First a little about me.
I was born in 1966, in Toledo, Ohio, to Steve J. Fullwood and Elaine E. Houston. My father was what you call an "escaped Southerner.” About two weeks after graduating high school, my then 17-year old father packed his gladrags and left rural Arkansas on route to urban California, but made a stop in Toledo to visit relatives. While there, he helped formulate a short-lived gospel trio called the Horns of Zion, and they performed in parts of Michigan, Illinois and Ohio and even had the good fortune to cut a record.
One fateful night, he met my mother at a party. She liked him, he liked her. Later she told me that she married Dad in order to move out of her parent's house. She loved him, no doubt, but she was percolating to commence her adult life. The young couple was married and six years later I came into the world--a bisque colored ball of hair with a big assed crying mouth. From what I was told, it was one rough ride outta momma's belly and into the hospital bed, and from the hospital bed to 1043 Campbell Street where my sisters, Cynthia and Karen, were waiting and were more than happy to give me something to cry about.
I was the first boy of two; Darryl came along two years later, a Christmas baby. I am also the third of five children (add baby girl Pamala.) Everything you've heard about middle children, the supposed anonymous ones, is totally true: we want attention. We crave it. And we often get it. I struggled through my entire childhood for the attention.
Discovering early on that I could read, write, draw and dance with some ease, I used my skills to impress anyone who happened to be around. Apparently it worked because people often gave me a look-see, and my aunt affectionately dubbed me "genius." I lapped the attention up like a dog. In the kindergarten, I could write in cursive and received a trophy for my talents.
It should have been an Oscar, onna count of all the acting out I did when my younger brother broke my precious trophy. I kept up the antics most of the time. Reading aloud impressed everybody. My grades were good, and I was considered a good student--with a smart-assed mouth. When I couldn't impress folks with my academic skills, I stunned them with my true-to-life portraits. If that didn't work, I broke and worked my improvisational dance skills. And who can resist a dancing kid? Anything Michael Jackson could do, I could do. If all else failed, I resorted to whining. Needless to say, I was a performer.
Fast forward to 2004. Not much has changed really. Everything I did a child I do now. I currently make a living as a librarian, a freelance writer, a business owner and consultant. Occasionally, I dance and sing (and I'm incredible, don't you know?), but mainly for my own gratification. I absolutely love what I do, and feel a sense of accomplishment being able to do it with a modicum of talent.
As I continue doing my work, I sometimes find myself thinking about that young precocious boy. I am the product of all his passions, delights, rage and anxiousness, wicked and otherwise. And just beyond tomorrow's horizon lies another me waiting to be born.
The man I see ahead of me is a little more relaxed and humble—and gray. He writes from the center of his soul. He contributes to the world unselfishly. He loves unconditionally. I can see him, I touch him, and I smell him. He sits reading in his rocking chair, smiling.
Now, a little about how I love. (for L).
I love like the world is going to end.
I love when my heart is breaking. And it breaks easily.
I love being in love and I love being single because either way I win. Either way, I am going to love.
I love without regret because I don’t expect you to love me back. I want you to, but if you don’t, there’s nothing I am willing to do to make you. Love is best experienced free.
I love without trying to be impressive. What I like about myself is enough for me.
I love because I know how valuable it is. I love it because it heals me and the world. Hate is cool, but love is where it’s at.
I love because in this world, the alternative to it is feeing dead. And I know the difference between feeling alive and feeling dead. Been there, don’t want that.
I love because I loved so stingily when I was young. I thought you had to love me back for it to be right. I was wrong.
I love because my mother is dead and she went to her grave knowing how much I loved her and I am eternally grateful because I told her so. While she lay dying I held her hand and told these words: “we will always have a connection, regardless.” She taught to lead with my heart. I do.
I love like strong horse tea.
I love because every bone in my body says do it no matter how they treat me, no matter how bad I feel, no matter how worn out I am, no matter how ridiculous I feel…
I love because after seeing how people treat each other like shit on a daily basis, I know I can do and be better than that. Why be nasty? Why be intolerant? Why be cold? Because you ain’t getting no love? Tsk, tsk.
And so I love. Madly. Forever. With or without you.
Love you.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004 @ 09:54 PM