STAGE 7 - Why I Draw

A lot of people ask me how long I've been an artist, but rarely am I ever asked how I became an artist. I'm glad they haven't, because it's kind of a sad story. But you know, I figure if it can help one person, just one, who could be in a similar position, then I can deal.

Basically, I've been drawing since I was about five years old. After watching Adam West Batman on Channel 11 one day, I took one of my grandma's notepads, and tried to draw Batman with a pen. The next day, I traced Spider-Man from one of my dad's comics, and began freestyling. I would show them to my grandma, and she was amazed at how a five year old could DO that. (Admittedly, they were kind of good for five.)

Soon after, everyone knew I could draw. And by 'everyone', I do mean everyone. People genuinely enjoyed what I did, and it made me happy. But happy doesn't last too long in my world, and sure enough, people picked on me because I was now a smart AND talented kid and it made them jealous. They would never admit it, but my aptitude got me a lot of attention, as in, it took the attention away from them. Whether in school, or at home, everyone ganged up on me to the point where I wasn't happy anymore.

As smart as I was, I was still a kid, and most people seemed not to realize that. I was an only child living in a project apartment with a bunch of siblings, so I was already an outcast, and it only got worse when everyone else took their frustrations out on me. So all I wanted to do was escape. I did that in two ways: Playing videogames, and that other thing, the drawing.

As covered in my birthday post, my uncle took notice of this and encouraged me to stick with it. So I did. Drawing was that thing I did when everyone left me out of their games. That thing I did when the girls treated me like shit. That thing I did when everyone made fun of me for crying. It was reactionary. I never did it just because I wanted to. I've always had a hyperactive imagination so expressing myself was never a problem, but it felt like I had to bring something to life on paper in order to keep my sanity - a concept a kid shouldn't really be contending with.

With my mom out working all the time, my dad being Q from Third Strike, and my cousins doing everything without me, I spent a lot of time alone drawing. School was no different, because while I had my few friends, life goes on and they'd turn on me to join the populars, so I'd be left alone to draw again. I got better at it only because I had the time to do it.

The true turning point for me and art came in March '96. It's been stated that was the month I created the Rocket comic, but the day I actually did it was the day after my "girlfriend" dumped me for a thug boy in the most extravagant and embarrassing way possible. I didn't DO anything to deserve that, but you know, kids are mean. I've stated many times Rocket was kind of a super-take on myself; That was part of the story. The whole story however, is that I made Rocket to feel good about myself.

Problem here, is that I knew I wasn't a good artist at this point. So I hatched this amazing plan to sell my Rocket comics. If people bought them, I knew I wasn't that bad. And people did, for 25 cents. Quarters, which I would go to the arcade and just play on my own. Being from a lower-class family meant I wasn't seeing a Playstation or a 64 anytime soon, so the video store arcade machine was where I would go at every chance. I didn't just play the games, I absorbed them. Poetry in motion, they taught me colors, clothes, and so much more that a comic couldn't.

After much practice, I began to develop my own style, and my work improved. However, that only emboldened everyone around me to continue picking on me, and this time they went as far as to scribble over my work (Rocket #1), crumple it (Zero #1), or tear it up (Rockets #13-19). At that point, I had to draw in secret, subsequentially hiding the results. So I couldn't find solace in drawing anymore, and I got angrier. I couldn't hide how much I hated everyone, and it was the start of me carrying that rage everywhere I went.

I didn't make a single drawing for a nearly year, but naturally no one noticed except my uncle and grandma. I was mentally through with trying, and in their own ways, they reversed it by reminding me that it was something I loved doing and I let the terrorists win. They were right. Taking that into consideration, I started drawing again a month before my LaGuardia test, and after being accepted, full-time.

I've had my ups and downs since then, but I still draw. I don't take requests, I don't do fanart for established characters, and I never wanted to be a professional illustrator. I draw because it keeps me sane. It's still my escape from people and situations that make me unhappy, which have increased tenfold since the old days. There wasn't a day in college where I didn't have my sketchbook beside my notebook, because productivity is how I deal with well...everything.

