Anyway…

I’ve talked on the blog before about my older brother Smokedawg, and how after all these years, there’s really not much I have to say or want to say to him. I think the last time I mentioned him on this blog was back in 2006. There’s not much to report. He’s still in jail with no sort of release date because he keeps violating probation by breaking the law. The latest crime was stealing copper pipes from newly constructed homes to sell through recycling.

However, as an unfortunate side effect of all this family tree exploration, members from BOTH sides of my family have been tag-teaming me trying to form some kind of Celie/Nettie reunion between me and my older brother.

In order for that to happen though, he’d have to be more like a doting sibling and less like…well…Mister.

He and I have never been on good terms. Not as children, not as teenagers, and certainly not as adults. I blame it mostly on my parents, who pitted us against each other, celebrated his bad boy image and lifestyle, and saw my studious behavior as something worth punishing and deriding at every waking moment.

And then, there’s the fights. Lord, we would have epic fights. Violent. Physical. I’m talking some Kill Bill type shit. Punching holes in walls, breaking beds…we went in on some brawls. One time, he pushed me down a flight of stairs while we were climbing the highest point in Alabama. Of course, I would get punished, and my brother would get to go out and take the family car to do more shenanigans. After a while, I resented the shit out of him. If I saw him at school, I didn’t even look at him or acknowledge his presence. When he finally left to go to college in Atlanta, I was relieved. We shared a room, and I would finally have the whole bedroom to myself. That was short-lived as he got kicked out after a semester because the school found him in possession of drugs. So my brother and I ended up staying in the same room until I left for Atlanta to college. One of the main motivations for me staying in Atlanta after my hellacious first year at Morehouse was that I would not go back home to that situation.

I forget exactly when my brother went to jail for the first time. I think it was June 1999 or so. Over ten years later, and he’s still there, having bounced from correctional facility to halfway house to county jail to state penitentiary. For me, it’s just easier to know he’s there because quite frankly, I can’t stand his ass. And I know no amount of corrective procedures short of shock therapy or drastic mental reprogramming is going to curb his thuggish goon ass tendencies.

(If you think I’m going in especially harsh, I should mention that he pushed me down a flight of stairs when I was 17, causing me to break my elbow. He stood over me, high as a kit, and laughed like an idiot for about 2 minutes before calling 911. You kinda don’t forget or forgive that kind of behavior. Also, he’s my brother, so only I can do that.)

Where was I? Oh yes — the reunion. Uncles and aunts on both sides of my family have been calling me and emailing me saying I need to reconnect with him. I tell them that in order to have a reconnection, there first has to be a connection, and quite frankly, I’m too old for that shit. Ask my father.

Cue my mother.

“You should really write your brother in prison, Karsh.”

“Does he have an email address?”

“You know he doesn’t.”

“Oh, then the answer’s no.”

“Why not? That’s the only brother you got.”

“And how often do you speak to your brother?”

“That’s not the point.”

“You’re right. It’s not. The answer is no. Stop asking me.”

“You know I remember the two of you being the best of friends when y’all were kids. I don’t know what went wrong with you.”

*record scratch*

And that’s when I proceeded to tell my mother the litany of things my brother has done, how I’ve resented him because of it, how I’ve resented her for purposefully turning a blind eye to it because she needed something to focus on post-divorce, and how it would be a cold day in Hell before I do any sort of outreach to him so she should save her precious breath asking.

She was silent for about ten seconds, then hung up the phone. About a week later, I got a letter in the mail.

From Smokedawg.

The envelope was thin, so I was hoping the message would be short and to the point. Luckily for me, it was.


Dear Brother,

I do not blame you. I wish you the best.

Love,
Smokedawg

P.S. I am proud of you.


…

I stared at the letter for a good minute before balling it up and throwing it into the trash. Now go back and read the title of this post.

FIN

I guess rifling through all those branches meant a few nuts would fall out.

So you may remember my uncle Flame Retardant, the one who lives here in Atlanta but hasn’t been receptive about maintaining a relationship with his only nephew. (I say “only” because my uncles are notorious for siring kids and then not claiming them. See how fun family tree research is?) Well lately, he’s been trying to make more of an effort to be a presence in my life, which I find a little off-putting and weird. I mean, if you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know that my family pretty much treats me like a leper, so this is new and strange for me to get used to and accept.

