Super Powers
Photo by Sajjad Ahmadi on Unsplash
As we scratched and clawed our way through surviving the first year of Taishan’s life, Maya periodically attacked me, frustrated by our lack of transformation. “ Where are those superpowers you promised?! It feels like we are just angrier, shittier versions of who we used to be.”
I agreed. I felt like a shell of my former self and desperately in need of intervention from some force beyond my own control to rise to the demands of fatherhood. I kept falling deeper into a pit of self loathing and despair, the opposite of what I hoped my superpower would be. It didn’t arrive when I wanted it or how I expected it, but eventually it was revealed, and it was undeniable.
March 2023
I am standing in the spotlight, on a Beyonce sized stage, on the floor of the Oakland Arena, and I do not feel nervous. This is such an unexpected turn of events that I wonder if my body has been hijacked by another spirit. Standing to my left is Amy, who says that in our first encounter I spoke so softly she had to strain to hear me. That was 13 years earlier when I was embarking on a journey that led to co-founding Youth Impact Hub Oakland, stepping far beyond my comfort zone, and speaking on stages which grew exponentially larger over time.
Ten days ago, Amy called me and shared a vision she had in meditation about inviting me to freestyle in front of the entire staff of the Alameda County District Attorney’s office. Her friend had just become the chief policy advisor for Pamela Price, the new district attorney. She was tasked with assembling an all day retreat for the staff, to be held inside of the Oakland Arena. While pondering an interactive session to engage the audience, she thought of Amy to lead a storytelling workshop. While meditating on this invitation, Amy was transported to a life chapter in which she was bringing authors to speak with youth incarcerated at Juvenile hall. She specifically recalled the magic of Ishmael Beah doing a freestyle rap which had the young people going bonkers. Her brain jumped to me, maybe as the only person she knows who does freestyle rap, and certainly the only human she is acquainted with who has led workshops teaching people how to freestyle. The next logical step in her mind was to invite me to teach the entire DA staff to freestyle rap. This was a horrible idea.
Teaching 500 people to freestyle inside of a giant auditorium would be like trying to coach someone how to drive by guiding them over a phone call - it would not end well. I have successfully taught groups of up to 30 people how to freestyle and even that seemed like a miracle. The 500 person staff of the DA’s office was an insane leap of proportions that I could not justify. I thought of all the reasons this would not work. There isn't enough time for everyone to participate. There is no way for people to even hear each other. These people are not willing participants. They didn't sign up to be vulnerable and ridiculous in front of one another! My mind confirmed; this was a terrible idea.
Something greater than my fear kept me engaged in the conversation. I told Amy I would sleep on it. I ran the idea by Maya, assuming that she would provide me with the easy excuse that I couldn't do it because I had to watch Taishan.
Instead, without hesitation, she said “You should absolutely do it.”
She called my bluff. At this point, my fear of failure was the only reason to say no. Even though I had no idea how we would pull it off, I called Amy back and told her I was in.
While casually talking through what a one hour workshop might look like, I offered a few ideas based on activities I’ve facilitated in the past. Off the cuff, I told Amy we could lead a guided meditation, in which everyone reflects upon their life path. This would lead into a freewriting exercise where they translate what they experienced in the meditation into words and images. They would split up into pairs, with each person sharing their story, while the other person would listen intently and then pick one word that encapsulates what they heard. Each person would write the word in big, legible letters. I would then walk around the room and do a freestyle rap incorporating the words I saw as a way to bring it all together and reflect the stories back to the audience.
“Holy shit” Amy said after a brief moment of silence. “That is fucking brave.”
We spent the next week fine tuning our session. I practiced freestyling everyday and hoped to shake the rust off of my spontaneous verbal expression muscle. Everyone who knew about this event asked me if I was nervous. The answer was always clear. No. Not the kind of “No!” like I need to convince myself. Just a clear, genuine, no. Amy and I ran our ideas past Toni, who is a mentor, friend, and kindred spirit to both of us. She helped us work through the nitty gritty details and blessed us with her stamp of approval, which left us feeling confident. When Toni asked if I was nervous about freestyling in front of 500 people, I calmly told her something I have never said to her before.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
I don’t often curse, especially not towards one of my most cherished mentors. There just weren't any other words to convey my sentiment at the moment.
