3/22 2500

Journal Entry 108
Axel Martin
9/9/2016
2:06 AM
Box Me.
        I wonder why in the media black people are only portrayed as either like this militant Black Panther warrior that wear long matte black trench coats with these dorky no tint motorcycle glasses. While the latter is some type of misguided, disillusioned, modern day Uncle Tom figure that get their kicks off of appearing on Fox News to subtly imply that blacks are inherently inferior to the much preferred white man and woman. When in reality, we’re not like that, I mean look at me. Sure, I think capitalism with restraints is a sustainable economic system when governing America. However, I don’t hate my fellow black man, and I don’t support the slow systematic eradication of the perceived inferior race. Unless that race comprises of whoever the hell grows okra plants… Jesus Christ do I hate okra. I don’t even know who eats that crap, like who wakes up and thinks; “Gee, can’t wait to have some yummy okra today!” Gross… Anyways, what happened to the black people who are normal beings existing as average people? I feel like that’s the only type of black people white people enjoy seeing in the media. Who wants to go to a circus and see the elephants do normal shit like eating grass, or walking around… doing normal… elephant shit? I guess that’s the same phenomenon with black people. Even after the first BLACK president, Barack Obama, who was a great example of a normal black person. I see myself in Obama all the time, and I’m sure all the little black boys in and around Stockton see themselves as not extremities lemmatized by the media. To be fair though, Barack Obama isn’t technically black, he’s mixed. So maybe the media didn’t consider him fully black. I mean, I’m mixed too but I identify as black more often than not. Why is that though? Technically, I’m no more black than I am white, so why would I identify as black? Should I really be identifying as what other people falsely perceive my race to be, I mean, I know that I’m mixed. So the notion that I’m black and not mixed had to come from others… Not me. Wow, that’s a painful realization, and it kind of hurts too. Is that why I feel so insecure? Is that why I don’t know who I am in this dark, lonely, cosmic void of absurdity? Who knows.
Fin
Axel Martin
3:45 AM


Double Consciousness
        School actually isn’t that bad to me, I kind of like it. My African-American history is probably the worst though. I think I made a grave mistake when I sat in the front row the first day. I’m slightly known around the school for being one of the few students of our senior class to be considered for some Ivy Leagues. Plus I do a little bit of debating, and bowling for Stockton. Even when bracing for this type of recognition didn’t prepare me for this eccentric tall middle-aged white woman named Mrs. Kasey with perfect white teeth smiling in my face.


        “I know an eager learner when I see one! Would you like to introduce yourself to class Mr. Martin?!”`
        I mean, you kind of just did. But, okay.


        “Hi. I’m Axel Martin.”
       
        She waited a few moments in her excited stance after I sat down as if I was going to add something to my brief introduction. A few awkward glances were exchanged from the students and she rose up and began talking again.


“Axel forgot to add that he is applying to Yale, Princeton, and many other fantastic Ivy Leagues! Isn’t that right Axel?!”


I was blushing magenta pink now. Can black people even blush?


“Yeah,” I chirped out.


“In addition to that, he is also a national debater, an acclaimed young poet, and he bowls in his freetime! I suggest you all use Axel as a resource in this class while you can.”


Thanks lady I’ve never met. I appreciate you volunteering me as a teacher’s assistant.  I’ve hardly had times in class as embarrassing as this but I realized literally nobody was listening as I looked around. Everyone was on their phones. That made me feel a bit better. Everything was fine from then on until we started talking about W.E.B. Du Bois’s idea of double consciousness. Ms. Kasey was in the middle of explaining the concept when she turned and faced me.


“Axel, I’m sure you know a lot on this topic, would like to explain to the whole class what Du Bois’s theory on double consciousness is with that big beautiful brain of yours?”


Jesus, I’m surprised but relieved she didn’t say ‘black’ to finish that goofy alliteration. The sound of inattentive bubble-gum popping and finger tapping texting couldn’t of made me less embarrassed than I already was.