Anywho, his son recently graduated high school, and Flame Retardant had reached out to me to give the lad some college advice (neither he or his ex-wife went to college). I agreed, but told him that my schedule has been busy as of late, so he should call me and let me know when he wants to do this. Well, two months passed, and one day I get a phone call from Flame Retardant. He proceeds to curse me out to the high heavens for not taking the time to talk to my cousin.

“The only reason I wanted to reach back out to you was for him. That’s what family’s supposed to do. I really don’t have any fucking interest in your life or what you do. This family is embarrassed for you. Why do you think we don’t want to talk to you?”

….yeah.

I didn’t feel the need to argue with him — I mean, why should I? It’s not like we were ever that close, and now he just wanted to use me to help out his son, not out of any sort of familial obligation. Get the fuck outta here with that bullshit.

I figured that would be the last I’d hear from that side of the family, but the next day, I got a call from my aunt Truck Driver, the only aunt I have on my father’s side of the family. The last time I remember seeing her I was ten years old, and she was pinching the fuck out of me for no reason. As a matter of fact, the only memories I have of her are her pinching me. Nothing else. She lives in Ohio now…and that’s pretty much it. I don’t know anything about her. Don’t really care to know anything either, so the fact that she had my phone number AND called me…

Anyway, she calls and blubbers out some this is your ont-ee / this is your ont-ee mess and how she wants us to keep in touch because she wants to know who I am and how my life is. This part of the phone call was particularly telling:

“I’ve got a son now – he’s three. His name is Baby X and I love him, and he loves you too. He wants to know about his cousin and y’all need to be cousins and you need to love your cousin. I don’t care what your uncles say about you; I figure that a male influence in his life is good, even if it is yours. I mean, I don’t want you rubbing off on him or anything, but he loves you. Say you love him, Baby X!”

Then she puts the kid on the phone.

“Lub-booooo! I lub-booooo!”

Oh dear. Suddenly, I’ve become the default male cousin to look up to, despite the fact that the family hates me because I’m gay. How the fuck did I get wrangled into that shit? And furthermore, how can I opt out?

I haven’t returned my aunt’s phone call, and I certainly don’t plan on doing so.

Ugh.

I’m flattered. Really.

As stated in the last post, I was in Miami for the past few days staying on South Beach, swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, walking the beach at sunrise, reading, and not getting any sleep. I knew that South Beach was crazy raucous, but add Spain’s World Cup win to that, and the party just keeps on going.

Despite that, I did get some much needed R&R and time to think, write, and plan. Now I’m back home and ready to keep the momentum going. So don’t worry about me! At this rate, I’ll be back to posting once a month in no time.

Enter 23andMe.

I saw a tweet from Paul Stamatiou about a $99 sale on 23andMe’s Complete Edition (originally $499), which includes both ancestry and health testings. This means I can find out about the DNA on both my parent’s sides, as well as see what genetic nasties are lurking in my DNA that I should be aware of in the future. I ordered it, and a week later, I got the kit in the mail.

The test was pretty simple. You spit in a tube, place it in an envelope, then send it back off to them. There’s also a claim code that you use to gain entry to the 23andMe site which includes your raw DNA data as well as a relative finder, several health reports, and an active community base. Typically, it takes 6-8 weeks for your results to come back, but it took me around a week. Fast!

I won’t bore you with a whole analysis of the service and the nuts and bolts behind it, but I will say this much: if you are not Caucasian, your results may not be as comprehensive as you like. Most of 23andMe’s results are from Caucasians, with other ethnicities having smaller percentages. So don’t expect to get definitive results from anything you get from 23andMe; it just depends on how your DNA matches up with what is in their system. I’ll give you an example.

