Why, Mama Why? (Based on Actual Events)
Written July 31st, 2004

Drenching wet as he walked up 225th Street, the steep climb up Marble Hill, nor the hail sized raindrops emanating from ubiquitous clouds of despair could awaken William from his dejection; in fact, the recent developments of his life far surpassed any thunderstorm.

Desperately trying to understand it all, the merriment and good times in June were replaced by turmoil and confusion in July, not to mention emotional disappointment and occupational devastation. A loss of a job can do that to any Black Man; even the questioning of character by someone dear is easy to comprehend. But at the same time, in the same month?

The Two W's - white people and women of color - constructed a beehive of cynicism and negativity around his fragile state; yet somehow he managed to maintain positive, no matter how many times he was stung during the first twenty-nine days.

In spite of all that happened this month, he remained upbeat; but not without the aid of his special circle of friends. It seemed that whenever his warrior-like resiliency temporarily wavered; a phone call, as if illuminated by light and pushed in his face, would widen dilated pupils with a positive word.

There was something about that 30th day, however, that poisoned his spirit. Stumbling through the windblown raindrops in a stupor, an opaqueness captured his eyes and he kept shaking his head.

"One More Strike," he repeated over and over. "One More Strike."

Still trying to comprehend the card reader's blow delivered just minutes ago, that the heavens opened up and delivered hail-sized tears immediately after her utterance only added to their unknown turpitude.

Up until those chilling words, he refused to harp on his present state. After losing his job on the 16th, he smiled, finished up his time billing for the week, and left without commotion. When his friendship with Andrea became strained, he said a silent prayer, hoped that the love between them would smooth things over, and kept moving.

But the words of the physic staggered him. Granted, if most people were told by a seer that they were down to their final chance at love, the callous expression of thought might seem risible. However, William wasn't most guys.

Wearing his heart on his sleeve ever since sending Monica Caldwell that love letter in the tenth grade, for twenty-two years he experienced the gamut of emotions that come with that crazy energy know as love. After the pains of heartbreak he built his faith and trust in women, only to see his dreams of compatibility and completeness dashed time and time again. Each hurt took something from a titanic ticker that used to give unconditionally; each time the recovery time from his wrong choice seemed longer; as much as William fought change, the coldness he thought he’d never feel began to stiffen his heart. Sadly, he started to evolve.

A playa is a playa because he's scared to feel, and William's actions between heartbreaks manifested such a belief system: A failed marriage, embarrassing two-timing incidents, and poor choices in women. The common denominator in all instances, he couldn't place blame his present emotional dysfunction on anyone except the man in the mirror.

The fortuneteller accentuated this in her forecast. Ginger-skinned and beautiful, her warning was candid and honest.

"You have one more chance at love, William" she said as she turned over her final card. It revealed a bleeding red heart, punctured by three knives piercing its core. "If you let it pass you by, or fail it when its given to you, you will get hurt three times, then be alone for the rest of your life."

Biting down on his lip, the pent up emotions gave way to crystal tear shed as he ambled up the hill. As if to add to the agony, the waterfall from the skies matched the rainfall from sullen, somber eyes. Barely smelling the cigar smoke coming from the first floor window, he placed the key into the outer door, and turned.

Running up four flights of marble stairs maintained his youthful shape; No ‘done-lap disease’ on this 38 year old; his body was still sleek as a jaguar. But his heart? Well, that was another story.

Remembering how he preached doing right by his women; had he really been doing that of late? One night stands indicated lack of trust, and sex, while enjoyable, was detached. Instead of giving emotions, he was giving physical gratification to others.

"That often happens when you've been hurt often," he mused. "Something in you snaps. There's only so much healing you can do, so much hiding pain behind excuses. "Women say they don't need men, devote their lives to their kids, yet a certain degree of bitterness toward men and the heartbreak they've caused lingers. Hell, look at the frustration Halle Berry feels with love right now. Anybody that says otherwise is only fooling themselves."

"At least our women keep trying. Most men don't even attempt to try as much as I have. Either they conceal their fear of emotional pain behind empty sex or dysfunctional unions, or they simply give up."

The question that William had to ask himself still tortured him. Were his self-destructive actions indicative of a resigned state? Had he finally given up on Love? His actions, once chivalrous and selfless, had become self-centered and self-absorbed. While there were women around who wanted him to take that last chance, he just couldn’t open up completely. Recalling days when ten dollar, two dozen rose bunches were grabbed on impulse from corner stores and given to that someone special instinctively, the care-free innocence of those moments were long gone. Those same arrangements would just sit at the store, begging for the comfort and security in the arms of someone special, and William would walk on by.

Was he that scared to open his heart?

The tears turned to unrestrained sobs as he listened to Patti LaBelle scream "If Only You Knew." Not wanting to be lonely, but terrified to feel the pain of love gone awry one more time, he thought of everything his mother taught him about women. She had done a great job at teaching him what they liked, yet the process was brilliantly incomplete; he hadn't found forever with a queen.

And judging from what the psychic had told him, he had run out of opportunities to err.

Twenty-two years. That was exactly the time frame it took George Foreman to exorcise his demons. In 1974, Ali had rope-a-doped him in Zaire, and for years he thought of excuse after excuse to assuage his pain. The cloud was lifted in 1996, when a single punch landed square on the chin of Michael Moorer, inducing a ten-count and a heartfelt prayer in the corner; giving thanks to Him for lifting the monkey off his back. Finally, he had attained redemption.

Twenty-two Years of rejection, ridicule and resignation hung around the neck of William as if it was an albatross. Remembering every moment he had been injured, every injury he inflicted because of it, the empty nights of passion shared and its ensuing loneliness, he wanted what it seemed everyone around him had: A REAL LOVE.

"Mama, why didn't you tell me it would be this hard?, " he shouted as Boyz II Men told him not to let love pass him by, "Why didn't you warn me that if I keep making bad choices in women, the well of love in my heart eventually run dry? Why don't the women in my life, whether friends or mate, appreciate me for the man I am. Why don't they see that we to have hearts that are just as confused with their actions as they are with ours? Why Mama, Why?"