9. Me, Myself & I

My son Asher XT Gordon was born in 2004. My wife and I labored over names; we both knew that it had to mean something special. Something for us, something for him, and something for the future.

I was exposed to charged racial situations early in my life. At this point, I think that it is important for me to point out that I have not had an abundance of black friends. I am not pretending. But, I have had a few good friends and acquaintances throughout my life, which makes these incidents (by percentage) all the more powerful. I may not have had a lot of black friends, but I have had even fewer real heroes.

In grade school, I moved from nearly all white suburbs to a nearly all black city school. My first experience with race was with a “troubled” boy (whom I befriended) named Cecil Cooper. He was black, and I invited Cecil over for dinner one day, and he abruptly asked “how do your parents feel about black people?” I didn’t really know the answer to this, and I was surprised by the question. I remember thinking: What difference does it make if you’re black? That’s how naive I was. This was the first of many experiences of being reminded and confronted by race while growing up. Sometimes it would go under my radar, sometimes it would raise my awareness, and other times it would raise my anger. I went from the white middle class suburbs to the inner city, and then back to the upper class suburbs. My education placement went from average (middle class), to top tier (inner city), to bottom tier (upper class). That upper class placement never let me forget where I came from. I was that white kid from the city, a place where poor people lived. Later on, there was the time I went into a record store with my black friend Al, and after leaving he pointed out that they had heat-sealed his bag shut, but not mine. There was the high school bon fire where my black friend Derek had numerous racial comments directed solely at him by the one of the sheriffs who busted it up. There was the boyfriend from Kentucky of the girl having a small college house party who pulled out a Ku Klux Klan outfit and told nigger jokes as soon as the “negroes” left the party (true story). Race is so prevalent to my history, that it is intricately interwoven into who I am.

I grew up during the 70’s- with heroes like Hank Arron, and Muhammad Ali. I grew up during the dawn of Hip Hop, and was exposed to Run DMC in 1983, and regularly explained that it was the music of the revolution. In my first college literature class I was exposed to the works of James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, and the Harlem Renaissance. When I read the autobiography of Malcolm X in 1987, it literally changed my life. I heard one of the most moving political speeches of my life come from Jesse Jackson at the 1988 Democratic convention. When I was turned on to Malcolm, the prevailing mentality from the white population was that he was a violent reverse-racist (which is in itself a misnomer). I came away with a different idea of Malcolm. His life and the changes within his short life were deeply inspirational.

I saw Malcolm X as a hero. Not make believe, but a real hero. And like I stated earlier, I did not have an abundance of real heroes. The short facts are: In his youth, his family was subjected to horrific crimes ranging from racial humiliation to murder. His life followed a road of crime, hustling, and superficial coping mechanisms. In prison he was exposed to Islam and education. He returned to a childhood love of knowledge and changed his life to move away from avoidance to confrontation. He became a leader out of a love for his people, and as a necessary defense (some may say offense) in racist America. He advocated change “By Any Means Necessary”, and was a vocal critic of race, American history, and the government. He had the courage to confront his own convictions, and he did by constantly evolving his philosophy until his murder in 1965 at the age of 39.

As of this writing, I’m 39.

I was once asked at a conference to name the most educated, and well rounded individual I could think of, and why. I named Malcolm X (to the obvious shock of my educational counterparts). I explained that he was the total package. He is the high water mark of how good and admirable a human being can become, no matter where they start out. He was versatile in knowledge, had ferocious oratory skills, legendary convictions, he sweated truth and bled honesty. Always fiery, but never showy- he liked to Make it Plain. That’s the way he preferred to be introduced. How could I not have someone of this caliber, this American hero, this example of what I think the human race should strive to be- factor into the name of my son? For many people Malcolm X is the past- a history of what was. For me, he is the future of what will be.

(April 2008) Thunder's End

In September of 1993 at the age of 78, my father passed away. In October of 1993, I took a part time job working in an animal hospital. I wanted the job because I loved animals, and I needed to do something extra that felt soothing. One day in October I came in to find a large German Sheppard half in a large cage, and half on a blanket on the floor of the back exam area. It was alive, but just laying there. His name was Thunder. Thunder suffered from a common problem with large dogs. His stomach had twisted and he could not ingest food, nor process anything in his bowel. At the time it was a $600 surgery to fix the problem. All day I sat around and petted him, waiting to see if he was going to have surgery or if he was going to be put down. ALL DAY I waited. The whole time I was petting him I was thinking about my father being in intensive care for 3 months. There was medication being administered to ease the discomfort, and an IV, and everything we could do to make him comfortable. Just at closing, the owner came in. He was a gruff man in his 30's that looked like a trucker. He could not pay for the surgery and opted to put Thunder down. I held Thunder on my lap while they injected him. I made the decision to have my father taken off of life support less than a month prior. I felt his breathing slow, I felt his heart stop, and then Thunder was not there…my father was not there- they were just gone. There was a body, but no dog. There was a body, but no person. Whatever my father was- what was left was not what I knew.

At the same time as this event I was teaching Illustration at R.I.T., and I did a painting demonstration for every class I taught. I thought that this was a great chance to show students that the depth of visual art can hit on many levels. That the idea was to capture the change of that moment, from life to death. Something “real” and something missing. Chaos to nothing. Sound to silence. And in my head, maybe to understand the weight of my fathers death. This painting hangs in my dining room and represents one of the great turning points of my life- the one where I had to suddenly pay attention.

I find myself thinking about this a lot- that moment when what makes us "us"...goes away. That moment when we just return to being a random selection of stuck together carbon. I titled it “Thunders End” for a few reasons. Obviously it was the end of this dog’s life. But more importantly there was a painting by Andrew Wyeth called Distant Thunder. Many people have characterized this painting as a signal to the oncoming turbulence of the mid to late 60's. It was painted prior to the mass social upheaval and change (The dog is said to have his ear perked at the thunder which represents the coming social change). I was a big fan of his work, and it just clicked: "Distant Thunder...Thunder's End". His painting may have symbolized the social upheaval breaking the peace of the nap. My painting was more about the internal struggle and loss of my father. I am not comparing my work to Andrew Wyeth, I am bringing Wyeth into my understanding. I have 2 or 3 paintings that I think are actually important. Not just as art, but as markers for my life. This is one of the most important.

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