ANCESTRY

My ancestry pairing is as follows: 66% Africa, 22% Europe, 12% Asia. Now given how slavery basically means that most Black folks in America’s DNA is a mishmash which doesn’t make us 100% African (unless you’re 1st generation from the continent), this wasn’t a huge surprise. But the 12% Asia…is that Asian? Which part of Asia? Asia is big as hell. But more than likely, it means Native American (which I know is true on my mother’s side). However, 23andMe will not spell that out for you. 23andMe does have a Native American ancestry finder, but it doesn’t work for people who have substantial African ancestry. It’s best to use 23andMe’s results with any research you may have already done so you can compare.

Also interesting: my mother’s DNA is straight from the continent (haplogroup L3d1c), mainly in Eastern Africa among Bantu speakers. My father though? Straight up European. Nowhere near Africa. His haplogroup is I2b1, and trust when I tell you he is Black as hell. Crazy how genetics works, huh?

23andMe also has a really interesting thing called the Relative Finder, which can find genetic cousins that are also registered on 23andMe. So far, I’ve connected with 11 relatives, including fourth cousins, fifth cousins, and an eleventh cousin twice removed.

HEALTH

None of this was a huge surprise. Black men are often bombarded daily with the health complications of being a Black man. Hypertension. High blood pressure. Prostate cancer. The police. So when I had some “elevated risk” markers on my health reports, it wasn’t a huge shock. The big four on my health report were atrial fibrilation, prostate cancer, ulcerative colitis, and celiac disease (the former two I know about from my grandmother). On the plus side, I have decreased risks for psoriasis, MS, rheumatoid arthritis, and age-related macular degeneration. All of my carrier statuses came back normal, even though I know sickle cell runs in my family on my dad’s side. You win some, you lose some.

(Sidenote: Turns out I might not’ve been born had my father tested positive for sickle-cell because my mother was not even going to take the risk of bearing a child to term due to the decreased life expectancy.)

To me, the traits were the most interesting part of the discovery. Here’s what I found out:

• My hair is slightly curlier than average
• I have extreme lactose intolerance
• I have the same muscle twitch fibers as world-class sprinters
• I have a much decreased risk of baldness
• I have a higher non-verbal IQ than most
• I’m more efficient at recognizing errors
• I have increased pain sensitivity
• Because I was breastfed, my IQ is 4-5 points higher on average than most
• I have a sweet tooth
• I have substantially greater odds of staying alive past the age of 95
• I have greatly increased episodic memory

I feel like a smart, hairy superhero!

To wrap it up, I would recommend that if you’re interested in doing 23andMe, know what you’re getting for the price. And if you can catch it on sale, DO IT. If you don’t have any sort of information about your genetic makeup, this could be a great jumping off point. As always, your mileage my vary.

Like me.

(Note: If you caught the Twitter rant I went on about it, feel free to skip to the updates.)

A few weeks back, I was nominated for an award by this society. Vague, right? (Hey, I’m trying to protect the innocent here!) I had never heard of the agency giving the award, but the name of it sounded pretty eye-catching, so I figured “sure, why not?”

Cut to about a month later. I had forgotten all about the award and was busy with one of my biggest client’s newest projects which was slated to launch soon. The week of the launch, I got an e-mail that I needed to come down to their office and do a “pre-interview” for the award so they can learn more about me.

It sounded peculiar. Every award I’ve ever received has never had that kind of criteria for acceptance. Then again, the last award I got was an employee of the month deal for that job I worked at where I got karshed. (OK, maybe that wasn’t the best example.) What was even more peculiar was that they needed me to show up the next day. We’re talking less than 24 hours of prep time here. On top of that, I had a meeting with a client in the afternoon, so I had to do some juggling to make this pre-interview even happen.

I make it down to the office, and wouldn’t you know it — I’m underdressed. No dress code was given, and other interviewers were in business attire. And if you don’t know how these Atlanta warm days are, but with the humidity, you could walk around stark naked and still feel like you need to strip. I show up in my usual wear — artsy graphic T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. (And yes, I go to see my clients dressed like that. But that’s for another blog post.) I wait for about 10 minutes and now I’m next for the interview.

The interviewer – heretofore referred to as Sapphire – came out the gate with attitude. We sit down and she starts going in on my resume, my history, and about a minute or so in she stops and says “Did you know this was an actual interview? You should have dressed for the occasion.”

