Last Saturday, Derrick Rose tore the anterior cruciate ligament in his left leg (his ACL). To a sports fan, hearing the words “torn acl” is a surefire way to set off an emotional tornado. Blowing down arenas. Tearing down dreams. Sucking up memories and tossing them into the wind. It’s like the Wizard of Oz, only instead of being blown into a town full of munchkins, you and Toto are sent straight into the hoard of flying-monkeys. Yes, it’s that bad.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot since Saturday. I mean after I bawled my eyes out and took a nap. How could someone so gifted as Derrick Rose, the number one overall draft pick in 2008, the hometown hero, one of the most humble athletes to ever play the game, how could the ultimate “good guy” be struck with such bad luck?

“Something has to give,” I thought. “Something has GOT to f*cking give.” Because this was the guy that the Chicago Bulls had a 1.7% chance of drafting. He went from being a “great point guard” to the “NBA’s youngest MVP ever.” Someone who became the best and didn’t lose his head in the process; who solidified his hometown heroism by signing a long-term contract with the Bulls.

Today, Bulls shooting guard, Kyle Korver, surprised me with this:

“I read a really good book about the whole concept of story, and just about [how] most of us try to go through life trying to live the easiest life possible and the most comfortable life possible. If you look at that story at the end of the day, it’s not a story you want to read.” (Source )

A beginning, middle, and end. The protagonist and the antagonist. Something tells me that no matter how severe the injury is, no matter how many people say D. Rose won’t “ever be the same,” I still have to believe there will be a story. With Derrick Rose as our hero, and his torn acl as some evil force. And no. No fairy Godmothers who grant wishes, but instead a real mother who supports and encourages. Real brothers who observe and protect. No magic mice, but real fans who push aside the heartache because this is just as much their fight as it is his. And of course, a team of superheroes, who with their powers combined, call on the help of Captain Planet… I mean Coach Thibodeau.

Like I said, I’m not a sports writer. And this is not a sports article. So even when I should be thinking logically, even when the odds are really slim or the facts show another outcome, I am prone to dreaming about possibilities. I’m not saying sports writers are any different, I’m just admitting my weakness that is ”a good story.” Just as Kyle Korver explains, an easy story is never one you’d like to read. Derrick Rose is definitely in for a 500+ page, novel of a narrative, but we’ll all be here reading every word. A protagonist like him is worthy of an epic tale anyway.

Over the past months, maybe even year, it’s been very difficult for me to put my feelings into words. And it hasn’t just been “a bad case of writer’s block.” Not just a wall. Not simply a slump. It has been, in fact, some weird, impenetrable energy field that I could not pass through or even touch. I could only see through its clear, honey-comb patterns, and I know this is starting to sound like a tripped-out episode of R.L. Stine’s “Goosebumps” but honestly, this is what I have pictured. This has been my nightmare.

I am on one side, and my words are on the other. They stare at me. Every spelled out word has a face. But not in a sense that every word has a matching image to define them. They instead have actual human faces that express their meaning within the context of the human condition. (Yes, I know. Even weirder.) So I just stand there watching them cry, sit bored and alone. Some have jubilees, and some play games. I do nothing but live. “I live my life, words, and you live yours.”

I can’t exactly say which demon trumped me and my will to write. All I know is that I lost myself internally while keeping track of myself externally. And when I say lost, I mean driving-onto-the-Chicago-highway-system-for-the-first-time type of lost. Believe me, it can be terrifying.

So in an attempt to save myself, I dived into the questions: ” Why do I lack motivation? Why am I ignoring emotion? Why do the pen, paper, or computer screen become lackluster after years of obsession and dependence? I was actively trying to find something that had never left. Something, as I’d mentioned earlier, that I was already staring at, point blank, but not really seeing.

Looking for inspiration. Worrying about a career. Fighting industry image. The frightening fact that people who do not believe in poetry, who do not believe in the art of soul and soul of art, the fact that these people do not believe in me, or us as one artistic body. These were the things blocking my heart from speaking, squeezing it only to pump blood when it saw fit. Nourishing the logic, while the malnourished imagination quivers in a corner, thin, brittle, and scared.

