of my existence. This part of the city is well-known by natives and maybe known from those outside of the city through the high school that has historically served the neighborhood: Weequahic High School. The surrounding, baseball-diamond shaped area of Newark's South Ward, the Weequahic section, is what immediately comes to mind for me when I think of "home". While I only lived in the area for the first 10 years of my life, the fabric and essence of the neighborhood was foundational in the lives of my parents and immediate family; as they all hailing from the plot of land serviced by the 07112 zip code. The section felt like our own little town: a hospital, a library branch, a fire station, a bakery, a pizza parlor, a barbershop, a grocery store (although Pathmark was technically in Irvington) and last but certainly not least, a park--where the neighborhood's name originates from. In speaking with a co-worker, I had an epiphany. Somehow we had gotten on the topic of identity. This co-worker, a white male, was speaking about his association with his Italian heritage. And I--an African-American--spoke to the importance of this sense of belonging, of having a source. I spoke about there even being a difference between 'African-Americans' and Haitians, Jamaicans, Nigerians and other Black folk with either direct Caribbean or African roots. It might not seem so to those outside of the Black community but something seemingly so minute was an unspoken divide in identity and belonging. Then he said it! I don't remember the exact wording, but he essentially equated my association with my hometown to his Italy, a Haitian's Haiti, a Jamaican's Jamaica. Newark was my motherland. More so, the Weequahic section--the place I specifically had this origin relationship with. It was where I hailed from. Where my ancestors came from. Mind blown. Yet true. It was why I identified so passionately with this small, densely-populated section of Newark. It's why I became a fan of the Cleveland Browns, the first team outside of the New York Mets I had a connection with: this was the only professional team that shared Weequahic High's colors of orange and brown. For people brought to this country via slave ship as property; stripped of their names, culture, and mother tongue it made all the sense in the world that we would create again. New customs. A new sense of identity. And that's what growing up in the Weequahic section was all about. My family lived on Weequahic Ave between Bergen and Parkview Terrace. The son of the owner of the pizza parlor that was around the corner on Lyons Ave would tell me often how he grew up with my parents. Everyone knew everyone and back in those times if you did anything wrong, anyone on the block would discipline you as if they were your own blood. While kids growing up would cling to any piece of being from New York City that existed, or didn't, I was so proud to be from the Weequahic section. I had the privilege of growing up around my great-grandmother as I didn't have grandparents in my life. Hearing her stories, soaking up her knowledge and wisdom, I not only longed to be of that time that my parents came of age in but very much preferred it to what I saw in my generation. And while I am proud of my generation, in retrospect, for their bravery in fighting the status quo; I believe there are too many gems from our elders that should make its way into our daily lives. Such as knowing who Mrs. Nellie is. Knowing who Mrs. Butler is. Mrs. Lee. Understanding the importance of the relationships forged in-person over time is missing today. People, not kin to you whatsoever, equipped with just as much desire to see you succeed as your own relatives. Home. Moving to the Central Ward at 10. Going to Seton Hall Prep for high school. Moving to Massachusetts for college. My great-grandmother's passing. The house we all collectively gathered at every Thanksgiving--which sometimes fell on her November 24th birthday--no longer being in my family's possession. None of that could ever taint my love for this place. When I thought about what I wanted to study as a major in college, I thought of that strip of Weequahic Ave. I thought of the Newark Riots. I thought of the crack-cocaine epidemic of the 1980s. I thought of the present-day status of my city and my neighborhood. I wanted to understand. I wanted to fix. When I wanted to brand my writing--posts between here, What You Expect and wherever else my name graces the byline--there was only one choice for a logo: an homage to the Weequahic section. When I thought of a hashtag I could use to complement that logo, it was obvious: WQHC--Weequahic without the vowels. All I ever wanted to accomplish was to put my neighborhood on the map. I wanted the kids growing up to have pride in being from the Weequahic section. To chant this like those across the Hudson River claim the NYC borough they hail from. Mostly I just wanted to make the elders from Weequahic Ave proud. I hope I can continue to do that and hopefully take baby steps to restoring the great name the Weequahic section once had. Photo Cred You're gone. Well the physical you is. I can't believe I'm typing this sentence. Yeah, he's a human. Humans are born and humans die. But Kobe Bryant wasn't supposed to die. That energy, that fervor for greatness. That felt eternal. It is. It hurts right now but it's true. "Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another." Mamba Mentality is forever. You channeled your passion and drive into a relentless pursuit to accomplish your goals. Whether the 8 you wore at the beginning of your career was a constant reminder of the amount of championships you wanted to win in the NBA. To the 24 you switched to as a reminder of the amount of hours needed to master your calling. You retired from the game. Most assumed you couldn't stay away. All