“Well, this is the first time I’ve had to go to an interview before I accept an award.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Well damn. She continues.

“This is going to be an event where the media will be present. Real media. We have to make sure that you are media ready.” She looks me up and down like I’m short. “In all ways.”

Now if this were the Karsh of yore, I would have set it off. But you know, I’m entering into this whole period of maturity and grace and shit. Mellowing out. Getting older. (At least that’s what I think.)

I tell her that I’ve been on TV, radio, and print before, so I’m pretty media ready.

“You’ve been on camera? For what? I’ve never heard of you before today.”

I’m still mellow, but I did have this look on my face which I’m sure signaled to her I wasn’t appreciating the unnecessary attitude. I was holding it in so much that I laughed at her last statement.

“That wasn’t a joke. This will be a media event, and we will have a professional photographer with a step and repeat. You see, a step a repeat is…”

“OK, I’m gonna stop you right there,” I said. “I know what a step and repeat is.”

“Do you?” She marks something down on a legal pad, which also has some more notes about me. “Well. Now let’s talk about that hair of yours. This is a media event, so you will need to cut that before tonight.”

“I’m not cutting it.”

“But the media will be present!”

“I’ve been on camera before with my hair and it’s never been a problem. I don’t see how this would be a problem for this event.”

“Well, that may have been fine when you went to Morehouse.” WHAT? I laughed again — clearly she went to CAU. (Kidding!) She continues.

“So-called ‘natural hair’ is not indicative of winners for this award. It’s a simple request. We usually don’t have to ask this because most people know.”

See, I knew what she meant. And for some reason, when she said it, it just made me see red. It’s 2010, and I’m getting shit for my hair by a Black person. A Black person with fucking blond hair and blue eyes. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Lady, my ability to keep a tight fade isn’t what qualified me for this award, and it certainly didn’t contribute to my level of success to this point.”

“But it will keep you at this level of success. And probably keep you from going further.”

“You know what…I won’t be attending this event. Thank you for your consideration.”

“Well, we can have someone accept the award on your behalf if you would like to pick it up later.”

“Actually, don’t even bother.”

That’s when she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“See, that’s what’s wrong with Black folks now. Can’t take any advice that’s going to help them better themselves. Trust me, no one will ever take you seriously with your hair looking like a bush baby.”

Them’s fighting words.

“Sweetheart, plenty of people have taken me seriously. Like when I worked for Big Company, Inc.. Or when I worked for [client name redacted]. And I had the afro then. The only person who seems to have a problem with it is you.”

“Yeah, I have a problem with it. A big problem with it.” She glances back at my resume. “Oh, and you have your own business now. I bet you got fired from Big Company, Inc., didn’t you? Probably over that hair and that smart mouth.”

We go back and forth like this for a while. Need a reference point?

The volume must’ve attracted attention from outside, because this tall S-Curl wearing brotha came in and was all “Sapphire, is there a problem going on?”

“Oh no, Mr. Karsh was just leaving.”

Well alllllllllllrighty then.

I get up, staring Sapphire right in the face like Celie did Mister. All I needed was the crooked hand gesture. S-Curl asks if I need my parking validated.

“No, I took MARTA.”

“Figures,” Sapphire shot back. She was really trying to come for me.

I walk out into the wood-swathed lobby, and there are about four or five other candidates there, all in business attire looking at me like I had an arm growing out of my forehead. S-Curl is apologizing for Sapphire’s behavior and starts to give a little history about the agency. I get into the elevator, but not without one last bit of old Black folk advice.

“My brother, a haircut would not hurt.”

I didn’t go to the event. Instead, Gaara a friend of his, and I, went to some lounge on Howell Mill and ended the night at Flip Burger Boutique. No haircut required.

So….the update. The next day, the president of the agency e-mailed me with a heartfelt apology for what transpired. I was surprised word of the incident reached him — turns out this award is a national honor given in ten different cities (not just Atlanta), and Sapphire was given the boot.

Plus, after talking it over with Death to Shakespeare (my mother, for those following along at home), she felt like that one incident shouldn’t overshadow what is a pretty good honor.

I decided to accept the award.

