God gave Noah the rainbow sign, no more water, the fire next time~

Well, yesterday was hot, like it was next time.  But today was cold, a cold whose wind sears through your yesterday’s tank top and sandals and tightens your skin.  Catching you off guard and unprepared, making you wonder, ‘Damn, why is it so cold today? Whats happening, am I not in Africa?’  A cold that can only be described as, ‘Africa Cold.’

A cold like early fall in Montana.  After too many days of an Indian summer, with nothing but midges and pseudos and overwhelming terrestrial patterns left on the luke-warm rivers.  When the first blue-winged olives hatch and a single Hecuba ignites the ancient instinct of cutthroat that must have been painted in heaven.  A cold like a perfect day of fall fly fishing in Montana.

Today I wished I was back in Montana.

A week ago I sat on a couple cinder blocks, stacked the best way I could stack them to have an even seat.  I ripped a grease stained Roman’s Pizza box in half and gave the top to my friend so we could both have a cushion and keep our pants clean.  We sat on our blocks and talked about our histories and current lives.  We were on the side of the street just outside his cement Lego-block of a shop where he fixes cellphones and sells electronic accessories. Two sketchy, visibly neglected young men with hollow faces, shaky legs, holey clothes and tiny shoes approached us and tried to sell us ‘cool-times.’  They had clearly bought them in the grocery store at the crossing and were trying to flip them quick to a white guy and his ‘must-also-be-rich’ friend.  They were dumb, high and clumsy and my friend wasn’t going to entertain them so he shooed them away.  “Nyaope guys,” we both sighed to each other after they spun across the street.

You know? you’re not going to be able to change them, brotha..

I know, you want me to stop trying?

No, I don’t mean stop trying… but seriously, why are you even trying?

I’m trying so that maybe their parents or siblings or children can see that I’m trying, and maybe get some hope or assurance that somebody in this damn town cares about them.

Ok, brotha, I get you..

Why shouldn’t I beat the rot of homesickness and throw myself at impossible challenges?  Challenges that people talk about, but nobody does anything.  Why can’t I want to be the next Gandhi?  If we do not dare everything, to change the world, whose to say that old slave song about ‘the great flood’ is only a child’s warning?

Today I choose Jane Furse over Montana.  I choose this place not unlike millions of other stuck, miserable hoods overtaken by taverns and drugs, exhaust fumes and burning garbage heaps.  Invaded by low-level thieves and professional crooks.  Called home by smart and beautiful people who keep tidy yards and cleaner consciences.  Played in and laughed in by innocent children who think all schools and soccer fields are surrounded by razor-link fence and broken glass.  Sure, I could choose Montana and help people there too, I like to think I used to.  But if I’m going to dare everything, how could I?

How could I escape with privilege back into comfort, possibilities and freedom?  Back into a life which thinks that prevention most righteous.  A life that is twisted into prioritizing unknown lives as if it is possible.  If I’ve affirmed any belief of mine, it is that people are people no matter where they are, we all do the best we can with what we have, and none of us are equal.  How could I leave?  When others cannot.

Brotha, I’ve lived here a long time and.. you really care too much about this place.

Do I care too much? How could I care too much about people, man?

I don’t know, but you’re going to get to let down.

Yeah? I’ll feel that when it happens, I’m going home man, see you tomorrow.