you did was enter into a new arena as a writer and director. You won an Oscar for crying out loud! You transferred that manic work ethic and attention to detail to go be great somewhere else. You are an inspiration. An inspiration to me, looking to find my footing in this craft that I care about. Determined to not simply fit into a box and eager to explore all topics and areas that I am passionate in. An overthinker and always cautious with words, I want to be great in this discipline. I want to inspire and encourage others. I want to attack a topic with such depth that there's no rebuttal. I want to learn. I want to educate. I want to grow. I wrote about you two weeks ago. You sat down with Matt Barnes and Stephen Jackson, reminiscing about your career but I was so enamored with the father you are. How you wrote as an ode to your daughter wanting young girls to have athletes to look up to in bedtime stories their parents read to them. How you only came back to watching basketball because your daughter picked up your obsession with the game. What's wild about all this is I grew up an avid Allen Iverson fan. I hated the Lakers so much for that Finals series! As I got older I grew so impressed with your longevity and re-invention. As I started back writing on Par 4 and What You Expect and I would dedicate prime sleeping and eating hours to writing, I came to understand your mind. I felt the same passion. The same energy. My life is the Earth and writing is the sun. And while it's stressful with all the things to do, I fucking love it. It's almost all I want to talk about. I have so many notes filled with content ideas and people to reach out to. Basketball was the conduit to getting to know you. And when that adventure was over, you went on to the next. It was never just about basketball. It was deeper, there were lessons. A bigger picture. It hurts you won't be here to continue that path. To continue to inspire and influence. To continue to teach. Just as some were beginning to see. It hurts that it seems like the people with so much "lust for life" leave us so unexpectedly. And while I am not religious in even the slightest, I feel that it's a lesson to those of us that get to experience these people to keep their energy alive. To incorporate their passion, their mantra, their essence into our lives. The man, the physical entity, known as Kobe Bean Bryant may not longer be here with us but we have been so fortunate to be introduced to Mamba Mentality. Thank you for blessing us with this knowledge and I hope to utilize the way you attacked the craft of basketball, writing, directing, coaching, fatherhood, etc., into my writing and my relationships as well. Mamba Forever. I have a running joke with most with myself (because I was raised an only child) about the IHOP senior citizen discount. Basically when you hit 55--or one of those ages--you get a discount on your meal apparently. I don't know if this is actually a thing but I saw it at an IHOP one day and 'dreamt' (how is dreamt not a word red squiggly line?!) about having all the short stacks on my plate. What that's turned into is me looking forward to these birthdays and instead of frowning about the age counter going up, really looking forward to it.
I could get very specific about everything I've learned in the past year and I have those handy as I tend to get reflective on the year that's passed and what I want to focus on for the next year but I'll keep this light. I want to write more. I can recall those fights with my mom when dealing with anything about writing. Her grammatical corrections. I used to hate it and then I became the grammar/spelling police (still not perfect, hence my surprise over dreamt). I wrote in college. After a writing prompt my professor said I should write for the school newspaper. Took a while--confidence issues and doubt--but eventually I did it. Had athletes (I covered sports OF COURSE lol) compliment me saying they liked my articles. Had a former boss tell me about a connect she had at the Boston Globe. Ultimately, I didn't think writing--while I had confidence in it-- was something I wanted to do. Yet in spite of that thought I still kept up with the blog I had. Not as frequently as maybe I should've but that itch was always there. After doing a post inspired by Nipsey Hussle (RIP King) on said sports blog I felt that itch come back. My girlfriend has a spot for writing on her website and after reading her posts I wanted in again. After three posts and a sample post for my boy's podcast website here I am. But I needed this journey with writing. I needed to walk away. Chase this other dream for a while. Before realizing happiness was right here all along. My family is filled with artists. My uncle was an art teacher. My great-uncle has a record label. Every Mungin had that art bug. I hated that I couldn't draw and while it took 28 years I finally learned that my art was words. Nevermind that people have been saying this about me because of how talkative I am lmfao! Are things perfect? Abso-fucking-lutely not. But things are exactly as they need to be. And that's life honestly so I've learned with 28 years and a little over 3 hours on this Earth. I've learned not to be so hard on myself--we'll see how long that lasts--and to chase/do what fulfills you. Who fulfills you. Cherish family. Cherish moments. I thought about my great-grandmother affectionately known as Mama today. I miss her and her stories like CHiPs and As The World Turns. All I want is to make her proud. I suppose this is my art, my expression, my openness. After all, all you have to speak for you when you're gone is how you made people feel and the art you left behind. |
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Ty FosterQuestion everything. WQHC Archives
June 2020
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