“Yeah… I don’t really know about that topic.”


I lied.


“I bet you know a lot on this topic in particular,” Mrs Kasey dragged on.


‘In particular?!’ What did that mean? I’ve known this teacher for about 45 minutes and she’s already assuming that I know everything about an African American’s theory on double consciousness?!


“How about you give it a try,” Mrs. Kasey insisted.
“I think W.E.B Du Bois’s idea of double consciousness was the idea that black Americans at time were conflicted with their identity regarding their national origin and race due to how the United States government treated blacks at the time. This idea was sparked after Du Bois’s came back from studying in Europe and saw the stark differences between how Europeans treated black people than how Americans treated Americans.”


“Wow, that was very enlightening Axel, did everyone write that down? See! I knew you knew what to say.”


“Thanks,” I muttered.


I don’t know why I gave her unfair assumption the satisfaction that I actually did know about double consciousness. I could’ve easily kept my mouth shut. Maybe it was her relentless persistence that made me talk. Or maybe I secretly wanted to talk about double consciousness. Who knows? Either way, the rest of the class went by smoother and Mrs. Kasey stopped calling on me to answer questions. I think she started to understand about my disinterest of assuming the role Encyclopedia Brown.


“Uh, Axel, can you actually stay back so we can talk for a minute,” Mrs. Kasey called out.


I couldn’t tell what she wanted to talk about. Maybe she wanted to know my position about whether to kill all white people or if we should legally allow lynchings in certain areas of the south.


“I know you didn’t want to talk that much today, and I apologize for pushing you to. However, I believe you are a great thinker and could contribute a lot of valuable information to this class,” she said sympathetically.


“Thank you for that, I hope I can be,” I said vaguely.


“You know you will,” she responded quickly.


I walked out the doors and headed for the halls. I see my best friend, Miranda, walking towards me with this weird glimmer in her eyes, and a smile that reads mischievous but innocent. Like when your dad is getting ready to tell a objectively terrible joke. I mean, I wouldn’t know because I don’t have a dad, but something like that I imagine.


“So they just let anybody in this school now,” Miranda joked.


“I could say the same thing to you, what are even you wearing,” I retorted.




Miranda is cute. She has long blonde hair, soft green eyes, and stood at 5’4 so everyone who talked to her looked down with awe at her innocent freckled face. I’ve been friends with Miranda since fifth grade, but it wasn’t until high school did we start to become as close as we are now. She was easily the person I respected most besides my mom. Miranda is regarded as “my twin” by our friends because our interests in literature, art, music, and cinema is almost identical. We can easily spend hours going back and forth from talking about the poetic fluidity of Ernest Hemingway to the deep thematic messages of Quentin Tarantino. Her mom was an author too so that was cool. Her mom often wrote about empowered women in her books and I always saw that in Miranda, while still being as vulnerable as rosemallow flower.


I noticed she was wearing non-prescription large, clear, square eyeglasses.


“Are you talking about the glasses? I thought they’d make me look smarter,” she told me.


“Well, sorry to disappoint you but you failed,” I snarked.


“Oh Senpai, I’m sorry, I only serve to please your desires. Please forgive me,” Miranda said sarcastically.


As Miranda and I were walking down the halls laughing and joking, we found our other friends Veronica and Ryan.


“Hola, thee glorious Axel and his trusty sidekick, Miranda,” Veronica exclaimed.


Miranda rolled her eyes.


Veronica was the most popular of us. Veronica is pretty slim, five-foot-eight, and considerably attractive with pitch black hair. She is super rich. Her dad owns a large investment firm in Tokyo and has amassed a significant amount of wealth. Veronica’s dad is always in and out of Japan for business and her mom is always vacationing in Florida so she throws these huge parties at her massive home pretty habitually. Then she hires the family maids to clean the house in its entirety in just under 5 hours. Veronica is a purebred Japanese girl but has the voice of any stereotypical rich white girl and almost the exact mannerisms of Paris Hilton. If I didn’t know Veronica since 8th grade, I don’t know if we’d be friends today. Not to say that’s because she’s shallow or anything like that, she’s actually a really smart person. I’d just be so nervous to talk to her.