~
As a teenager, “I don’t give a fuck” was the mantra of my generation. Typically the complete sentence was mashed up into one word that ended with a rising, guttural explanation mark coming from the depths of the belly, as in “iowngivafaaaauuuuk!.” It was the perfect response to any and every inquiry about assuming responsibility.
“If you don’t study for your test, you might fail your class.”
“If you stay out too late your parents will get mad.”
“If you try to talk to that girl, her boyfriend is going to try to fight you.”
The stars were perfectly aligned when Eminem’s song “just dont give a fuck” was released in my sophmore year of high school. I was entering my peak of nihilistic apathy, and my peers encouraged me by playing this song on repeat, singing along as we rode the #57 AC transit bus up MacArthur boulevard to school in the morning. These were words that were often shouted in extreme aggression in the middle of an escalating conflict, a warning siren usually followed by a violent altercation. In hindsight, I can see how many of the people, myself included, who were so adamant about not giving a fuck were really wearing a mask to hide deep pain and shame they hoped would never see the light of day.
~
When I told Toni that I don’t give a fuck, there was not an ounce of bravado in my tone. I simply was not bothered. I thought about myself freestyling on stage in front of 500 people in the Oakland Arena, and I knew there would be an abundance of opportunities to say something inappropriate or to offend someone. I was putting myself in the line of fire for being judged, and I simply did not care. I hadn't developed a sense of machismo that made me impervious to critique. On the contrary, I had been through several years of parenting hell and was so deeply humbled and exhausted that I no longer had the capacity to be negatively affected by the judgements of anyone other than my wife and son. I had survived prolonged sleep deprivation and all of its accompanying side effects, like my inability to remember things like the day of the week or how to do simple arithmetic. I had experienced embarrassing encounters in which I became angry and yelled belligerently at my helpless, infant son and felt the shame of projecting my wounds onto him. I had faced real threats of divorce. My body and mind had been rewired to focus almost exclusively on relating to the 2 beings in my nearest vicinity, while all else disappeared from view. There was nothing anyone in the DA’s office could do to shake my sense of self worth. I had already been to rock bottom, and there was nowhere to go but up.
On the day of the event, I was more physically presentable than at any time since becoming a father. I wore dress shoes and slacks and a navy blue silk kurta shirt that was tailor made in Thailand for my wedding. Miraculously, every article of clothing was completely free of stains. It was disorienting to look in the mirror and behold a presentable person.
For a variety of valid reasons, I have given up on trying to appear clean in my day to day life. I live on land where I seldom interact with other humans and spend much of my free time with my hands in the dirt. Underneath my fingernails live a semi-permanent layer of microbes that even my most rigorous bathing attempts cannot fully remove. I do change my clothes every day, but usually by 10am I am covered from head to toe in urine, feces, boogers, and food stains. Despite my best attempts to teach Taishan about towels and tissues, my body and its attire are typically utilized as a depository for all of his bodily fluids and food scraps. On this day, I took great care to not be in the physical presence of my son between the time I got dressed and when I entered my car.
In the 90 minute drive to the Oakland arena, I was transported into another dimension, or at least into a past life before becoming a father. I could not get over the strange sight of clean clothing on my body and the foreign sensation of mentally preparing to communicate with adults in a professional setting. As I approached my destination, I passed all the side streets where my dad used to park his car during A’s games to avoid paying the fees in the official lot. I remembered how we would always ritually inspect the vehicle to ensure that absolutely nothing was visible, which was the result of the window once being smashed by someone intrigued by an empty paper bag.
I pulled up to the gate and was warmly welcomed by a pair of security guards who checked my ID against their roster of guests. For the first time in my life, I crossed the threshold into the parking lot without paying. I knew my dad would be proud. Compared to the mayhem of tailgating parties before Raiders’ games, the lot appeared desolate. It’s possible that I saw a tumbleweed skip in front of my path. I managed to park within a stone’s throw of my destination. I walked up the giant asphalt pathway to the entrance of the arena, looking up at the enormous coliseum lights that used to dazzle me as a child. I gazed lovingly at the nosebleed seats where we used to watch A’s games with binoculars, eating hot dogs wrapped in tinfoil that we had smuggled into the stadium. Since then, I had been around the world and back several times, on a complex journey, whose destination I never could have anticipated. I had spent the last 3 years living through a global pandemic on a semi-rural piece of land, speaking mostly to an infant. Yet, here I was, returning to my hometown, to speak on the largest stage I have ever stepped foot upon. It was truly a moment of homecoming.
