Silent Insolence

Why I Am Not a Fan of Kobe Bean Bryant

2011-04-27T23:38:00.004-05:00

The NBA playoffs are well underway. The omniscient realm that is Twitter is full of sports experts trading 140-character volleys for each others' basketball souls. In the spirit of full disclosure, I wanted to share why Kobe stans and some Lakers fans and I will never agree, regardless of what transpires this summer.

I never have been and never will be a Kobe Bryant fan. Sure, I thought it was cool that he took Brandy to his high school prom, but in retrospect, how big of a deal was that? However, dating choices aside, Kobe and I have been at odds for fifteen years.

In June of 1996, the Charlotte Hornets had the 13th pick in the NBA draft. They selected Kobe, a promising young guard with the talent and pedigree to jump straight to the Association from high school. And apparently the ego to match. Kobe made it clear that he didn't want to play in Charlotte, and I was left with a 7-foot Serb--thanks for the flopping memories Vlade.

Now, if I'm eighteen and about to be a millionaire, sure I'd rather play in Los Angeles than Charlotte. If I'd grown up focusing on basketball my whole life, sure I'd rather play on the shoulders of Magic and Kareem than for an expansion team with just ten years of history. But those aren't the decisions draftees are supposed to make. Kobe acted as if he was above the system and robbed me of the chance to see greatness unfold in my hometown.

While I don't like Kobe, I do respect his game. He's a perennial all-star, undoubted future hall-of-famer, and arguably one of the top ten players of all-time. Hell, as someone who battles with occasional fits of ADD, I even admire his singular focus on his craft and his indomitable will. But my sentiments will never surpass that. You won't be able to convince me that he's anything more than a gifted athlete and dedicated basketball player. Just as I won't be able to convince you he's deserving of anything less than hardwood sainthood.

We'll just have to agree to disagree.

P.S. Kobe versus Lebron is a legitimate argument. Kobe versus Jordan is not. No matter how dedicated I am to art or how skilled I become, repainting the Sistine Chapel does not make me Michelangelo.

1/21/11

2011-01-21T11:40:00.002-06:00

I haven't left my bed today. The sadness is numbing and I have little desire to do anything but lay here. I don't know what to do without him; though I know this isn't what he would've wanted. I won't wake up tomorrow and have everything together again. That can't happen with his absence. I want to tell myself that he's in a better place, where he can now watch over me. That's what I want to tell myself. All that I'll hear, though, is that he's gone. He is gone. My grandfather is gone and I miss him. I miss him incredibly.

24

2011-01-21T00:48:00.001-06:00

I'm 24 and am just now feeling that I'm starting to grow up. I feel this marker in my life, because I actually care about what I'm doing with my life. Not how others feel about what I'm doing or outside opinions, but an internal drive to accomplish and create. The feeling is somewhat foreign to me. I'm not used to it and will undoubtedly falter in my drive along the way. But hey, I did say that I was starting to grow up.

THC withdraw

2010-11-03T22:09:00.002-05:00

It fucking sucks.

My sister

2010-11-03T09:05:00.001-05:00

Sometimes the parallels are so strong I have to remind myself that we don't actually share blood.

Then I thank the Creator for giving us a shared spirit.

Mary

2010-10-21T22:21:00.001-05:00

She's becoming a bit controlling. I think it's time for a trial separation.

After my birthday.

Uncomfortable truths

2010-10-20T14:11:00.004-05:00

She won't be my lover. I can't be her friend.

Essay #1

2010-10-13T09:11:00.002-05:00

Growing up my family went to church at Memorial Presbyterian, but Al Jarreau led Sunday school. My brothers and I would wake each morning to my dad’s stereo, permeating eager horns and mellow sax melodies through the walls. Soon the scent of bacon would draw us downstairs, where Will Downing blessed breakfast.

When music shares a day with God, it quickly becomes an institution in a young boy’s life. Music had a standing reservation in two rooms at our house. Across from the steps leading upstairs, my dad set up a small shrine to musical acoustics. The receiver, tape deck, and CD changer—accompanied in later years by XM radio and a seldom-used iPod—were connected by a series of cords carefully organized to never tangle. This audio command center was nestled in a wooden cabinet. When opened the scent of the wood adds warmth to the rich tones passing through the twin standing speakers.

But the true treasure was in the basement. My dad kept a receiver and turntable on the center of a built-in bookshelf. The setup rivals me in age, with a little more of the wicker cover peeling off the speaker faces with each knock of bass. This was my altar. And the six surrounding shelves held my gospel. Here I became a disciple of George Clinton. Here I became a student of Jimi Hendrix. Here I climbed the stairway to heaven with Led Zeppelin. The basement became my retreat at times of confusion. My musical ancestors stood on call, eager to offer guidance towards my understanding of the complex world around me.