And I was scared. Because writing changed my life in ways that even my long-winded, incredibly insightful mother cannot describe. To know it was the end, was to end up knowing nothing at all, but the meaningless tasks of everyday life…

“Meaningless tasks of everyday life.”
“Meaningless. Tasks. Of everyday life.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I was a teenager, it’s that knowing yourself means knowing your fears like a best friend, maybe even better. I was afraid of becoming nothing, and in my attempt to float above this “nothingness” I had forgotten everything that makes me feel like I have 1 million somethings tied up together in a convenient, travel-sized bundle.

My life is poetry, whether dull or boring, when I’m at a desk, during my morning commute, during my evening commute, while I speak to my mother, when I joke with my father, when I attend a wake, when I lay next to my partner, when I babysit my nieces and read them books about zoo animals, when watch comedy shows with my sister, when I play zombie video games with my brother, when I’m putting on make up or brushing my hair or trying to write a blog for people I may never meet.

I stopped writing because I thought, in a very naive “adult” sense, that I must grow up, when, ironically, I’ve grown more through writing than I ever have doing anything else.

I make my coffee: an extra strong brew that will last me maybe an hour at work, tops. Walking downstairs, I hear random noise from outside but it doesn’t matter. At 7:30 a.m, my eyes are barely open and everything sounds like the grown-ups in those Peanuts cartoons: “Womp, womp womp.”

I put my coffee down and look for my shoes, grabbing random heels. This is like an adult game of “match the cards.” I’m too lazy to turn on the light because, well… I’m not sure, actually. I finally find the right pair,  sit on the third step of my staircase, and put them on. More noise.

I reach for the door knob but forget that the door is still locked (a daily habit). I open it and look over my shoulder to say good bye to my mom. She tells me to bring a lunch. I decline, “I do NOT want to bring fried fish to the office because it stin-…” Mid-sentence I turn back around to face the driveway.

Two eyes that are neither alive nor dead, one barely inside of its socket, and the other not staring at me but looking through me–there’s a difference. Flesh the color of a gloomy Chicago overcast with botches of decomposition, like little pools of contaminated waste burrowed into the skin. Blood that is black. Hair that is stringy, loose, and thin. Decayed teeth, red bits stuck between them, and lips that seriously need a tub full of carmex. One mouth that does not speak, does not breathe. A mouth that looks like it’s ready to gnaw the hell out of my bones, much like Cujo did to his little farm family. Looks like I’m calling in sick today. *Closes door*

—-

This is the stuff I think about now and then. Okay, I think about it more often than I should but what else am I supposed to do when the monotonous tasks of everyday life turn me into a… zombie. (How ironic.)

I love zombies. Zombie movies, cartoons, books, video games–whatever imparts knowledge on me regarding the zombie topic, I receive with an open mind and thirsty imagination. If you know me, then you’re probably already aware of my so-called “obsession,” which to me seems to have a derogatory connotation. I see it as a “profound interest,” an interest that was brought upon by my love for scary things in general.

I adore the horror genre, and horror flicks are my thing.  I’m not its “go-to” expert but I enjoy watching them. From the Exorcist (pretty much traumatized me from 3rd grade to 5th) to Halloween (one of my top 10 favorite movies of all time), I relish it all. But why zombies? What the hell is so “obsessive” about them?

I grew up with my sister, Lorraine, and my brother, Allen. Lorraine was about 16-17, while my brother was a little dweeb around 10-11. (When’s the last time you heard the word, dweeb, right?) Because I was insistent on being like them, because my parents entrusted me so many times to the loving care of my older siblings, and because I was “Abet,” I watched whatever movies they watched on any given day.

There was Night of the Living Dead by George A. Romero: a classic black and white movie, with that opening scene of a naive couple at the cemetery. Pet Sematary, which wasn’t exactly a zombie movie but there was that dead 2-year-old who could definitely pass for one. Evil Dead, which was super gory and hilariously gross.  Despite the fact that I was too young to see them, each movie was just as entertaining as Disney’s “The Little Mermaid.”

