Out and About

Two years ago I had no idea that there was a National Coming Out Day. Then once I discovered its existence I just assumed it was one of those made up holidays on par with “National Boyfriend Day,” “National Catfish Day,” and “National Rick Ross’ Right Titty Lovers Day.” The right because that’s where the extra meat is.

Anyway, I started writing something for the occasion only to stop as I became fearful that I was going to offer too much and dive too deep into feelings that probably needed to be kept private. I’ve been doing that once again with another oft-delayed entry. I got over those worries and ultimately finished the post. It didn’t take long for me to feel better about that choice. I’m sure that’ll happen for that other piece I’ve purposely put to the side, too.

I can be so self-critical and now more than I ever have I wondered if I’m making any real contributions. Part of that comes with the frustration surrounding some of the things I’m currently doing for the bills. As I was trying to illustrate with that coming out post then, I know I’m capable of more. Still working on ways to prove it.

That said, if you didn’t read it before, you can check out “Accepting Where My Piece Blows” by clicking here.

Or read it again. Whichever. And of course, look around elsewhere.

Me On Mitt, Take 92

If Mitt Romney ends this race as one of the most despised presidential contenders in recent memory, we should all be so lucky.

As ideally as it might be to favor a civil, meaningful debate about the future of the nation and who’s best to steer it versus the nastiness we’ve been muddied in for two years now, one can’t help but take at least slight glee in someone who consistently goes out of his way to be contemptuous be given a dose of his own medicine.

The former Massachusetts governor is entitled, power-hungry, and remarkably wishy-washy about who he is and what he believes. In fact, to say Mitt Romney is spineless is like saying the cast of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo is only a little bit uninhibited. Worse is that no matter what instance of legitimate form of criticism you level his way, Mitt Romney and the pacifiers he hired to run his campaign carry on as if nothing ever happened.

Actually, no, Mitt Romney doesn’t simply carry on – he turns the other cheek and proceeds to spit his troubles onto the opposition.

Therein lies Mitt’s latest campaign strategy: “I know you are, but what am I?”

More here.

Go Read, Big N*gga

You know, I thought to change the title of this post to something more politically correct. Like, “I Almost Had To Punch A Teenager In The Throat At The Library.” It didn’t have the same ring to it, though, and it’s not all that politically correct anyway. So I changed it back. Well, I added an asterisk. That’s as respectful as I am willing to be.

Now gather ’round, children, Michael’s got a story to share.

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On Identity and Gender and Sexuality and All That

My struggle in penning this essay is rooted in me trying to write it from the perspective of a man who resides in a place too many outside factors won’t let me rest in contently.

Initially, I wanted to kick things off with recalling how I was once told by a dear friend and lesbian friend of mine, “You dance like a f*ggot.” It was said as a compliment, but it struck a nerve because it was a realization I long held myself, which is why I used to not dance publicly. I didn’t want to be pegged so easily, you know? These days, as noted by other friends, you can find me twerkin’ with no shame at a tourist attraction or sidewalk near you.

I wanted to use that transition as some larger metaphor to explain how I’ve become at peace with some of the feminine traits attributed to gay men that apply to me in the midst of all the ones that don’t, and as a result, get me called things like “fauxmo,” “non gay-gay,” and the like (which make me laugh). The goal was to show I’ve meshed aspects of myself that are considered “manly” and “womanly” and became a better person overall – regardless of what anyone thinks.

It sounded so nice when I envisioned this piece and that sense of relief I wanted to convey. But I just couldn’t and finally it hit me: my anger lingers. Hauntingly so.

Read the rest here. ‘Twas hard to write so you should.

And then you should email it around. And tweet about it. And share on Facebook. And print and mail by pigeon — preferably to people who can give a boost. All that.

Thanks.

Edit: The link was changed apparently. Fixed.

I Forgot

In the midst of doing 9000 things at once, I forgot to actually note the honor this site got on the actual site itself. Yeah, I know. That said, was recently named one of The Best Black Bloggers to Know in 2012 by The Root. I used to actually be a blogger there in 2009, for “The Recession Diaries.”

Anyway, the write up went:

Michael Arceneaux of the Cynical Ones

The Stars, Evaders, and Perpetrators

So I’m updating the site, but I have to share a few of the recent essays I’ve been elsewhere this week.

For Ebony.com, I wrote about the lingering criticism about President Obama being the “celebrity-in-chief.” It is one of the few instances where I’m not bemoaning celebrity culture so cherish the day, I probably won’t go astray again. You can click here to read it.

I also wrote something in response to that letter Evelyn Lozada wrote to her seven-year-old self. It’s a little note to all of the cast members of Basketball Wives – okay, really mainly Eve, Tami, and Shaunie – at age whatever they are. You can read that one here.

As for Ms. Lauryn Hill’s complaints of “social cannibalism” in defense of not paying her taxes, penned a lil’ something for News One you can check out here.