“Only jokes love,” Veronica reassured.


“Anyways… what are we getting for lunch,” Ryan asked all of us.


I hung out with Ryan the most out of everyone in the group. He is the mediator of us, and always has something genuine to contribute. Ryan played baseball, and was exceptionally good at it too. Although you’d never know that by talking to him, he’s incredibly humble. Ryan and I have been friends the longest and up until 9th grade the friend I associated with the most. Now we see each other less and less because of baseball but we’re still close. Sometimes his dad will call me and ask to go out and a grab a bite to eat or see a movie with him. In many ways, Ryan’s dad is like that dad I never had.


“I’m feeling subway, what about you guys,” Miranda asked.


“Nah, I think I want some Panera to be honest,” I replied.


“Yeah, me too Axel,” Veronica chimed in.


“I’m cool with whatever,” Ryan added.


“Looks like Panera it is, Miranda,” I said.


“Ugh. Fine,” Miranda responded.


When we got in the car all the subtle tension from earlier evaporated as we let the windows down, blasted Grateful Dead, went an easy 100 MPH in Ryan’s Jeep. When we arrived at Panera everyone ordered their food. Miranda got bagels. She loves bagels a lot. Veronica got a salad, like always. Ryan got a big bowl of soup. As I went up for my order, someone called out my name from behind.


“Axel? Is that you,” an unknown voice asked.


I turned around to see it was a girl named Sarah. Sarah was a tall, white, blonde, volleyball player at Stockton. We were acquaintances at school but never anything more.


“Hi Sarah, what’s up,” I responded.


“Heeey, are you going to my Halloween party,” she asked.


“That’s like two months away, and you’re already planning for it,” I asked.


“Well duh... it’s going to be the best party ever,” she replied.


“I didn’t know about it, but yeah sure that sounds super fun,” I said.


I lied.


“Yeah and make sure to bring your friend, Ryan,” she enforced.


“Yeah, of course, Ryan would love to come,” I assured her.


I lied again.


“Okay cool, see you later Axel,” she concluded.


I ordered a steak and white cheddar sandwich and joined my friends to an extensive conversation about Westworld, a new series on HBO. When I got home later that day, I came back in to find my mother in her room sipping wine and hysterically laughing to Modern Family.


“Are these shows that funny,” I questioned.


“Shhh,” she snapped.


I loved my mom, she’s truly an interesting woman. When she had me she was dating a famous poet, Stephen Allen, AKA my dad. They were madly in love up until I was born. And one day he just left, saying that he was moving to New York City to start a new life. We weren’t hurt financially though, my mom had an economics degree from University of Michigan and quickly picked up a job as a finance consultant for a big corporation that sells furniture called Frolley. My mom wanted to be a writer with my dad, but that dream quickly died when he left. Sometimes I’ll catch her writing in her journal, but I never know what she’s writing. When I was little we often got weird looks because of how white she is, you would think they could just figure out that I’m mixed. But they never do.


“How was Panera? Did you get me anything,” she asked.


“Uhhh no? How would I know you wanted something,” I retorted.


“Because I love their cookies obviously,” she said.


“Well, sorry, no cookies today,” I said.


“That’s it. You’re grounded mister,” she joked.


“Did you see Steve’s interview today on the New Yorker,” I asked.


“Nope,” she said vaguely.


“Yeah he’s coming out a new book,” I told her.


“Oh,” she said quickly.


“Yeah… Well I’m going to go to bed,” I said.
“Alright honey, goodnight,” she said.


Talking about my dad was always a tough topic. I really didn’t know how she felt about him, and talking about him always made things awkward – so for the most part we just avoided it. Seeing him online a lot also made things weird for us. It was like we see a version of him that is celebrated and loved while we have been so wrongly affected by him. I mean, I could care less about the guy, but he’s no hero.