This was the first time I ever entered the Oakland arena for something other than seeing the Warriors play basketball. I left behind the realm of sunlight and crossed through several additional layers of security before emerging into the arena, which appeared oddly abandoned due to the 18,700 empty seats that were not being utilized by the DA’s office. I spotted Amy and sat beside her, watching a powerpoint presentation about the new Jim Crow.
When the session ended, most of the audience began filing towards the restrooms. Amy and I went against the flow of traffic and made our way down to the stage, where we were equipped with microphones and introduced to the A/V team. We climbed up the stairs onto the enormous stage and gazed out at the sea of seats, and gave each other a look that seemed to convey “oh shit, we are really doing this.”
Even though the circumstances demanded some level of anxiety, I calmly awaited our fate while sipping from my water bottle. The audience filed back into their seats, and we were introduced as the presenters of the next session. I stepped into the light, and looked out at 500 unknown faces, as I told them why I was there. I shared how music had saved my life as a young person in Oakland and how one of the only times I ever felt safe was when I was making music in the backyard of my friend who lived across the street. I told them about the constant violence that I had to navigate in my neighborhood which many of my peers never escaped. I shared how many of them became involved in the criminal justice system and after interacting with the district attorney’s office they were never able to find their way. I reminisced about how as a young person I went to warriors games in this very building, never imagining that I would one day stand on a stage speaking to the audience. I felt a deep knowing in my body that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Getting 500 people to follow directions is a monumental task. Added to the equation was the uncertainty of facilitating a storytelling workshop for a room full of lawyers and paralegals. My typical audience was made up of teenagers, artists, and spiritual seekers. This was an abrupt departure from my comfort zone. So, it was relieving to see that when invited to participate in a guided meditation, the vast majority closed their eyes and obliged. When asked to find a partner and share their stories of how they came to work in the DA’s office, they dutifully proceeded and engaged in focused conversations. I saw the exchange of laughter, curiosity and compassion. When asked to write down the one word to capture the story they had just heard, I witnessed a frenzy of scribbling pens, followed by a sea of legal paper rising into the air, held by eager, outstretched arms. I could not read a single word from the stage, which meant I was going to have to travel through the audience with my cordless microphone. It was the moment of truth.
I gave a nod to the A/V guy to drop the beat, and a melodic baseline began to vibrate throughout the arena. I stepped off stage and began a long, steady march up the cement stairs, while launching into a spontaneous, improvised rap. Along the way, I made eye contact with friendly faces who held up papers featuring words like; Trust, Resilience, Peace, and Destiny. I wove them all into a fabric of rhymes, as I desperately tried to continue breathing while marching up the stairs. I have never freestyled, much less even had a viable conversation while walking up a long flight of stairs. I took in gulps of air between rhymes and paused periodically on my ascent to look out at the audience. Everyone seemed to be paying attention. There were smiles, heads nodding, and hands waving in the air. I descended the steps and enjoyed having the wind at my back, as oxygen returned to my lungs. I skipped in front of the 100 foot long stage towards the other side of the crowd where I made another ascent of the stairs, continuing to incorporate the words I saw before me into rhyme after rhyme. I paused in front of a section of animated audience members who were all competing to get their paper as close to my face as possible and rapidly incorporated them into a rhyme that ended while looking at the word GOAT, which I extrapolated to “The greatest of All Time,” which was met by a loud chorus of “ooooooooh!” and a round of high fives. As I felt the beat coming to a close, I made my way back to the stage and ended in a big bow of gratitude, taking in a deep inhale, then folding my upper body forward in exhaustion. There was a raucous applause before the crowd emptied into the lobby for their next break. Amy and I looked at each other with wide eyes. Without exchanging a word, we said “holy shit! we did it!”
