I Don't Want to Die Poor

by Michael Arceneaux

  I didn’t hate it, but those kids wore my ass out more often than not. And no, doing day care for toddlers isn’t the same as teaching high school students, but uh, the former sounds like a much more enviable position to be in. I have been one of those students in a classroom led by a teacher who seemingly fell into teaching rather than answered a calling. You know the difference in how they speak to you, how they treat you, and how they run their classroom. The sacrifices they make are not ideal, but they speak to a greater purpose.

  That’s why teachers have my absolute respect. Who would any of us be without good teachers? However, if the aim for me was to leave a field (even if intended to be a temporary move, which sounds easier said than done once you go in an opposite direction) that presented a litany of challenges, such as proper compensation for my work and tangible support in making sure I do my best job imaginable, is working in the public school system the best alternative?

  That’s why I didn’t take that job. I can be mad at home and save gas. Now, I do root for the rich to get taxed more fairly and for school funding and property taxation to get a divorce so the kind of schools I attended are allocated more resources. All of which would make teaching more appealing.

  Please don’t hate me, teachers. It’s not y’all; it’s the system. And it’s some of those kids, but that’s not your fault, either.

  FALSE PROPHET

  I am fascinated that Louis Farrakhan is still invited places. Not only has he had long acknowledged he “helped create the atmosphere” that led to Malcolm X’s assassination, he has maintained archaic views about women and abhorrent ones about Jewish people and queer folk. Traditionally, helping facilitate a political leader’s death while being a sexist, homophobic, anti-Semitic egomaniac sounds like the résumé of an incredibly successful conservative media personality, but Farrakhan is Black, so he doesn’t get considered right wing. Please don’t ask me about America’s silly-ass metric of assessing one’s political ideology with regards to the left-and-right binary. I didn’t make the rules; the whites did.

  No matter how horrific his views are, Farrakhan maintains a certain stature within the Black community. He gets invited to Aretha Franklin’s funeral. He is asked to speak at Nipsey Hussle’s memorial. If you are Black and famous enough to warrant a televised service, there is a high probability that Farrakhan will be in attendance, if not one of the main attractions. There are plenty of public figures who manage to skate by on past laurels and their overall legacy, but betcha by golly wow does this slick-haired man deserve bragging rights on such a feat. If you dare speak ill of him, plenty o’ folks will defend him; not to say that your critiques are invalid, but that they should be overlooked like the slight dent on that fancy car that gets you pulled over in white neighborhoods.

  It is remarkable.

  I once saw Louis Farrakhan speak at Howard University. Not because I liked the nigga or anything. By the time the former calypso singer with the smooth conk rolled to campus, my mind had already been made up about him (see list of aforementioned offenses). A man like that isn’t a riddle, but while I found him repugnant, I wanted to see the show for myself. And it was very much a show.

  Farrakhan’s humanity might get a bad review on Yelp from me, but he is a gifted orator. He also knows his audience. He knew most of the people in attendance weren’t there to hear about Dr. Yakub, so he went for the target that keeps him in business: white supremacy. And when it wasn’t about white supremacy, it was about us, although he took on the cadence of a speaker referred to as “the good reverend” rather than anyone I’ve heard from his actual religion. Again, he knows his audience. I get the many reasons he retains stature—legacy, oratorial gifts, and the like—but he has earned a higher level of hateration all the same.

  However, in recent years, there is the odd association the Nation of Islam has with the Church of Scientology. I read about this years before Leah Remini rang the alarm about the Nation of Islam’s becoming one of the Haus of Xenu’s besties on an episode of her docu-series Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath, but seeing former members call Farrakhan out on camera for selling out his flock to vanilla latte–colored liars should have been a bigger deal, no? Dianetics, L. Ron Hubbard, Xenu, Tom Cruise, and the rest of Marvin the Martian’s clique don’t have much in common with the NOI’s ideology.

  So how is Farrakhan able to sell both bean pies and spaceship tickets?

  Bill Maher employs an acidic tone whenever bemoaning the caustic impact organized religion has had on society, but he does have a point that there are plenty of suckers roaming the Earth ready to be taken advantage of by someone under the guise of a spiritual awakening. It’s not just the Honorable Minister Farrakhan. I was raised Catholic, and in the same way his terrible views about select groups are glossed over because he is believed to be speaking some larger truth, a similar verdict could be rendered about any given pope in my lifetime—yes, even including Pope Francis, who expresses similar outdated and offensive opinions about women’s autonomy and queer and trans people’s right to live as divinely designed, only he presents his regression in softer shapes and tones. When it comes to cooler, IG-ready holy scammers, while I can understand the urge to get on your knees with and/or for Carl Lentz, the Hillsong Church is not queer-friendly. Justin Bieber has bops, but his affiliation doesn’t excuse the reputation his Australian-based church has rightly earned.

  When I was presented with an offer to join the priesthood, I said no for a number of reasons, but largely I didn’t pick up what that religion was putting down anymore. But what if I knew that I wasn’t a believer and decided to spread the gospel for tax breaks anyway? I like the idea of getting famous enough where I am invited to speak at the funerals of various R&B and southern rap legends.