Music never seemed to want to be left in the house. Family road trips weren’t complete if Michael and the Jackson 5 didn’t lead a sing-along. My mom would even invite Barry Manilow to share the songs that make the world sing. She contributed greatly to the diversity of my musical upbringing, introducing me to country music “because they tell such great stories.” The family van sported presets for Lite 102.9 pop hits and Power 98 hip-hop and R&B on the same radio face.

My brother Nigel’s radio only needed one radio preset, Magic 96.1. The Mamas & the Papas teamed up with Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, and Jimi Hendrix to provide a constant stream of oldies hits muffled through his closed door. I’m sure my parents accepted the volume issues and oft heard duet attempts in exchange for the Beatles’ afterschool lessons of “Let It Be” and “With A Little Help From My Friends.” My brother was the only kid I knew who was a flower child at age nine in 1998.

In 2005 I graduated from high school and edited music. My dad enforced a “No Parental Advisory” policy when I was in middle school, and that continued as an unspoken understanding until my senior year. Of course Nigel used this turning point to ditch the Wal-Mart discs too. Moving from classic oldies to classic rap, his two most prized possessions were The Marshall Mathers LP and Straight Outta Compton. That year I drove to school. Seven o’clock classes weren’t as hard to get through after Eazy E and Ice Cube reminded us that our voice mattered—and that there were much more serious things to get annoyed about. Later that year I met a new best friend. While I endured an early stint in the food service industry, Kanye West invited me on his “Spaceship” as he escaped a similar predicament at the GAP.

As I continued my academic pursuits to college, I was immersed in a bevy of musical enlightenment. Fondly known as “The Mecca” of Black American scholarship and culture, Howard University introduced me to my contemporaries from California to Lagos, Nigeria. Howard introduced me to the soul hiding beneath John Mayer’s pop persona and the extent of Jay-Z’s poetic mastery. My greatest electives were in the pros and cons of the go-go cover, the intricacies of Ace Boogie’s toe wop, the breadth of Philly soul, the pure kinetic energy of Louisiana zydeco, and the funk roots of Southern rap.

Recently I discovered Funkadelic’s “Maggot Brain.” During a ten-minute solo, Eddie Hazel bends riff and chord, a masterful manipulation of the electric guitar into a vehicle of human emotion. I sent a late night email to my dad, asking how the record had been missing from my musical education. I woke the next morning to an email notification on my phone:

“Well the album has been in the basement for years. Maybe I thought that it was a little deep for you, but it’s good to hear that you can appreciate it. I’ll burn a CD of the album and send it to you. It is a classic.”

In that simple paragraph, my dad summed up how far I’d come in my musical education and how much more there was to explore. It is comforting that there will always be music to discover. Answers to shine a light on a confusing life. Motown shaped my youth. No Doubt helped me through adolescent angst. Outkast led me into manhood. Who will be the voice that influences my next stage? What will be the score to my future?

It may be time to return to that basement altar. I haven’t been to Sunday school in awhile.

Hope Is Fading Fast

2009-11-24T12:29:00.000-06:00

3 a.m. Thoughts

2009-11-19T03:29:00.000-06:00

As Lauryn serenades me through what she thinks is my open memo assignment, I can't help but allow my thoughts to wander to the place thoughts go at 3 o'clock in the morning. Quick word to the wise: 5-hour Energy shots will keep you awake. They will not keep you focused.

Twenty-three is an odd age. You are leaving the age bracket that can claim youthful ignorance and zeal as legitimate excuses for misguided decisions. Still, what does one really know at this age? What lessons of adolescence prepare one to decide before he's reached a third of his years what he wants to do with the rest of them?

Luckily, one thing I did learn up to this point is that if you don't work, you don't eat. And as my man Bill Nunn once said, I'm trying to eat steak. However, thinking like that will land you in a place you don't belong, with people you don't know; or worse, people you don't like.

The iPod has directed me to the more melancholy Iron & Wine, and I apologize for the somber tone that is certain to flow out of this black Uni-ball. But maybe that's just how things are at twenty-three; you're up one moment, down the next. Shit, that's life.

I'm ten days into year twenty-four and I have more questions, dreams, desires, ideas, doubts, and loves than I do answers. Alas, I doubt any epiphanies are waiting on me tonight.

Until my next bout with life's insecurities, I'm back to working on getting that steak.

Love (cause there's not enough of it),
IGH

What President Obama thinks of Kanye West

2009-09-14T22:31:00.000-05:00