Putting those setbacks aside, I’ve started tracing the family back using a few sites (Geni, Ancestry, MyLife). Geni has been great for actually building the tree out, Ancestry has census records and birth and death certificates going back forever, and MyLife helped me fill in some of the blanks of people who are still alive with their ages, addresses, and any other relatives.

Now before I proceed, I need to step on my soapbox here for a minute on the importance of taking the census and of not being a dick to your children.

The US Census only goes back to 1790, and for a large part of its history, has been done orally (you know, door-to-door). This year, I heard a lot of people bitching and moaning about the census, why we still need it, why they need to be counted (I’m looking at you, unwashed Williamsburg hipsters), and all that sort of rot. Well, when you’re dead and gone and your future kin are trying to find out where they come from, they’ll actually find out who you are and what you did instead of being some greasy blank spot in the family tree. Don’t do your future fam a disservice because you couldn’t be arsed to fill out ten questions in less than ten minutes. Slacker.

Oh yes, while I’m at it, being a dick to your children kinda ensures that you will probably end up alone when you get to be too old to take care of yourself. I’m not saying that the notion of filial piety doesn’t apply in modern culture, but denying your kids rights they should have just because you can’t get your shit together or because you’re still holding some deep-seated grudge against a family member doesn’t mean that your kid has to inherit that baggage.

For example…while tracking back my family tree, I discovered that a lot of things I thought about my family true were just lies told to me because my parents were still salty about some shit that happened when I wasn’t even a twinkle in my father’s eye.

On my father’s side, I discovered they all don’t have the same father (but share the same mother). There’s lots of animosity between the siblings because they look down on the others with different fathers. Half of them have kids they don’t even claim (i.e., my first cousins). Their mother’s siblings (great-aunts, great-uncles) throw shade towards the kids not in the “direct” bloodline, which explains why they treated me like crap as a kid at family reunions (smacking and pinching me for no reason, telling me I’m adopted, etc.). Some of them went to the grave carrying that catty behavior.

It’s no better on my mom’s side. Her younger sister has apparently been married like four or five times, but only told the family about one of them (I found the marriage licenses). My great aunts also have a mess of unclaimed kids (more family I don’t know about) and always looked down on my grandmother and her family for staying in the South and not moving to Detroit like they did. (Joke’s on them now, huh?) That explains why as a kid, I’d get suitcases full of musty old clothes from the 60s and 70s three sizes too big. Guess they felt like they were throwing their country cousins a bone by offloading their Salvation Army-bound vestments. I was also told a lot of fake names of some of my relatives, further confusing things.

So you can imagine that when I went to start tracing the family, I ran into a lot of issues. What was different this time was that my mother actually seemed to be willing to help me out. And she did too — she supplied obituaries, birth and death dates, photos…all kinds of shit she had stashed in an album and never shared with me even when I asked. Her reason? “Well, I guess you’re old enough to know now — you’re about to be an adult.” I figured I crossed that threshold when I was 18, but what do I know?

With research, I found that my family tree went back on my mother’s side as far as 387 B.C. You read it right. We went from Mesopotamia to Finland to Sweden to France to the UK to Massachusetts to Virginia and then all through the South ending up in Alabama. And there’s some famous people in my tree as well. Here’s a few: Lady Godiva, Charlemagne, and William the Conqueror. Going back even further showed that I’m descended from the Seleucid Empire, one of the many empires formed in the Hellenistic period after the conquests of Alexander the Great. There’s even a Cleopatra in my timeline, the daughter of that Cleopatra.

On my father’s side, the research stopped at my grandmother. I don’t know her actual name, and I don’t have a close enough relationship with any of my uncles or aunts for them to tell me. It’s a bummer, but I’ve decided to take a more scientific approach to finding out the truth.

That’s right…a DNA test. Stay tuned!

No, it’s not the free lunch. Although I have always wanted to try out Flip Burger Boutique…

Once again, I have decided to try and create my family tree. I tried it when I was 21, again at 23, and again at 25, when I was once again brutally rebuffed and told “we’re not that kind of family”. What, the kind of family that knows its history? Seriously, each time I’ve reached out to my mom (Death to Shakespeare), my grandmother, (Ma’dea), or any other relatives, they’ve stopped me dead in my tracks when it came to uncovering my ancestry. Hell, uncovering their ancestry. And you know, for a while I decided to let it go, because I knew the only reason they didn’t want me to know was because I was gay (and in their estimation, could not deliver biological children to them). I lived my life. But after all those years, I realize it’s not about them. It was never about them. It was about me.