  And so we are clear, if I were to change my mind, I would never, ever create a religion based on Beyoncé. Not only would that be predictable from me; it’s also offensive to my lord and gyrator, who loves Jesus. She would also sue me for copyright infringement. Don’t try and get me popped.

  Let me paint a different picture: Me, in Saint Laurent distressed denim and tee (God likes this for me, I’m certain), speaking about the white man and, because I’d be hipper, the 53 percent of white women who voted for Donald Trump in the 2016 presidential election, while select works from Kelly Price’s catalog play in the background? After that, I could give a testimonial about her deep cuts. (If you have never heard her song “Don’t Say Goodbye,” do yourself a favor and put that on loop—and where legally available, add some sativa to your listening session. You’re welcome.) I already know what I would say at Bun B’s homegoing, although I pray that scientists figure out how to make “UGK 4 Life” more than a slogan.

  This might have sounded outlandish in a pre–Kanye West Presents Sunday Service world, but if Hip-Hop David Koresh can exploit a Black cultural tradition for self-gain, why not me? If he can get a choir to cover SWV’s “Weak” for a crowd of majorly white people in the dustier parts of California, maybe I can up the ante by doing the same with Brownstone and S.I.S.T.A. covers? I could inspire with lies, and since I’m not an awful human being, you could enjoy me guilt free.

  Doesn’t that sound lovely? It does. And tax-free.

  Gays in Atlanta allegedly like to run credit card scams, but that sounds like it’s tempting fate with the feds. I’d rather annoy God a little bit by telling the masses we group chat. If God sends a lightning bolt my way, at least it’ll be outside of a cell.

  The only problem with this plan is that despite my heathenism, I have a heart. I’m not the kind of person that could start a religion to scam people desperate for a leader, no matter how vile or idiotic. I maintain a reverence for religion and the religious. Like a goddamn sucker who can’t appreciate the blessing of living a tax-exempt existence. Lift me in prayer.

  REPUBLICAN

  There will always be a space for some member of some marginalized community to lend their minority status to an ideology that works to
maintain the status quo. They say God doesn’t make any mistakes, but the mediocre Negroes who lend their melanin to white supremacy’s cause for self-gain are a direct challenge to that. I could name plenty of those types, but since they would enjoy that, no thank you.

  I can say that while it doesn’t apply to all Black conservatives, the following description applies to most of them.

  Their hair often suggests that they haven’t ventured to a Black barbershop or hair salon in at least a decade. They tend to repeat the same lines about Democrats being racists in the 1960s and how the party itself is one big plantation. They suddenly believe in the intellectual musings of Kanye West, Stacey Dash, and Diamond and Silk. They tend to feign victimhood, often. They can never attend an Essence Festival without fear of being shamed by various aunties spanning regions and accents.

  I would rather die.

  CORPORATE LAWYER

  My communications law professor, who I believe worked for President Clinton, reminded me of Kyle Barker from Living Single if Kyle Barker had decided to be an attorney rather than a funds manager.

  I think I told him this to his face once because I like to remind people what animated figures they best resemble or what TV character best describes their essence. He didn’t appear to mind the practice because we had a good rapport. Much of that had to do with how I showed up to class. I had an internship at C-SPAN and, like a dummy, tried to dress way too nice for the unpaid labor. Side note: It wasn’t until after I left the internship that I found out a potential sugar daddy had a thing for me, so that sugar baby thing could have really happened.

  Anyhow, Professor Kyle Barker liked that I was dressed up and was into politics. So much so that he routinely called on me in class despite me not having my hand up because it was 6 p.m. and I was in a classroom for two hours. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to be at Alero on U Street drinking margaritas at happy hour. But he got me to talk because I didn’t have much of a choice.

  Near the end of the semester, he had a suggestion: law school. It was something to the effect of it spoke more to my potential than broadcast journalism. It reminded me of the time I was told during my first internship interview—for a position at a radio station—that I should have been interviewing at City Hall instead.

  The summer going into my senior year of high school, I participated in my school’s co-opt program. The program allowed high school seniors to spend half their days working at some professional outlet. My sister did it when she was in high school. I wanted to make money and was over working at amusement parks and movie theaters (well, for a day at the latter; I quit when I couldn’t stomach the racism of the people at that particular location).

  I was working at a Black-owned law firm in a bank building in the Galleria area. If you have an office in the Galleria area, you have money—especially back then. Kudos to these Negroes. A Black man founded the firm and his wife ran the office. The wife looked like Salli Richardson, whom I choose to describe as Angela from A Low Down Dirty Shame, although her IMDb page is very much full of current work, thank you so very much.

  The job itself was fine, but I remember being mostly just interested in finding out that the firm represented certain members of Destiny’s Child around the time of the breakup. Naturally, that is all I really cared about that entire summer.

  I did my work as instructed, but much like me in a classroom, I was a social butterfly. Salli-esque did not enjoy this quality about me. In fact, she called me into her office once to effectively ask me to shut my goofy ass up and leave the associates alone. Unfortunately, they kept coming to me anyway. The white girl that had chic glasses that made her look like the baddie lawyers you see on broadcast dramas. Very into it. There was a Black dude named Rod. I remember Rod’s name because Rod was incredibly joyous to look at.