With my looming stay-at-home-dad responsibilities, there was no time to bask in the afterglow. I had to make a swift departure and return home. Amy accompanied me as I made my way out through the lobby where I was met with a succession of high fives, thumbs up, and big smiles. We stepped into the light of day and embraced in a hug that was equal parts celebration and relief.
I was not surprised that it went well. Once I had accepted Amy’s invitation, I let go of the fear in my mind and surrendered to the wisdom of my body. I knew what I was doing, and I was confident in what I had to offer. When Toni asked me if I was nervous and I told her “I dont give a fuck,” I was sincere. I genuinely yearned for everyone present to have a meaningful experience, AND I didn’t entertain thoughts about what other people would say if I made a mistake.
Some people can brush off the judgements of others like they were shooing away a fly. I am not one of those people. As someone who used to be terrified of public speaking, there is nothing more surprising or empowering that could have happened than freestyling in front of 500 strangers inside of the Oakland Arena. I used to dread oral presentations in school as if I were going to the electric chair. I would count the days until it was my turn to present, create a category 5 hurricane of internal dread, fantasize about potential escape routes, and imagine I’d spontaneously combust when I stepped in front of the class. I was paralyzed by the fear of not being accepted. I kept as low a profile as possible to reduce the risk of saying or doing anything that might be judged as weird or uncool. I donned the mask of nonchalance, but below the surface, riptides of stress and anxiety were pulling me apart. I fully committed to people-pleasing and conflict avoidance because I did care about what other people thought. At the core of my fear was the notion that if I disappointed people, it would mean I was unlovable. I avoided any situations that left me vulnerable to critique or conflict. Any dissatisfaction in relationships was immediately repressed and public speaking was avoided at all costs.
In the decade prior to becoming a father, I made enormous strides towards speaking my truth without fear. In co-founding Youth Impact Hub Oakland I was thrust into the spotlight and suddenly had to speak in front of large audiences on a regular basis. Through rigorous practice, and a disciplined self care regimen, I survived this shift and even presented myself as someone who was comfortable with public speaking. Underneath the veneer, currents of self doubt continued to eat away at me. I was still terrified about the judgment I might endure if I made a mistake. All of that worrying about what other people might think about me was enormously draining.
The furnace of fatherhood burned away all of the walls and filters I had erected to prevent my inner world from being publicly on display. By hitting rock bottom and surviving, I have been reborn with skin that is simultaneously thicker and more porous. On the one hand, the judgments of others now create nothing more than a ripple in my well being, whereas in the past they would be Maverick sized waves that would pummel me for weeks or months at a time. My pattern of pleasing others has receded from a vast ocean enveloping every human on the planet, to a tiny pond that encircles my wife and child. On the other hand, I do not have the capacity to maintain such rigid, energy consuming walls that used to prevent my inner world from being expressed. I simply lack the energy to accommodate fear of judgment. Out of sheer necessity, my filter is loosening.
Since becoming a parent, I have become more compassionate than ever before. My desire to please others is no longer rooted in a lack of self worth but out of genuine concern for the other person. Caring for a child has humbled me to the core, and given me a new lens for understanding human behavior; Everyone has been parented, for better or worse. Many have been abused and/or neglected by the very people who were tasked with keeping them safe. Even for people like myself who remember childhood fondly and felt supported by their parents, harm was inevitably created by what was and was not done. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t have baggage they are carrying from how they were parented. When I see people acting out in selfish and hurtful ways, I can now hold them with much greater grace, knowing that their behaviors are rooted in the ways they were parented. If someone feels the need to judge me, I am able to see that this has very little to do with me, and more to do with the invisible baggage they are carrying.
Now, when I calmly say that I dont give a fuck, it really means; “I deeply respect and honor the your journey, with all of the blessings and challenges you have experienced. I want to show up in the best way I possibly can to support you. And, I have such deep respect for what I have been through that I cannot be harmed if you are critical of my offerings in a way that is meant to diminish my self worth. I love myself, and I love you.” I have arrived in a place where I truly and lovingly dont give a fuck. This is my new superpower.
~
For a musical interpretation of overcoming limitations, listen to ‘Climbing Out’ by clicking the image below .
“I don’t mind dying but I’d like to stay here
Long enough to enjoy time with my Wife and baby
There is no price to pay me to throw my life away
Doing anything I don’t find to be quite amazing”