The “Dubs” aka Golden State Warriors and their “Nation” of Followers Rock
“I’m a Morehouse man with a spray-paint can.“
That’s what he said by way of introduction. I didn’t take his photo or a photo of his paintings. Although his canvasses were neither engaging nor seemingly products of genius, I kick myself for not recording/memorializing the encounter—one of hundreds for him, I’m sure—one that, though historical in the truest sense (that this encounter happened), is as insignificant as one lone star in the multiverse.
He wore locks pulled up in a twist and a combination jacket and trousers that were not exactly a suit, though well coordinated. Hyper aware of his surroundings and their circumstances, his smile was casual and his salutation to me respectful of my graying ‘fro. Would that I could remember his words verbatim. I was mildly bemused by his deference, although spontaneous and sincere. Its unexpected delivery elicited a smile from me and a remark of gratitude. Which was no sooner exchanged than his attention moved on to the next looker-on and potential buyer. It was an encounter that felt so authentic that the vigorous yet warm sense of being alive—and appreciating it—enhanced a sense of wellbeing with which I am not altogether unfamiliar but which washes over me far too rarely.
It was shortly after that brief encounter that I whipped out my iPhone and began to record some moments of this historical event, in my self-conscious way, while remembering to claim my right to be who I am or who I want to be as bestowed upon on me by advanced age. We sow so many seeds throughout our lives that, at some point in time, harvesting becomes inevitable lest too many reach maturity and wither away. Not only do we grow into our worthiness of being deserving of respect and honor by virtue of our life experiences that create personal wisdoms that we can give back, we must also be ready to claim this much earned reward.
Yes, I am aware that we are born with the right to be who we are and that we all deserve respect simply for being human beings. But some of us, along the gnarly path of life, lose or have taken away our right to be who we are and our innate right to respect. But nearly all of us, if we make it to a ‘certain age’ should be able to reclaim losses if indeed there were. Fuck it. I’m just going to say it: Growing old is not for sissies and we should at least be rewarded for that. Ashay…
As I was solemnly saying…
What a delight to hap upon this tribute to Stephan Curry’s little girl, Riley. They don’t come more adorable.
As I walked beneath the warm sun, soaking up the many manifestations of what the Golden State Warriors’ victory has meant to individuals and groups alike, I couldn’t help but feel a great deal of pride and a sense of wellbeing. To bask in the presence of so much energy unaware of its own power, emanating from individuals who are not yet aware at their level of life experience, for the most part, (though I would guess that many think they are on top of it) of their individual grandeur, put a smile on my face as baby strollers, dogs, and children claimed their place in the goings-on of a city awakening.
I felt a kinship I don’t wish to waste words describing. Suffice it to say that this feeling was unfamiliar.
So…
As my high dissipated and my focus sharpened, I became conscious of a reality I had not expected. As I looked around, re-cognition of a particular truth emerged, one that underscored the inevitable passage of time. It took me by wonder: Everyone around me was remarkably comparatively young. The average age could not have been much more than thirty-something. I seemed to be the only one among them with gray hair. I witnessed every skin tone under the sun, every grade of hair and its hairstyle, every variation in height and weight, every morphology from thin to thick, every eye color, every shading of speech, every offspring whether being dragged through the body-to-body mass of individuals or pushed ahead in a stroller, I witnessed every every…
And I smiled at the thought that…
Another realization staring me down attested to the fact that I was once again in the minority. I looked about for other seniors, people with gray or white hair, and saw one or two in a crowd of thousands. When I go to the “legitimate” theatre I’m often one of a few if not the only black person there, depending on the production, although typically in the majority along with other white/gray-haired folks, particularly if the production is a matinée. As for skin tone, I’m generally in the minority if at a classical concert or recital. Oh yes, let me not forget the opera! I don’t think other event goers are surprised to see me in these venues (I’m fairly invisible to colorblind people), but I’m always dismayed that things haven’t really changed at all when it comes to certain cultural institutions and that I’m nearly the only one “representing”.
Judge for yourself. Selfies are a crime against nature, an autoimmune social disease.
In five months I will celebrate my sixty-ninth birthday. I’m always shocked when I put this in writing or say it out loud. Except for chronic sciatic pain in the left leg, I don’t feel anywhere near my advanced age. Nor do I appear it, as I’m so often told. Perhaps my chronological peers aren’t so fortunate and couldn’t muster the stamina to push through crowds of energy-filled, excited, youthful bodies out to have a fun and memorable time. Or perhaps their idea of fun and mine diverge.
Having snapped a few photos, and done with the distraction of a celebratory parade and trappings forty years in the waiting, I continued to muse about the near absence of the senior brigade when I decided to complete my walk around the lake. It wasn’t long before I spotted gray hair! They were a male couple casually strolling along. One had hair as white as snow (I’m so attracted to white hair) and the other’s was more gray. I was so excited I nearly spoke to them (this would have been way out of character) to share my ‘existential’ experience.
The farther away I got from the festive activities the more gray heads I saw, reminiscent of a regular day of walking the lake. Then someone in a different minority group caught my attention. Tall, thin, and thirty-something, his hair was a copper-penny red fading to lighter on top and his face was pink. Pink. I wasn’t close enough to discern the color of his eyes, but his hair color and his skin tone matched. He was beautiful. I only hope he knows it.
Minutes later, as I stood in line at Trader Jo’s, an extremely tall and imposing figure appeared in my peripheral vision just behind me. My natural reflex was to turn around to check this individual out. What I saw was a woman at least six feet eight inches tall. She smiled warmly and I smiled back. She was gorgeous! And no spring chicken since her hair was turning gray. I wanted to stare but I didn’t dare. That would have been down right impolite. But I wanted to know if she was cis or trans, as if I’m an expert and could tell. Or that it matters. She was truly beautiful.
We should all be secure in the belief that we are beautiful. Uniqueness is beautiful. Individuality is beautiful.
Diversity is beautiful.
Diversity matters.
Diversity is truly the essence of life.
Just Writing Around 