In the mid-nineties, Japan introduced us totally awesome 80s kids to the PlayStation. In 1996 a, now timeless, zombie video game was released. “Resident… Evil.” I can still hear that demonic voice from our old TV. My brother and his friend, Randy, sat in front while I cowered in the back by our couch. The game was set in an old-fashioned mansion, with fancy carvings, wooden interior, twisting hallways, and secret doors. I remember our eyes traveling down that first dark hallway. Walk, walk, walk, BAM–zombie eating a cop.

From that point on, it was no holds barred. I was sucked into this apocalyptic world where zombies could take over at anytime, given there was some crazy biological outbreak of an unknown strain of virus, or a day of judgment when all the dead came to life. How it happens wouldn’t really matter. What would matter is how you’d stay alive.

Any zombie fan knows the basic rules: “To kill a zombie, take off its head.” “When you get bitten, you become one.” “Where there is one zombie, there are others.” “Don’t make loud noises, it will attract a horde.” And I won’t go into details because almost every imagination has its own version of what a zombie is: slow and wobbly; fast and agile; running zombies; walking zombies; zombie animals.

What’s even more interesting is that zombies are people. They are, or once were, humans.  They could be your neighbors, the cashiers at Wal-Mart, the hot guys at the mall,  coworkers, or more frighteningly so, your own family and friends. And I think this is where the “obsession” really takes root. Not so much that a flesh-eating monster is chasing you, but that you once told this thing, “I love you.”

If you’re like me, you’re into a series called “The Walking Dead,” which returns on February 12th by the way. What I especially like about this show (besides the grotesque hordes of zombies) is not only its focus on the relationships among the survivors, but also between survivors and the living dead. I hear plenty of people complaining about the series, “Come on, get to the zombie killing already!” But honestly, I’d rather the director spend time highlighting the humanity of the genre than just the horror alone. (If you want nonstop zombie killing, I suggest you watch a B-grade movie, which are made for gore and blood seekers like you.)

That humanity is by far the best part about this genre. The fact that one day you’re a regular person on her way to work, and the next you’re a certified zombie killer, equipped with knives, shovels, an ax, anything to keep you from dying a horrible flesh-eating death. From corporate slave to zombie-slaying badass. That, my friends, is one hell of a dream.

I grew up in a multigenerational household. There was always extended family staying with us, whether it was for a few months or for a few years. My mom and dad came to the United States in 1973. In 1980, my grandparents (on my mom’s side) came to live with us. My lola (Filipino for grandma) passed away in 1989, about two years after I was born. I never got a chance to meet her, although my mom tells me stories all the time. I’ve come to believe I inherited her “spunk.”

While my grandparents (on my dad’s side) stayed with us for a few years, Lolo Tirso (“lolo” Filipino for grandpa) would take care of me and my brother for the remaining years of our childhood. At that time, my sister was already a teenager (teased hair and all), so she went along with her “independent” ways. My dad worked as a doctor, and my mom, a former nurse, would take care of us at home. After my lola died, she decided to take care of us full-time, a blessing/luxury I will never overlook.

Still, Lolo Tirso was our  favorite babysitter. We both slept in his room as kids–first my brother, then when he got older, me instead. We had a toy box in the corner of his room next to his closet. It was filled with randomness that I still miss to this day: Matchbox cars, my Glow Worm, Barbies, loose crayon nubs, Dr. Seuss books. Whenever Lolo took care of us, he made dinner. It was always rice and one of the following: bacon, eggs,  spam, with ramen soup on the side. If we were lucky, he’d cook a batch of french fries. “Better than McDonald!” he’d tell us. I tried hard to believe him. (Nothing could beat a Happy Meal.)

As I got older, so did Lolo. He still had muscles, but they were wrinkled and deflated. He went from using a fashionable looking wooden cane to a walker, and later on, a wheel chair. He was strong man. I could see him in our garden cutting wood with his old school saw (no power tools allowed). Our book shelves downstairs? He made them. He was a talented carpenter, among other things.

When I was 13, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Given his age at the time (90) the doctors decided not to go through with any extensive treatment. I was heart broken, we all were. Before he was diagnosed, my family and I saw my Lolo fight his age. “Abet! Allen!” literally every 15 minutes, just so he could see our faces. That playroom–filled with toys, blankets for fort-making, crayons and paper–became almost like a hospital room.