And if you missed it the first time on this site, do read about Lauryn Hill Denial Disorder. Still relevant.

Oh yeah, I finally put my BlackBerry out of its misery. Some would call me a loyalist, others would call me cheap, but I held onto that phone for way too long. I have since converted to the iPhone. Like an old man, I complained about not liking touch screens. Fine, it’s not so bad.

Now I say all of that to say I joined Instagram. Oh my, y’all. It’s like where amateur photography and porn, gluttony, self-indulgence and randomness goes to have an orgy. Yes, late boots. Shut up. Anyway, I’m on there as @youngsinick. Find me and add and shit, mu’fuckas. That was said with love, of course.

Okay, back to updating.

Fears Realized

So today is my birthday and as mentioned in a previous post entitled “Birthday Fears,” I am now my scary age: 28. I’m sitting here typing this while sipping on Peach Ciroc. Let’s call it a birthday treat and a much needed stress reducer, no addict. Then I’ll sip an energy drink: a dubios follow-up if there ever were one.

I’m super busy this week, which I suppose offers a hint as to how I should judge my life and my career at present moment. If you missed it, basically years ago I decided that at the age of 28 I needed to stop, see, and surmise my life at 28 and decide how to move forward as I inch closer to 30. Now that I’m here, I have to say things are definitely in need of an adjustment. I feel good that I’m writing for new places and that I’ve finally found more work to supplement what I lost from a lay off months ago very recently, though I still have the same frustrations I had even before then.

I want more, feel like I deserve more, and won’t be satisfied until I get it. In the meantime, you know, I’m trying to cope with disappointment. If it helps, despite wanting to cry this morning I did manage to do a drop after enough sips.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled along an old post based I did after Esquire’s lovely “What I’ve Learned” series. I was reading along and a few of the items listed made me think, “Damn, what I was talking about? So I wanted to update briefly. Here’s to hoping I have a similar feeling when I look at this again in the future.

When the nightmare happens all you can do is suck it up and deal with it. Begrudgingly if you have to, but you deal with it as best you can. I am a dreamer and even at my worst, I’m still doing all that I can to make my vision for my life happened. It gets hard – depressingly so even – but what else can you do when you have nothing else to fall back on?

I don’t want to pretend things are good if they aren’t. I wish people would allow you to feel however you choose to. If I don’t feel happy, let me be in my feelings. Not talking self-pity, but self-realization. How else will I conquer my doubts and fears if I don’t acknowledge them honestly? At the same time, one needs to learn when to see that things are getting better…just not at their schedule. Such is life.

I have no idea what to believe when it comes to my faith. I know there’s something there and I’d like to think of it as God, but Christianity, well, what used to comfort me ultimately became something that caused my great harm. Or maybe it always did and I’m only now realizing it. Jesus is the homeboy, but his people have been a nightmare. How to straddle the line between not believing in fables and needing to believe in something greater than yourself has left me at a crossroads. And I already know that the poor way I’ve reacted to bad times is undoubtedly connected to a lack of faith.

I feel humiliated about where I am in my life at present moment. All I can do is hope I don’t feel this way in the near future.

I love him so much, but it will never be what I want it to be. That hurts me more than he or anyone else realizes. It also spurs my resentment towards religion, as I look to that as the root of the problem, and harkens on a lingering issue I’ve felt maybe since childhood: The idea of being unloved by the people closet to you. Or at least, feeling that way. My family loves me and I them, but damn, it took a long while to see that. For good reason.

I am increasingly oversharing, but people seem to dig it. It simultaneously is kind of cathartic. I spent most of my life keeping people’s secrets. It ate me up inside. There has to be a reward for this kind of honesty, right? C’mon nah, encourage the cynic, why don’t you?

Being prideful is stupid. Any day now I’ll not only realize that, but behave accordingly.

I’m a great fucking writer. It’s about time time I said it. Humility is grand, but if you’re giving people the impression that you don’t think you’re great, they’ll react accordingly. That has missed up a few opportunities and it’s a habit that’s gotta end.

One needs to stretch. You never know when you might have to toot that thang, daddy, might it roll for the rent. I’m going to finesse my fitness regimen. It’d probably do wonders for the psyche. Not to mention, down times remind you that it’s always best to stay in stripper shape. I gotta get there. In the meantime, I’ve found the song I plan to Diamond myself to on stage if need be: The Yes Ma’ams’ “What Girls Are Made Of.” I am a son of irony. I can’t help it.

Meanwhile, get into them and that damn song. They are my new obsession.

Alright, I’m done with this. Happy birthday to me. And again, thank you to everyone who reads or has even ever read this site. I know it’s not as updated as often as it used to be, but you know, I write elsewhere to cover the bills. Look to your right for proof.

As a matter of fact, now look below.

Here.

See that? It’s a link to my PayPal account called “Help A Skinny Black Man” fund. Go on and help. You can drop couch change, bus far, cab fair, car note money, or one night stand with a reality star rates. Shit, whatever.

