Jeremiah's School of Levitation
Upsy-Daisy!
Friday, August 25, 2006
Hand is the Word
This has been a strange week for me, but I thought I'd get in on the poetry word, which is "hand." Here's my bit. Have a weekend!
Hand is an appropriate word for me today because, yesterday, I had one person's hands on me more than I've have in a long while.
No, I didn't "get lucky."
I "got a haircut."
It's job search time and that is usually the only time I go in for a haircut. The rest of the time, I'm busy growing my dreadlocks. The jobs I eventually get don't mind the dreadlock look (well, I didn't used to think they did), so I wait until I have a job before I grow the locks. I'm diligent about keeping the locks clean and short--they're nowhere near looking like Bob Marley's rop (though, one day, when I'm free of the Man, they will never be cut again and, consequently, may just get damned ropy).
However, on a job search, interviewers can't keep their eyes from straying to the locks. It's like a lady wearing an Uma Thurman one-piece skin-suffocating suit to an interview for a high level corporate position--you can't tell the interviewers a thing that they'll actually listen to because your look has already spoken, and is now humming in their ears like high-voltage wires. You could say "And I came up with an idea that tripled the profits in our department last year," and all they'll hear will be "Pop! Buzzz! Hummmm! Crackle! Zip! Fizzz!"
So, off go the locks. And, the barber was more than happy to shave them off, or, as he said as his hands probed my locks "clean you up, young man." So, his hands went in, they went out, they tightened and loosened just in my periphery as he lectured me about how I need to stay cleaned up. His hands pushed my head sideways, up, and down, to give him the proper angle on the clear-cutting of my personality. Sometimes, his hands formed into fists as he proclaimed that the black man still has a long way to go and that he needs to stay clean. "Gotta play the game," he said. "And, one of the rules is you keep that head clean. Ain't no company going to send you to represent them in China with your hair looking like that, no matter who you are, especially not you!"
Of course, I listened. I was, in effect, getting a scolding. And, I took it, because, see, I'm 41 and he's 73. He, by default, knows more than I do. Add on that he's got multiple thousands of dollars in land, and his own successful business and, well, I'm in shut-up and listen mode, just like I am when my dad talks to me.
So, I listened. And, his hands did a dance. A dance of defiance, a dance of definitiveness, a dance of urgency, and a dance of molding. He gripped my head, not only to turn it so that he could off my dreads, but also as if he was trying to mold some sense into my brain, stretch and pull those neural pathways, get some circulation going on up there.
I grudgingly agreed with nearly everything he said, even though I don't generally live my life according to the precepts he was putting forth. See, I'm 41 and he's 73. He, by default, has a perspective that, no matter how much I respect, I may never grasp until I too am 73. But, I have to bow to his knowledge, and his well-meaning teaching.
And, so, in gratitude for his wisdom, however homespun, I gotta give him a hand.
Hand is an appropriate word for me today because, yesterday, I had one person's hands on me more than I've have in a long while.
No, I didn't "get lucky."
I "got a haircut."
It's job search time and that is usually the only time I go in for a haircut. The rest of the time, I'm busy growing my dreadlocks. The jobs I eventually get don't mind the dreadlock look (well, I didn't used to think they did), so I wait until I have a job before I grow the locks. I'm diligent about keeping the locks clean and short--they're nowhere near looking like Bob Marley's rop (though, one day, when I'm free of the Man, they will never be cut again and, consequently, may just get damned ropy).
However, on a job search, interviewers can't keep their eyes from straying to the locks. It's like a lady wearing an Uma Thurman one-piece skin-suffocating suit to an interview for a high level corporate position--you can't tell the interviewers a thing that they'll actually listen to because your look has already spoken, and is now humming in their ears like high-voltage wires. You could say "And I came up with an idea that tripled the profits in our department last year," and all they'll hear will be "Pop! Buzzz! Hummmm! Crackle! Zip! Fizzz!"
So, off go the locks. And, the barber was more than happy to shave them off, or, as he said as his hands probed my locks "clean you up, young man." So, his hands went in, they went out, they tightened and loosened just in my periphery as he lectured me about how I need to stay cleaned up. His hands pushed my head sideways, up, and down, to give him the proper angle on the clear-cutting of my personality. Sometimes, his hands formed into fists as he proclaimed that the black man still has a long way to go and that he needs to stay clean. "Gotta play the game," he said. "And, one of the rules is you keep that head clean. Ain't no company going to send you to represent them in China with your hair looking like that, no matter who you are, especially not you!"
Of course, I listened. I was, in effect, getting a scolding. And, I took it, because, see, I'm 41 and he's 73. He, by default, knows more than I do. Add on that he's got multiple thousands of dollars in land, and his own successful business and, well, I'm in shut-up and listen mode, just like I am when my dad talks to me.
So, I listened. And, his hands did a dance. A dance of defiance, a dance of definitiveness, a dance of urgency, and a dance of molding. He gripped my head, not only to turn it so that he could off my dreads, but also as if he was trying to mold some sense into my brain, stretch and pull those neural pathways, get some circulation going on up there.
I grudgingly agreed with nearly everything he said, even though I don't generally live my life according to the precepts he was putting forth. See, I'm 41 and he's 73. He, by default, has a perspective that, no matter how much I respect, I may never grasp until I too am 73. But, I have to bow to his knowledge, and his well-meaning teaching.
And, so, in gratitude for his wisdom, however homespun, I gotta give him a hand.
Elliot, 2:21 PM
7 Back at me:
Great imagery. I was laid of once - start up company. It really hit hard as I was so naiive and full of gungho for the company. But I learned and moved forward. Good luck on the job searching.
laid off...damn typos
I wish I had a hair-dresser person like dat...give me a good talkin' to young lady...even if I didn't do what she said, because, really, I'm a rebel. But still...I'd like that.
Always good to defer to the man with a razor in his hand. :-)
I had a similar experience receiving a speeding ticket. It was handed to me by an RCMP officer just inside the Banff Park gates. His words of wisdom were
"I'd advise you to slow down and watch your signs, young man..."
I was 28, he was 73.
"I'd advise you to slow down and watch your signs, young man..."
I was 28, he was 73.
I can just picture him giving you a talking-to! (Good luck with the job hunt!)
Hey! We haven't heard from you since you got your haircut. I hope it didn't drain all the creative juices from your brain, making it impossible to write again?! Heaven forbid it!