I have two half-brothers. My mother’s been married seven times. My father has remarried and has a son. Most of my parents’ siblings don’t speak to one another. The rest of the family is spread out around the country. I want to know about my family for my own benefit and self-knowledge. I’d love to know who my family was several generations ago. I want to know their stories, because that helps me know my own history. Plus, I’d like to know about my family in case there’s any nasty genetic dispositions lurking in my chromosomal pairs that I need to know about (especially any shit I can prevent).

Right now, I’m using a combination of Geni and Ancestry to help me build the tree off of the limited information I know (which is mainly just first names). I haven’t decided if I want to go the full monty and get actual DNA testing though. Both 23andMe and African Ancestry offer the service, but we’re talking at least $500 for the information I am trying to receive. And while the information is priceless to me, the cost to access it is a motherfucker.

Nevertheless, I’m soldiering on. Stay tuned.

Now it’s been a while since I heard from him — the last time was way back in 2004 when my father had a heart attack. After that incident, Flame Retardant claimed that he wanted to keep in touch with me more since we lived in the same city. I’ve never gotten so much as a phone call or an e-mail, which is what makes today’s correspondence a bit of a surprise. Was another family member dying?

He sends me an e-mail titled “family for life” — yes, I know; I’m wretching on the inside too — that goes a little something like this:

how are you doing? i was thinking about you and my wife told me to go to the web. i see this is your world now. never forget your family. we are talking about how good it would be to see you despite your problematic condition. maybe that will happen one day. just wanted to reach out. don’t forget to reach to the lord to cleanse your sins. maybe one day we can have lunch.

The “problematic condition” he’s referring to would be my homosexuality. And after they’ve already disowned me…now they see I’m doing well and want back in my good graces? (Actually, back in my graces period; I don’t think they were ever good with them.) And then they want to throw some religious mess to absolve my “problematic condition”. Get the fuck outta here with that bullshit.

…

A free lunch would be nice though.

Back in the day, I wrote for myself. I like to tell myself that I still do, but that’s not true — now, there are readers. And more than that, there are lurkers; people who know I’m blogging here, but would never have the balls to comment (and further still, would silently judge me from afar). It’s a bit of a different beast when you know you’re blogging and getting read versus blogging and not giving a shit.

I gotta get that old blogging mojo back. I used to be boss at this shit, yo. Ultimate Blogger, Backwash, 9rules, Atlanta Metroblogging…I used to write words that would inspire you, make you laugh, and make you cry. Now I’m just writing and the emotion ain’t there like it once was.

For those of you who have been in the game for as long as I have, what motivates you? What has you continually putting out great content? Because lately, I feel like I’ve been…well…you know the drill.

My SXSW experience has been less than stellar. To be honest, it kinda sucks. My usually debilitating pine allergies doubled up on my ass the minute I stepped outside the Austin airport. Cedar fever‘s what they call it. And it’s been such a huge drag. It’s one thing to not even be at SXSW and hearing all the chatter on Twitter. That’s easy to avoid — you can filter out the talk or just not visit Twitter at all. But when you’re here and right across the street from all the action and can’t make it because your allergies have you by the balls (and by the throat and lungs), it sucks even worse. Right now, I’m typing up this post while sitting in a panel, and it’s taking everything in me to not pack up, go back to the hotel, and just pass out.

Actually, passing out would be a plus — I also haven’t gotten much sleep since I touched down on Thursday because the deep, painful coughing doesn’t let me get more than ten minutes in at a time. Popping all these pills in different quantities is playing havoc with my body now, and I’m feeling like an antisocial bump on a log. I’ll spare you the rest of the woe is me speech, but needless to say, I’m ready to get the hell back to Atlanta and my bed.

Sorry SXSW. Don’t know if I’ll be coming back for a second year. It’s not your fault though, I swear!