At night, Lolo would try to walk to his bathroom. Three in the morning before school, I hear a BOOM from upstairs. He couldn’t make it down the hallway anymore, not without our help. And so we took care of him, bringing meals, giving baths, making sure he knew he was still our Lolo no matter what. Even if he didn’t have the strength to carry us anymore, we would be more than happy to carry him.

When he died, I didn’t understand how I felt. My mom was frantic, and a few hours later, I’d walk into his hospice room with her crying, “Tay? Tay…” Filipino for dad. Of course I cried too. I broke down with my brother in the bathroom. Some people lose friends, siblings, children, or parents early on in life. I lost my grandfather.

I still sleep in my Lolo Tirso’s room with our beds positioned the same. My book shelf across from my bed, in the same spot where he kept his clothes and toiletries in his dresser. In the corner where my toy box was, I keep extra blankets and pillows. The only difference is my desk, which sits in front of our window where his navy blue recliner used to be.

His room is still the sunniest in the house, and although I have new furniture and paint on the walls, it’s still the same room. The sunlight hits where it used to 31 years ago when my grandparents moved in. The trees, though larger now, still cast shadows on our carpet floor. The street light still peaks through the curtains the same way it used to when I was four years old, playing in his room as he listened to me sing. Watching my eyes droop until I finally fell asleep. (R.I.P. Tirso Laborete, 1911-2001.)

– edit –

I’m not sure what suddenly inspired me to write this blog, but I am thankful. Like many of my second-generation Filipino American friends, I grew up with my grandparents living in the same house as me. My grandmother on my dad’s side, Lola Priming, is still alive and well in New Jersey. She lives with my cousins, who also grew up with both her and my grandfather, Lolo Doming, (R.I.P.). As I said, my Lola Euphemia (R.I.P.) passed away when I was only a baby, so unfortunately I never got a chance to know her.

In our culture, “Respect Your Elders” isn’t as much an adage as it is a way of life. Don’t get me wrong, I had major attitude spurts when I was younger, but it was still a value that was constantly engraved into my mind. I encourage everyone to share stories of their parents, grandparents, older aunts and uncles. I would love to hear the wisdom that they’ve passed along to you. Believe me, I could (we all could) use it.

- Abet

]]> http://abetspeaks.com/2012/01/25/his-room-my-room/feed/ 0 lolo abetspeaks http://abetspeaks.com/2012/01/11/dear-reader/ http://abetspeaks.com/2012/01/11/dear-reader/#comments Wed, 11 Jan 2012 07:59:29 +0000 Abet Speaks http://abetspeaks.com/?p=432 Continue reading »]]> Why are you so wonderful? No really

I once read something out of a college literary book. (Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name. I promise to figure it out sooner or later.)  In the back, there were letters and essays from different authors: what to do; what not to do; reasons why young writers should follow guidelines, and many other reasons why they should not. The advice was insightful, despite confusion on whether or not I should take it. But one piece stood out from the rest: that the reader is just as much a part of the story as the characters in it.

You are the most important part of my writing experience. You take my words and spin them, intertwine them into the unique fabric of your mind. The fabric grows with time,  as if patches of knowledge, creativity and inspiration are being sewed together by hand. Maybe “Superwoman & Vulnerabilities” is stitched to another one of your favorite poems or songs? So a quilt is made, one with patterns that only you can imagine. Your interpretation is your own, and nobody, not one scholar or up-tight college student can truly mimic how you feel once you read the words off the page, or screen, or book.

I just wanted to show my appreciation. For allowing me a place in your mind, whether it be good or bad. As John Franzen said:

The reader is a friend, not an adversary, not a spectator.

My dear friends: thank you. (Here, a hand written note from me to you.  - Abet)

Today I woke up at 8:30 AM.  Not at all missing my nine-to-five, I took advantage of my time and put it to use by spooning garlic fried rice and egg into my mouth.  Strong cup of coffee, a must. The garlic breath, could have done without.