Hey There, Oversharer

I’m not surprised by the University of Michigan’s School of Public Health survey’s findings that doctors are far less likely to prescribe antidepressants to Black and Latino patients afflicted with major depressive disorder than their white counterparts.

In their findings, race, payment source, physician ownership status and geographical region were all listed as factors that play into whether physicians decide to prescribe antidepressants to patients. Moreover, age and payment source influence which types of antidepressants patients receive. As a result, Caucasians are 1.52 times more likely to be prescribed antidepressants than Black and Latino patients being treated for major depressive disorders.

The disparity in antidepressant usage between Whites and minorities often centers on stigmas within minority communities. It’s about time the focus shifted towards how the role the attitudes of others factor into the gap.

Though I was never treated for a specific major depressive disorder, I have had painful bouts with depression and anxiety through the years – and encounters with careless doctors who bypassed obvious symptoms due to their own silly biases. Less than a year ago there was a period where I feared standing up would invite the kind of pain sure to knock me down. During one week in particular, each new day brought on an even more excruciating headache than the one before. When I did finally manage to stand up, I noticed that I had broken out in several different rashes across various parts of my body.  As freaked out as I was about the exterior, I was more worried that I could barely function without needing to lay down every other hour. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me.

Thankfully, I’d made a point to invest in an insurance plan and so I was able to see two separate doctors to help me understand what ailed me. A dermatologist suggested a skin disease. That is, before she mentioned something about the sun and syphilis. To which I said, “Unless my pillow has been sleeping around, I think I’m cool judging by the last time I was tested.” The results agreed with me. I should’ve known to exit her office the second she stopped me in the middle of talking to say I looked like Chris Rock.

Worse was the general practitioner I saw around the same time. He must have mistaken me scratching my scalp with a crack itch given his sudden questions about whether or not I was using drugs. He seemed obsessed with the fact that I “seemed a little thin,” but in hindsight maybe it was more about me being a little gay and a whole lot of Black. Or perhaps it all boils down to him being utterly clueless as to what my actual problem was.

Read more here.

Feel However You Choose To

Since late last week I’ve had an idea for a post entitled “Fuck Your Happy Face.” I decided to go against that title, but be certain that it wasn’t so much about being too on the nose as it was the realization that such a title wouldn’t be appreciated in certain circles — namely work related ones where my Twitter feed might show up. To that end, I’ve been stewing on how to best tackle a subject that’s annoyed me for quite some time. Now that it’s directly faced me in a number of directions simultaneously, there’s no time like the present to finally touch on it.

Last week was probably one of the hardest, most humiliating weeks of my life. I touched on certain problems in my post “Birthday Fears” and without going into specifics, let’s just say it’s related. In one respect, last week also presented opportunities that will rectify some of the previous problems mentioned. However, it didn’t come without a humiliating step back first.

Like I’ve tried all of my life to be happy and have been dealing with factors that’s worked against that goal. When you’ve been dealing with things beyond your control way too early, you burn out. For me that’s been an on and off issue as long as I can remember. Don’t get me wrong. I am down, but I will be fine. I always tend to be and am already actively working towards fixing what ails me. Yet, I won’t act like I don’t feel exhausted all the same.

Am I miserable? No. Do I feel as if I’m in a rough space?  Yes. Does that wear on me? Clearly. Will I overcome it? I will. Should I just put on a happy face and smile until it’s better? Not if I don’t feel like it.

Therein lies the problem.

Now more than ever do I hear people stress how important it is to remain positive, not to focus on “the negative” and a bunch of other cliche-ridden bullshit they got from Oprah, struggling cable network programs, and pseudo self-help musings found on entertainment blogs on social media.

I understand the power of positive thinking, but I also respect the idea of allowing a person to feel however they choose to. If I am down, let me deal with things my own way. It’s very frustrating for me to feel the way that I do and have people in my life give me some speech about how things can always be worse. Yes, things can always be worse, though one can be grateful and still realize something is fucked up in your life and it needs to be fixed.

And it’s flat out insulting to be told that if you just think of “the positive” everything will magically change. Your opinion is your own to have, but forcing a mantra onto someone – let alone one whose story you might not completely know or understand – is disrespectful.

I grew up often times helping fight off a drunk who I feared was going to murder my entire family. A horrific scenario that haunted me in my dreams  well into adulthood. Do not tell me that if you just imagine a better outcome it will magically appear in due time. In fact, fuck you, and save that fairy tale for a five-year-old with a much more pleasant home life. Motherfucker.

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Birthday Fears

For a while now, I considered 28 to be my scary age. Part of that stems on how close it is to 30. The other is rooted in some Laz Alonso interview I read years ago in which he declared that up until 25 your life is about potential, and every year after, results. I was on the verge of turning 25 when I read it so it spooked the hell out of me. I decided that when I came to Los Angeles that I would give myself three years to see where I was and to evaluate my life and career accordingly.

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