The damage people have done to my life has long passed the point of unacceptableness. I'm actually self-conscious enough to know that I tend to expect the worst of all my personal endeavors and I have an extremely low tolerance for stupid people. It causes worry whenever my amazing mental inhibitors look like they're crashing - which is understandable because I don't expect anyone to handle stress to the capacity that I can. But, I think the day anyone should find the time to worry about me is the day I stop illustrating.

The lesson here is. If you like doing something special, then keep doing it. Because when the chips are down, it's your tether to the existence that beget your passion, and it's strength is invaluable.

And right now, that's why I draw.

STAGE 4 - April 5th > April 2nd

April 5th is a special day to me. It's my uncle Larry's birthday, and it's always three days after mine. But the reason I remember it, is because he was the only thing standing between me and completely wasted potential.

Everyone has their own definition of success in life. Making lots of money, getting famous, blahblahinsertsuperficialreasonhere. I'll tell you flat out, mine is earning the ability to leave the world a better place than it was when I showed up. How? Through the ability to create. It's not something everyone can do, and if I can use it for anything, I want to use it in a way that'll get someone to see good in the world. If I can inspire even one person to do the right thing through my work, I'll be satisfied with what I've done with my time.

It was my uncle who got me to find that path for myself. When I was that little kid who drew on everything, he was the one who actually took interest in the things I drew. He read all of my comics, knew the characters, and encouraged me to keep at it. No matter how crap I thought I was, he inspired me, because that's what heroes do. And that was just my art.

Whenever we spent time together he'd notice my curiosity about the world and instead of giving me the answers, he'd give me clever ways to get to them. When I'd get sick in school, he'd stop whatever he was doing to come and get me out. When I was trying to get my first girlfriend, he was the one who got me to use my skills to reach the goal. When everyone picked on me just to be mean, he was the only person there telling me that I should never be ashamed of who I am. That's the kind of guy he was.

Every positive I have he had a hand in, and I was lucky. Simply put, there aren't many mentors for young black males. No one around to help us transition from fine boys into fine men, and because of that, a lot of us get lost in the shuffle. I didn't know it too well then, but my uncle was my mentor. Whether success or failure, he learned from everything, and he taught me that knowledge is an invaluable thing, because it truly is the power to do anything.

All my life I had someone to look up to, and I turned out a lot better than anyone could have hoped because of it. Brownsville got a lot of the dudes I grew up with, and it either changed them for the worse, or killed them outright. My uncle didn't let the streets get me, and he didn't even have to, but he did anyway because he believed that I had the potential to be somebody one day. So of course I'd go to his apartment and help him clean the place up. Little did I know, it would be the last time I got to talk with him.

He passed away 8 years ago from years of smoking. I was in high school then, and I took it really hard. I started screwing up in ways I didn't even know I could, and no one cared. I let myself down, and by proxy, I let him down. I dealt with it all alone, because no one understood the bond the two of us had, and if no one else gave a fuck, why would I? So I dropped out, because I thought it was all over. Then, something amazing happened: I happened upon a new school a few blocks from that same apartment. I enrolled and finished with flying colors. The rest was history.

People have called me many things: Intelligent. Talented. Modest. Selfless. Funny. Hell, even charming. There's many more, but no matter how many there are, my uncle went out of his way to make them possible. That's why even if I'm not doing too hot right now, I am a walking upside, and even if I have to climb mountains and break barriers alone for the remaining years of my life, I'm going to do it, because I believe in myself like my uncle believed in me.

And when you believe in yourself just a tiny bit, the world can suck as bad it does and you won't falter:

Happy birthday uncle, and thanks for everything.

STAGE 1 - Maybe You Noticed

I've taken the liberty of reviving this thing. Sorry, but I don't fit in a world where thoughts are seemingly incapable of exceeding 140 characters.

