**Lots of profanity in this post. Not my fault. Hormones. Viewer discretion is advised. (...Ma.)
com·pas·sion (kəm-pāsh'ən)
n. Deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it. (See Synonyms at pity.)
—Synonyms 1. commiseration, mercy, tenderness, heart, clemency. See sympathy.
—Antonyms 1. mercilessness, indifference.
"Have a little compassion! Sometimes a nigga just needs a hug." - My ex-fiance
"You don't care, do you? You really don't. Can you just at least ACT like you?" - Yet another Ex
"Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." - Carl
I am not Mr. T, because Mr. T was a pussy.
I saw beyond all that pseudo angry black man bullshit...looked past the fro-hawk and the truck jewelry, and paid attention to what he said. He pretty much called himself a bitch weekly for all of America to hear, and if you paid close attention...you knew that there was NO reason to fret. One phrase in particular melted any sort of intimidation from my pre-teen "A-Team" loving heart.
"I pity the fool...(insert reason why said "fool" is pitied here.)"
(Teeth suck.)
Look.
What angry black man you know (and I don't know about you, but I know plenty) let his crew drug him up on a regular basis to get his bitch ass on a plane? An angry black man don't give a fuck about getting on a plane, and let's just say he did. The minute he woke up, he'd commence to ass kickin. He would knock his boy Murdock right the fuck out because that was the only dude who came close to his pork rinds or whateverthefuck.
But not B.A.
He'd wake up in Cambodia and say some shit like ..."Where am I?"
Then, before he got too riled up, George Peppard would blow smoke out of his cigar and cooly say "Nevermind that. Here's a blow torch...we've got a bridge to build." (And by the way, the whole "drug the negro, drag him across the world and make him build shit" thing didn't sit right with me either...but I'm not going there. Not in this post anyway.)
Anyway, so then, while he's building the bridge or whateverthefuck, here comes a little Cambodian girl who smiles and hands him a hammer or whateverthefuck. B.A.'s heart melts...and now, for the next 40 minutes, he's trying to breast feed little Sim Leh or whateverthefuck her name is and...
Wait a second. Hold up. I'm getting way off track.
Here's my point.
Mr.T constantly said he'd "pity", right?
"Pity", is synonymous with "compassion".
And I'm lacking in that department.
And, (so I've been told), this is a problem.
Because when one lacks compassion, one is automatically labeled other things...
1. Bitch (in a "Devil Wears Prada" kinda way)
2. Mean
3. Cold
Which, I think is unfair. Because we don't label those with abundant compassion;
1. Bleeding Heart Pussies
2. Bitch (in a "Jack" from "Will And Grace" kinda way)
3. Mr. T
No. Noooooooooo. Of course not.
Look.
I was raised in a household where the mantra was ...
"..Oh well. What do you want me to do about that?"
Two hard working parents, four kids, one missing paycheck away from "Good Times" and no time to be kissing boo-boo's.
Insert any scenario where most kids would get some "compassion" and I'll tell you what we got.
Scenario 1: You were riding your bike. You fall...on concrete.
Most kids - Run home to Mom...crying hysterically. Mom hugs, kisses the boo-boo, makes your favorite lunch to calm you down.
Loretta's kids - Inspect the cut and make an informed decision as to what your next step will be, in an effort to prempt any scolding. Ask yourself, how bad is this cut? Will I live? Will it bleed through my clothes, and if so, do I need to go home and get a band-aid so that I don't mess up perfectly good playclothes? If not too bad, continue playing. If bad, (is she sleeping?)...quietly..QUIETLY..come back into the house (ALONE. DON'T YOU BRING THE NEIGHBORHOOD!) ...pull out the Hydrogen Peroxide and the cotton. Fix yourself up, head back out..QUIETLY.
Scenario 2: You were supposed to take out the garbage. You didn't.
Most kids - The garbage has been taken out while they were out playing and they've gotten a lengthy lecture on responsibility.
Loretta's kids - Walk into the apartment from playing, and no one in the house makes eye contact. Upon entering the bedroom, you notice the garbage...which is on your bed.
Now don't get me wrong. I've got LOADS of compassion for the big things.
You lost your job? Did somebody pass away? Starving kids in the Midwest?
Aww...man. I'm soo sorry. Soooo...soooo sorry. What can I do?
But for the little everyday shit that everyone...EVERYONE has to deal with at one point or another...um, no.
Bad day? Cramps? Balls itch? I don't care. I really don't.
And I've been told I have to care.
WHY DO I HAVE TO? Ughhh!!!!Why couldn't Loretta raise everyone?
Bad day? - Well...there's always tomorrow. (light a Kool.)
Cramps? - Take some pills and lie down somewhere. (light a Kool.)
Balls itch? - Scratch em, wash better or go to the doctor. (raise an eyebrow, light a Kool.)
Done. What's next?
Heavy sigh...so I've been told that I'm going to need to be enrolled in the
"Judes School Of Compassion"...so I'm pleading publicly for an intervention.
And maybe one day, one day...I'll give a fuck about you having to wait 20 minutes to be seated at brunch. Or get my own Saturday Morning Cartoon. Either one.
OK. Enough of that. Now the real reason I'm posting.
Shervon (my adorable younger sister) is starting driving lessons within the next week.
Which makes her not-so-adorable, but now, my arch enemy.
I'm fully aware that I can't accomplish anything unless I look at it as competition, so I'm throwing myself back into the goal full steam ahead.
BECAUSE THERE'S NO WAY IN HELL Shervon is getting a license and I don't have one.
I mean, that means all of Loretta's kids will be driving, except me. The last one.
Which means convos like this will happen "So. Who's gonna give Nye a ride?"...snicker...snicker.
OH HELL NO!! It's bad enough I'm the middle child and born out of wedlock, but I gotta be a non-driver too? Not gonna happen.
So I'm back on it people. And to show you I'm serious... I'm putting my money where my mouth is.
Shervon... I got $50 bucks on the table. CHALLENGE! (Like on the Cosby show...)
Bet you I get it first... nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-naaaaaaahhhhhhh.....
You accept? Or are you a Mr. T?
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