men and women

i've been hearing it in all their voices, my brothers, the men in my life and the women in theirs, in the lessons they have been taking, that they have learned.

bear learned it early. he told me years ago how he has no faith in women. he lives it. laid back, soft spoken, pushing through. he is never talking to just one chick. no one to break him. there is no point, he says, lifting his drooping pants, staring at the big-hipped chick staring at his box braids. women are just like men. i'm not sure. i don't know.

i think women and men are different, beyond biology, i think there's a such thing as masculinity and femininity. but in the babylonomic frequency of hyper-individualism, i don't know anymore. i don't know who's who, what's natural, and who to believe. but bear beats in my heart. bear speaks his truth, although i think it's worth being vulnerable, although i think love lost is growing, is better, but over and over again it could be crippling.

men are fragile beings. men like me, like smack, like bear, like hap, like kareem, eric, j. we seem to miss on the stats that says woman make .75 cents to every dollar men make, that men have more opportunities than women. they're true. those stats. but we don't see it. it's not our reality. so we dream and roll dice and sometimes we get lucky, get some copper to sell, to barter for jordans and a northface, to get a shape up and a date. just fresh enough to pass, to get acquainted for a few days with grown women with apartments and purses full of cash to eat out, purses that remain snapped when the check comes, when it's time to pay for drinks and dinner. but then they learn about your wallet, the lint it has accumulated, they see how you move, these women with purses and ideology, with conversation about the downtrodden and wine-tastings in the same sentence. they are beautiful, in their habits, in their desire to help and to live fully, to take classes on cheese-sculpting, kickboxing, cup crafting... they are beautiful as they are fulfilling themselves, they are growing and committed to their growth. they are beautiful and you see it. but, somehow they seem to see your beauty as fleeting as the classes they take, as the winter boots they wear.

real recognize real my abbu has taught me, my ammu tells me, my bhaiyas show me, my homeboys live by like a flag in their back pocket that other gangs can spot and identify, that can get us shot, left in the hudson. these women with purses and the men of their class are in a gang that is so well guarded, they are unaware of their crip dance, their blood frat/sorority. they only see color and complain that they are not able to grow in their classes and painting collections and wine acquisitions because of colorlines. they miss the lines they draw, the caste they reinforce. we see them though, my homies and i. my homies who would be among the crew of isa and mushammad and their realness, my struggling homies who return me over and over to that path that is Real, that keeps me on a jesus road ahead.