What brought this on? Well, I'm doing this during a nearly 10-month losing streak: May: Lost my job. June: Knee degenerates. July: Other knee follows. August: Lost my fall semester. September: Woman uses me. October: Stuck in unnecessary program. November: See September. December: Death pays a visit. January: Lost my academic career. February: Crush two fingers in a freak accident.

I dealt with that alone.

Why am I making a point about loneliness? Picture this: Your family you see everyday? They don't exist. The long-term group of people you call friends? See them twice a year. That significant other who keeps you in the game through thick and thin? Never in your lifetime.

Miraculously, I'm still a functioning person (suck it Gibson), but apparently enduring 10 months of fail alone without a strong support system is extremely unhealthy, and one afternoon while raiding the fridge I collapsed. The good news? I regained consciousness in time for Archer.

Sounds bad? Well it's worse when no one knows you're a member of a certain 20% of the human population - including you. At least y'know, until now.

For those unable/too lazy to click that link, I learned from a professional that I'm an HSP - a highly sensitive person. Means that my brain is the organic equivalent of a supercomputer, everytime. Awesome, right?

Well, it is. Allow me to make an example: If you've ever seen my music collection, you'd know that the archive is pushing 10,000 songs and most of them are purely instrumental. But what you don't know, is that I can thoroughly identify every single one from a simple excerpt (try me out next time). Yet, I can't tell you what I ate three days ago.

Being an HSP doesn't make you a genius - it just turns your neurological senses all the way up to 11, as the name implies. As demonstrated by the example, and possibly vouched for by many people, I think in an obviously derivative way, but not in that "why are you walking around without a strait jacket" way. Been that way all my life, to great success, and also great failure.

And that brings me to the big downside of being an HSP: You feel everything very, very deeply. "Everything?" Everything. Again, as the name implies, I am highly sensitive. Doesn't mean I'm walking around with a Kleenex every five minutes, but it does mean that when things go wrong, I don't just know they went wrong - I feel they went wrong. And let me tell you - it's crippling.

It brings me back to dealing with failure alone. As someone who can't stop thinking intensely, being alone kicks it into overdrive in a way that feels like aggravated assault. I don't make a habit of complaining because it relies on two things: 1) My ability to convey the intensity of my feelings, and 2) The capacity of understanding in another person, which is often lacking.

Since those two things are oil and water, I unwisely/inevitably opt to hold it all in, and if my frustrations are unaddressed like they always are, my brain gets overloaded and it crashes. That is why a trip to the fridge suddenly turned into hours of unconsciousness. It was the first time in almost three years that happened, because I had been relatively content recently.

So when I finally got up, I realized that I spent the past month being a hub for intensely negative thoughts, and I decided on the spot to isolate myself in a familiar, welcoming environment for a month: Playing stuff online with the crew, exclusively. That meant I wasn't using Facebook, answering my phone, using IMs, or trying to contact anybody who's seen me in person.

During that time, my fingers healed (which actually made doing the things I love to do easier) but I wasn't ready for that stuff still. I didn't want to hear relatively happy people be happy because all that does is make me feel worse. Involuntary over-feeling leads to involuntary over-absorbing, and I think I have enough people trying to kick me while I'm down.

But like most things, it can't last forever. As fun and stress-relieving as playing a bunch of rounds with my international gang is, I still have to face the rest of the world. The world, that I still feel sees me as nothing more than a utility. The world that quite frankly, I feel can be a little more evenly distributed in terms of how much I enjoy being in it.

That will not come overnight, and that will certainly be challenged time and time again by people, but right now, I believe that I am on my own this time for a reason. Not because of other people, but because of me, and I am going to use this space to assist me in my never-ending quest for happiness.

That being said, expect more engaging posts here. It should be recognized that my ability to reflect on myself won't be a regular feature, but this one had to be done, so don't get used to it.

Here goes nothing!