Change is underrated...

You know what I’m tired. As I sit at my computer, the noise of the keyboard beneath my hands creating a symphony of words that translate into the sentences you read - I am tired. Not physically tired. Not even emotionally tired; tired of the ever apparent stagnation that surrounds me. Why is it that so many things have changed in recent months, yet so much seems to have stayed the same. Obama gets into the White House on the promise of change and bipartisanship, yet nearly every Republican in the house objected his economic stimulus plan. HBOS just recently received £17 million from tax payers to ensure the bank’s survival but suddenly, due to their merger with the Lloyds Banking Group, another tax payer funded bail out is probably going to be needed. There's even another Friday the 13th movie being released (we've already had Halloween and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre)!

Seriously am I living in the Tardis where time and space continually repeat themselves in some annoying Central Perk feedback loop? Honestly, I liked Friends when it was on the first, second or even fifth time around but did that show not end like over four years ago – why is it still on TV? Wouldn’t any one who wanted to watch episodes for the 19th time already have the DVDs... why punish the rest of us with Monica and the rest running around like it's 1994 and no one of even the remotest hint of ethnicity lives in New York city? "Could it BE any more tiresome?"

Anyway, back to my point... I guess the big things don't change until you address the little things. Sick of Friends reruns - change the channel. Hate sloppy remakes of classic 70's slasher movies - don't buy a ticket. Sick of the banks getting tax payer's money - demand something is done differently. They say that one man (or woman) can make a difference. I don't agree with that and not just as it was said in reference to a guy who had been bitten by a radioactive spider, could walk up walls and shoot webbing from his wrists. I think it takes more than one person to make a difference, but it doesn't take more than one person to inspire the chain reaction that ultimately leads to a new path. The thing about change, real change, is it's a personal journey that can start with the most innocuous of choices. All it takes is the smallest decision to do something. A single action, reaction or moment of inaction can start us on a path to success, failure or indifference. For example a teenage Barack Obama decided to go to Chicago after college and become a community organiser, a small decision that has ultimately lead him to the White House.

So instead of bemoaning the current predicament, like I've been doing for the entirety of this piece, maybe we should be looking to effect positive change in our lives and the lives of those closest to us. In our attitudes, our shared experiences and our communities. Starting with an alternative ingredient to bring about a new end product... because change is progress and progress is truly living. Without progress we might as well all be seated in front of another Friends rerun for the 20th, 21st, 22nd time... Are they on a break, aren't they on a break - oh the suspense!

Who is he?

So I just got through reading Dreams From My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance written by President Obama. I don't think I need to tell any of you how good it was and if you haven't read it, get it on your book list without delay.

What I will say about it, is I don't think anyone has articulated the experience trying to unify two cultures as clearly as he. It made me think back to my youth. My experiences growing up and feeling like I didn't really belong in either of my cultures... so with my mind travelling back to my teenage years, I wrote my first poem in almost three years... here goes:

Who is he?

Who is he?
The son of of an African immigrant, that's what he calls himself,
comprised of elements of entities he barely understands.
A name with meanings he can no longer pluck from the memories of his lost heritage,
and a language who's words and tones leave him frozen, unsure of what direction he is being pointed.
Constantly searching for an answer to a question eve n more foreign to him than his place in this western world.
"Who am I really?"

Who is he?
The son of an African immigrant, that's what they call him,
In their eyes a swirling stereotype to be misunderstood and feared.
They see his walk as lacking in true purpose, yet so full of arrogance,
He's one of us through documentation only - a paper thin association.
"Who does he think he is? Really!"

Who is he? He's the son of an African immigrant.
As unsure of himself and his world is unsure of him.
Trying to unite two histories, just for the chance at one destiny,
terrified his fraudulent duality is one well placed question away from discovery.
Who is he? He's the son of an African immigrant.
Who is he?... He is me