Plasmacity

So, after escaping from the downtown DMV, I ambled over to the plasma place just to check into my availability for qualifying.

On line they said you needed a social security card, drivers license and some piece of mail establishing your qualification. Well, establishing residency is nearly impossible if you don't have a job!

Are you beginning to see how much this sux? Had I a crystal ball before leaving the monastery, would I have chosen to stay? Not on your life, because that life was only meant to be a temporary moment for me. It was supposed to center me in the plane of righteous self-assessment, and lead me out of the labrynth of self-deceit and into the valley of eternal supplication.

On arriving at the plasma place, I immediately encountered yet another form of broken humanity, mine in particular, and everyone's in general. It was yet another 'sign-in, sit and wait' places, just like the DMV. Only this place was totally staffed by 95% of african americans and the clientele were also about the same percentage. How scary is that to find yourself to be the only grain of salt on a plate full of pepper. Talk about reversed roles.


Believe it or not, it was beginning to dawn on me that in all of my prayers and supplications, God was granting me my prayers and, like ole ebenezer, showing me the reality of my existence, as, when all is said and done, that I am really no more than the son of a poor west end family, whose uninspired lives relegated them to finishing their days as couch potatoes, immersing themselves in the escaping balm of alcohol and channel hopping.

Reality Bites again, but this times with eyes, full open, begging the challenge to a staring contest.

Back to Plasmacity: I got called to the front desk and they asked me to present my information, and as it turned out, they would accept my checkbook as proof of residency. So after jumping thru that hoop, I had to jump thru several more. Finally after answering all their questions, I was taken to a pre-screening booth and had my finger pricked, blood taken and checked for vitamin and mineral deficiencies. Passed that, and was taken to a medical exam. Passed that and finally made it into the big room, full of stations where the blood was actually drawn, and settled into the 45 minute procedure.

I made $25 and was told that I could come back again in the next 7 days, donate again, and receive $30. In fact I could make up to $130 every two weeks.

That sounded OK with me, but I am not sure about the time element, but then again, what else to I have to do with my time?

Other perspectives: as I sat in the waiting area, I realized that I had a lot in common with most of the black men who were there; much more in common that I would normally admit to.

For instance, we both had our genesis in economically depressed communities and circumstances. Although, as a privileged white guy, I had a lot more opportunities to delude myself into thinking that I could be something more. In experiencing that moment, I recognized myself in them, and in that recognition, was able to fast rewind back to the point in my life when I began to plan an escape route from the inevitability of my own destiny. Sitting there was like a sledge hammer battering against the thick armor I had clothed myself in, to protect me from the truth of my shameful social standing.

And now I find myself confronted with the shame I have over being ashamed. And in that I question my own reality.....the memory of the self- I spent years constructing, to avoid this very moment of recognition of my own poverty in contrast to the richness of the lives of others.

Comparisons.

Why is it that I have been dealt the envy card?

It has led me to build a life that consists of a series of escape routes:

+escape from being born low class
+escape from a sense of unworthiness by seeing myself as gifted in the eyes of my peers, yet, in comparison to others along the continuum of giftedness, feeling myself much less talented. And on top of that, to be driven to prove my worthiness --- not just for the sake of celebrating the gift itself, but to prove that I matter. What a handicap! I feel such a fool!

OK, so lieing on the transfusion table, I am thinking about all this stuff as the swirl of ebonics is flying all about the room, and I realize how disconnected I am from this particular culture; that these good folks who I have judged as unimportant all my life, are in fact very blessed by God to have been given the gift of a sense of connectedness, while I on the other hand, have rejected the very connections that I could have made, but refused, due to my own fear of being stuck with the ramifications, the limmitations and indications of those chosen.

Ugh! My head is starting to hurt. I wonder if I should be introspecting like this. Something inside me tells me that this deconstruction phase that I am going through could be dangerous.