  He was very handsome, kept a nice fade at all times, and had a great body that he made sure you noticed by way of his shirt that was tight but not pathetically so. Same for the fit of his pants. Whew, he made denial hard. And he treated me like a little brother. I wish I remembered his last name. He was straight, but people change.

  As a kid from Hiram Clarke working at a law firm with fancy Blacks, I suppose this could have theoretically altered my vision of my future, but I knew then this was not me. Again, all I cared about was Destiny’s Child and running my mouth.

  Lawyers like to argue; I do not. Lawyers talk about things like torts; I can talk to you about downloading torrents once upon a time, because I always forget what a tort is until I go to Google. I’m sure it’d be fine if I worked at a firm like the one on Ally McBeal. At least they had a bar downstairs and let you perform whenever the spirit called.

  However, many lawyers do make a lot of money, so maybe that’s what Professor Kyle Barker meant about my potential. And the more I think about it, he probably meant I should be more strategic about my media-related goals. There are plenty of lawyers on television blabbering about politics. You don’t get paid for those appearances unless contracted to do so, but if you so happen to catch enough wave to earn a contract, that is more money on top of the money you’re making as an attorney.

  I will admit that I told myself if I didn’t make certain inroads on some professional goals by the age of thirty, I’d take a frank assessment of my career and life and whether or not it was time to make a change to better situate both. One of the options would be to consider taking the LSAT and seeing how it goes.

  I never went through with that, but in hindsight, maybe I should have considered this prospect when it was first presented to me. I would not have done criminal law because that’s too much based on what I see on TV. I would only do corporate law since those lawyers seem the wealthiest on TV. And on Instagram. And on dates. And at parties.

  Only problem with this plan is it would require more schooling, which means more debt, so unless I decide to write hood lit novels to cover the costs, no.

  But stay tuned.

  THIS IS A STORY ABOUT CONTROL

  You have to shake the handle a little bit in order to completely quiet the toilet—or commode, depending on your level of country. If you don’t, that thing will never stop making noise. Not an especially loud noise, but one that will grow to irritate you after a while. My mom has to remind me of this whenever I’m back at her house, which, in recent years, has been far less often.

  She approached the closed door and repeated herself as I was washing my hands and face. Given she couldn’t see me, she missed me rinsing off the remnants of the bigger problem that was happening behind the locked door.

  “Michael, shake that handle so it can stop. Your dad still hasn’t fixed it.”

  Within seconds, she got a “Yes, ma’am” and a corrective action. My penchant for being a creature of habit failed me in that respect, but the usual protocol for what had happened only a few moments prior had gone the same as it always did. I had turned on the faucet, letting both the hot and cold water flow to the point where they could drown out the noise of me shoving two fingers down my throat, forcing myself to purge.

  I had learned over time to minimize the volume of my vomiting, to make certain that I would not be found out. That, coupled with some other tidbits I picked up along the way, was what helped me develop a bit of a system, a process.

  You should drink a little something as you eat to help make it come back up easier, but not too much, lest it get messy and feel even more wretched than it already does. If your throat is too dry and you force yourself too hard, you may end up hurting yourself. Well, I suppose you’re already hurting yourself doing this, but you don’t want to make this any more painful than it needs to be.

  I always wondered if my mom could hear me whenever I’d sneak into the bathroom, lock the door, and spend a few minutes longer than felt usual inside. To this day, she has never said anything to me directly about it. A part of me thinks she suspected it was happening because, in spite of my belief that I never quite deserved the reputation of being the “sn
eaky” child, I’ve never been a good liar. Nor was it exactly a secret that I was uncomfortable with my weight. And, of course, I would often go into the bathroom not long after I had eaten something.

  I was never sure who else in the house heard me, either. Boys spend too much time in the bathroom for a number of reasons. I could have been releasing anything, and yeah, I didn’t blame them for not wanting to think about just what was being released.

  Toward the end of fifth grade, my appetite started to increase. That’s normal for any growing child, much less a boy inching toward his teenage years and all of the hormones that arrive with them. But in my case, this involved graduating from a Happy Meal to a Six-Piece Nugget Meal. And then a Nine-Piece Nugget Meal. A few times, I asked for a twenty-piece Nugget order all for myself.

  Once, as my mother drove my brother and me down West Fuqua toward the McDonald’s located on Almeda Road in Houston—right across the street from the railroad tracks—I made the first request for a twenty-piece. I said it with such urgency, too. I could make out the surprise in my mom’s response. After the Nuggets, soon came my request for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese Meal (no pickles, no onions) supersized with a Coke. By middle school, it was a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, also with no pickles and onions. Until adulthood, I could not wrap my brain around crunchy-ass onions with a burger. Instead, I got onion rings on a burger. See, I was from the land of fried cheesecake, fried Oreos, and maybe even fried grape Gatorade if you find the right fool willing to perfect the recipe.