Usually the coffee does it for me. I get jittery. I feel my insides churning ( TMI?).  Today though, I looked out the window and stared at the overcast sky like it was a hairy wart on a gorgeous woman’s cheek. I knew it was just one tiny flaw on the face of life, but I couldn’t help but feel its gray clouds surrounding me. The blob of laziness wanted to eat me, digest my productivity until about 3 or 4 PM.

So I decided to do what any other philosophical genius would. I Googled “Inspiration.”

What do you do when you don’t know the answers to your homework? Google it. How do I get to the nearest liquor store when my bus breaks down in the middle of nowhere? (True Story) Google it. What do I do when the day is about as promising as a box of fiber oats? Google it—whatever “it” may be.

It might seem desperate but don’t make too much of what it really is. I promise you: life is not as bad as it seems. But seeing how the Internet has taken so much of my time with its viral YouTube videos (rap parodies, sneezing pandas, laughing babies, etc.)  I think I deserved something in return.

“Inspiration Software, Inc.”

“Free 30 Day Trials | Inspiration.com”

“Inspiration  – Comprehend. Create. Communicate. Achieve More.”

I was pretty overwhelmed. I mean, I would have loved a free 30-day trial of Inspiration but instead of playing favorites, I perused the whole gamut of inspirational  findings.

I started with the scientific approach:

“Inspiration may refer to: Artistic inspiration, sudden creativity in artistic production; Biblical inspiration, the doctrine in Judeo-Christian theology …” – Wikipedia.

After a generalized idea of what I was looking for, I moved on to visual aesthetics. People jumping toward the sky, glowing orbs of light, and Photoshopped graphic quotes. By far, the best image I came across was the smiling face of once-American Idol hopeful, William Hung.

After my dose of inspirational eye-candy, I checked out the news. The first story on the Google page was about Rory McIlroy who, if you don’t know, is the charming 22-year-old from Northern Ireland who won the 2011 U.S. Open on Sunday. He has nice eyes.

Then of course, there are the “Inspirational Quotes.” Save me the Walt Whitman, I found one or two worthy of my mental lockbox:

“When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced.
Live your life so that when you die,
the world cries and you rejoice.”

-       Cherokee Expression

“If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.”

-       David Carradine

I caught myself listening to “You’re the Inspiration” by Chicago a couple times.  There may be some motivational videos you might enjoy, ones that I purposely missed because I was still partaking in my own mid-day Karaoke session.

I ended my digital retreat by browsing the “Shopping” category, through which I had found the ultimate motivational pick-me-up: Young Jeezy – The Inspiration: Thug Motivation CD.

After my thirty minutes or so of research, I learned a vital lesson:  Google can suck sometimes, and the “search for inspiration” was not its strong point. Although, by the time I was done, I did notice the overcast clear up a little. Sun light peaked through the leaves on the tree outside my window.

Maybe the all-knowing internet was trying to teach me a lesson. You might not instantly find  inspiration when you search for it, but the process itself might teach you a thing or two. Like how a 22-year-old golfer can crash and burn in one tournament, then make a record-breaking win in the next. Or how you should “be the poem” if you can’t be “the poet,” whatever that might mean.

Today I googled “Inspiration,” and unknowingly came up with a blog–not to mention,  a really cool picture of William Hung.

- Abet Speaks

then you’re doing it for the wrong reason.

The beauty of self-expression is the “self,” which a lot of people might relate to, but certainly not always agree with. As soon as you compromise the “self” in order to please the masses, then you’ve already begun your descent down a hole of shoulda, coulda, wouldas.

“I should’ve done what I really wanted.” Or “I could’ve just kept it real and avoided this mess.” “Had I known things would end up this way, I would’ve just beenmyself.”

There are plenty of people who become famous by adhering to a long list of “Dos and Don’ts,” but for how long?

If you take a look at pop culture, you’d see that every legend is labeled as such because that person embraced who she was. That quirky behavior, or that “funny way of dressing.” Those things that a lot of people hated at first, became the very same things that people eventually embraced as “cool.” (It’s ironic but that’s usually what happens.) Legends aren’t afraid to be different. Because they love what they do too much to care.

