Angry Brown Boy
Written by Nickin Alexander
Wake up
Shadow box
Read
Eat
Write
Workout
Read
Shadow box
Eat
Write
Read
Sleep
Wake up
Shadow box
Read
Eat
Write
Workout
Read
Shadow box
Eat
Write
Read
Sleep
Wake up
Shadow box
Read
Eat
Write
Workout
Read
Shadow box
Eat
Write
Read
Sleep
I can’t remember the outside that much. Just little things here and there. The smell of freshly ground coffee…the untimely sounds of car horns…the wailing of babies…the breezes touch against my cheek..
It had been months. Four to be exact. But it felt like forever
I was depressed.
I knew it.
We tried to do a zoom session every now and then. But without work and a steady income, the gaps in time when seeing friends became long and arduous. It was worse when they became busy.
I stopped caring about what I looked like a while ago. Then I realized I was becoming unrecognizable.
I shaved last week. I hadn’t shaved in ages. I hadn’t seen the skin on my face in months.
I lost weight.
Two meals a day.
I read somewhere that fasting was good for the mind.
Anything to help with the depression.
Sleep was foreign.
I woke up three times last night.
I always thought the next night would be different. A hope that mirrored my dating life.
But just like trying to meet someone, I was always disappointed.
Today was gloomy and grey, I could see it from my window. There was a wind…not like the one I just described, I could hear it way more. It was rustling branches and it sounded like a ghost as it slipped through open cracks in my fly screen.
I used to go and walk.
Now my mind just wanders all the time…my legs don’t need to move for that.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
Maybe Hurricane Carter meant to always hold hope, even as it was taken from him.
I adopted parts of his routine.
It kept me sane.
Gave me purpose.
I boxed when I was 15. Because I kept remembering Fat Mitch beating me up in the first grade.
Maybe that was the shadow I was boxing.
Music was good. It felt nice in my ears after I got high. I had to stop smoking though.
I started to need it.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
Maybe I can listen to the Rolling Stones.
And as they roll into my ears, I can spark a joint and not need it the next day.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Maybe go fuck yourself.
I pretend to say this to everyone I hate.
I pretend to say this in the mirror.
I watch my eyebrows furrow. I watch my teeth bare.
I watch the young man change.
That angry brown boy with thick black hair.
I write poetry sometimes. That’s what that was. That’s what I mean when I write.
I write to you and then I write to the world.
Then I let it sit there while I listen to Rock and pretend to punch Fat Mitch.
Then I think of what he’s doing. I think of his page online.
I can’t find it. But I saw one of his mates…he called me a curry and made fun of my culture…he’s dating an Indian girl now…the irony makes me mad.
That the world can forgive him…but leaves me unforgiven.
I look for his page, but I can’t find it…
But I found her again.
I found our messages.
Maybe she’ll notice me next time.
Maybe she won’t leave me on seen. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I keep looking at the last message I sent.
Maybe I did something, maybe I was too keen.
Fuck knows.
All I do know is I’m boxing the white boy she’s dating and Fat Mitch and the other guy that talked racist shit, and the guy at the gym and the teacher that called me dirty, the dad who said he didn’t want his daughter to date a brown boy, the girl who stopped talking to me when I said I was Indian, the racist mum at soccer, the best mate I never had and the dozens more who made me sad and angry and sad and anxious and sad and angry and embarrassed and angry.
I’m angry. That’s what I am.
So I box and I write. I sit in my backyard and try and meditate. I try to breathe…but I can’t.
Maybe it was Fat Mitch.
He tried to drown me once at a school swimming carnival.
I forgot how to swim after that.
Maybe that’s why I slouch. I keep feeling his big sausage hands on my shoulders.
I try to undo it. Yoga, posture…but I box.
I lift some weight. Begging his shadow to come to life.
I wish the guy she was dating was here.
I wish he could feel fear.
I know he would.
I’m a monster. I know I am.
But I’m okay.
This might be depression or anxiety or the world against me, I don’t know but I don’t care.
I can’t go outside so I’m stuck here, trying my best to find my breath, to close my eyes and forget that I haven’t seen my friends or that I have a nephew that needs carrying, that I was labeled a pig and trash before I could even open the door for them, or that the world saw me as dirt just because of the colour of my skin.
Maybe the weed will help, maybe if I chuck on a playlist and light up that joint, I can get hungry and calm down and finally go to sleep. But I don’t think it’ll last.
Maybe that’s why it sucks. That the remedies are illegal and the world is against me and that I’m no longer a boy but a man who’s struggling. Maybe it’s because no one can see, that the world is burning and the ice caps are melting…maybe they’ll see when their kids choke on fumes…
It’s a grim thought.
But maybe it can change.
I’m rambling, because I saw pretty people on my phone and they convinced me that to be heard you have to have a good body and a nice smile, that you had to be oppressed…that you had to have a story.
But I have a story, I say to myself. I whisper it so the wind can take it away, but it hangs there for longer than it should…before it’s whisked away by stupid people who believe in stupid things….who think you're nothing more than an angry brown boy with nothing left to give.
But I am okay….
I swear…I’m okay.
Because I Wake up
I Shadow box
I Read
I Eat
I Write
I Workout
I Read
I Shadow box
I Eat
I Write
I Read
And I Sleep