Now it doesn’t happen overnight. You could be putting out your sh*t for years, maybe even decades, and still not catch a break. That doesn’t mean it won’t happen. People often forget that this ain’t Disney: dreams aren’t granted by talking crickets or overweight fairy godmothers. Perseverance is usually your #1 source for dream-making. (Not even wishing on a damn airplane will do it for you. Sorry, I had to say it. Lol.)

The motive behind your art pretty much defines the art itself. Are you doing it to become popular? Are you doing it just to make money? Are you doing it because x-amount of people are digging that sorta thing and you’d feel lame if didn’t jump on the bandwagon?

I’m not trying to hate on anybody. And if I offend anybody, well that’s a different story. What I’m trying to say is it’s okay if you’re doing something as a hobby, or as a form of relaxation. But don’t expect a lot of long-term gratification if you’re just doing it to get attention. (If you’re doing it for the short-term grats, then I guess: knock yourself out.)

There are some people out there who give up their lives for what they do. Who love their trade so much, that they will meticulously tear a part their work for days on end, just so that they could express even a fragment of who they are in their work.

To them, hearing that someone is doing _____ just so he or she can be labeled as a _______er is like hearing ten rusty ol’ rakes being dragged across a hundred black boards.

When you’re passionate about something, haters become mice. And their bitching becomes incoherant squeaking that you only pay attention to because you think it’s cute. When you’re messing around, haters become an even bigger threat than a 7.3 earthquake. And that, to me, is the biggest difference.

Originally posted on Tumblr

If I had a dollar for every time I heard an uncle or aunt say, “Marry a doctor,” I’d have at least 50 bucks.

When I was in high school, I did something stupid: I told my parents I wanted to go to med school. Little did I know, I’d ignite a flame of false hope in their minds that would last long past junior year.

“But remember that time you worked at the Nursing Home? And you said that you’d become a doctor so that nurses couldn’t boss you around?”

Yes. I was also 17, taking 5 AP classes. I had no idea where I’d be in 5 years.

Soon college was filled with elderly advice like:

“Why don’t you become a Doctor. There are always jobs… No? Well then you should find a doctor to marry, so you’ll be stable.”

WAIT. When did marriage ever become an issue? I was just trying to finish undergrad and cop my bachelor’s degree.  I had no idea a wedding veil was hovering over my head. Let’s back it up (like a U-haul truck, quote Jigga).

I’ve dated quite a few men. From all walks of life, all different races. And yes, one of them was a med-school student. (To all the homies: No, you don’t know him.) I’ll spare you (and him) any details that might take away from his anonymity.

He was pretty handsome with a gorgeous smile. He seemed nice and had a respectable family. I thought, “Wow, a man who has his sh*t together. Plus he’s med-school bound? Interesting.” So I gave him a shot.

Fast foward a couple weeks and we’re on our first date. Unfortunately, it also becomes our last.

Bad dates can teach you a thing or two about life. For instance: “Marrying a doctor” won’t do sh*t for you unless that person is more than just a “respectable” façade.

Sure, professions mean a lot in the real world. We’re taught that doctors, lawyers, accountants are all “respectable” careers. That they earn what they deserve because they go through the intense coursework to get there. I completely agree (and I’m still considering Law School).

But that’s a profession. That’s what you do. What you do will never define who you are. Even for me, writing does not make me who I am. Who I am makes me a writer.

Just because homeboy wanted to be a doctor didn’t make him “respectable.” It sure as hell didn’t make him respect me. In fact, I almost felt like he used that as an excuse to get fresh and use me. At which point I thought, “Motherf*cker I am NOT your anatomy project.”

Let’s get this straight. I know plenty of  respectable men who just happen to be doctors, lawyers, etc. in the making. But they’re not good people because of their ambitions. They’re just good people.

I’m not naive. I know that one day, when I get married I’m going to want a man who can pull his own weight. I have no shame in becoming the bread-winner, but marrying someone without goals is a big hell no. This is not a manifesto for dead-beats.

If he has a passion for cooking, cleaning, inventing, playing ball, being a nanny, whatever, I’m okay with that. And I say that whole-heartedly without any fake doe-eyed sense of, “But I love him, Mama!” Just as long as he has passion to become somebody, we’ll be fine.

My mom once told me to use both my heart and my head when choosing a husband: “Marry someone who you love, but remember: stability.” Stability? If by stability she meant marrying someone who respects me, takes care of me, and understands the meaning of “you reap what you sow,” I’m all in. But if stability means marrying someone who’ll use their education and career as an excuse to f*ck around, I’m out.

Either way, I plan on making enough dough by myself. Stability? Done and done.

The 43-year-old hip hop legend passed away on Monday after succumbing to a long battle with cancer. After his surgery last February, I was hoping that he’d hang on for a while longer.  I remember my sigh of relief after learning that the rumors of his death two months ago (mostly via Twitter, go figure) were untrue.

Thinking back on those particular tweets  (“RIP Guru”, Gang Starr videos, classic Guru lines), all of this seems pretty surreal.  Today I saw those same 140 characters, only I didn’t have a verified source to tell me it was just Twitter gossip.  ”So he really did pass away?” Yeah, he did. CNN, MTV, and a million other mourning fans made that all too clear.

Now that Guru is gone, I  can pay my final respects to one of the greatest voices in Hip Hop. One that, even in an ever-evolving culture, will never go unheard. “Gifted Unlimited Rhymes Universal,” your name lives on.

R.I.P. Keith Elam aka Guru (July 17, 1966 – April 19, 2010)

- Abet Speaks

Kids, never sell your souls for “Mass Appeal.”

I’m not saying that their influence wasn’t enough, but as I got older so did my interests.  I started to delve deeper into my love of language. The further I fell for the arts, the more I felt alone.

My mom was a nurse, and while she had this God-given oratorical gift (I experienced it every day),  I couldn’t ask her how I could write this article or line-break that poem.  My sister was the same deal.  Her expertise was the sciences. To this day, I still brag about how she majored in biomedical engineering. I never even took calculus. (True story.)

It was difficult for me to focus on what I loved to do when I didn’t have anybody to show me what I could become. So I started looking.

On my quest to find women I could “model myself after,” I read books. I read one biography after the next, studying how they walked, jumped, or crawled from point A to point B, maybe Z. Elizabeth Bishop was one of them. I learned how, despite the small amount of work she published, she’d go on to become one of the most influential contemporary poets of our time.  I read about Gwendolyn Brooks,  another amazing poet, who by the way grew up in Chicago (represent). I read about Jill Scott, who despite her success as a singer, had started out as a spoken word artist working miscellaneous jobs on her way to the top. I even started to look up to my “Intro to Poetry” teacher, Professor Harrington, who although scared me sh*tless during my first week of class, was instrumental to my progress as a writer.

As I began to grow as an artist,  I’d come to know not only female role models, but female role models who were Filipino-American and Asian American as well. Some of them I’d met through shows I’d done. Others I’d come across via Twitter or other social-networking sites. They were artists who worked hard every day to make a voice for themselves, whether through song, dance, and yes, spoken-word. I discovered Fil-Am women who were journalists (“Hello?!)”, and Fil-Am women who were rappers (Double, “hello?!”). I even started to look up to some of my best friends:  future doctors, fashion designers,  lawyers, pharmacists, nurses, social workers… I see you.

In the end, that extra “umph” that I’d searched for toward the latter half of my life was there all along. I didn’t need to look “to the stars” or open up a magazine to find it. These extraordinary and many times “every day” women became the supplementary aides to the already existing guides-to-life known as Lorraine and Norma. Women who weren’t exactly like me, but who were exactly the right people I needed to know in order to build my self-esteem and see my self-worth.

Today, I added yet another woman to that list:  Tina Chang, Brooklyn’s new poet laureate.  (Check her out here.) After reading the New York Times profile about her, I decided to stay up until 3 a.m. to write. Be sure to shoot her an email if you’ve enjoyed reading  my post so far.

Somewhere there’s a girl who’s just as confused as I was. With “gifted” scribbled on her forehead, but an excuse to give up blocking her reflection. Maybe I can be that role model to convince her not to.

- Abet Speaks