Jesus's name was not Jesus. It was JESSE.
And YES, he was just another Black boy with a white boy's name.
Every time we went to market, somebody would inevitably shout out "Jesse!" and Jesus and 12 white Roman kids would turn around.
I ought to know: His house was up the street from mine,
and we spent most of our respective childhoods this way:
Jesse and me used to play Muslims and Indians when we were kids.
I'd wrap a rag around my head and he'd starve himself for a month.
We'd spend hours trying to knock down the old sandals hanging from the crosses in our neighborhood.
He would heal the Crips and convert the Blood.
He always smelled like Jerusalem goat's meat pizza to me,
but to Aaron he smelled like Dead Sea Salt Water Taffy
and to Martha he smelled like something she couldn't place at the time,
but when we went out on our third anniversary,
two years after Jesse'd moved on,
I walked with her through the Garden of Gethsemane
and she stopped at a flower and said "Jesse used to smell like this"
and the "this" in question was white oleander.
See, he smelled differently to everyone.
Whatever you liked, even if you didn't know it, that's how he smelled.
You expect a little bit of occasional magic when your best friend is
the Son of God.
He was the best man at my wedding,
gave a four word toast at the reception: "I love you guys."
And he danced with my bride,
and we arm-wrestled into the night,
and he kept the party goin',
gracious one-touch bartender that he was.
And I loved him--and love him--like a brother,
back when being a man's brother meant something.
And that book?
That book you can kill nations over?
That book you stood black men on to lynch?
That book you swing at the heads of gays on parade?
That book doesn't give you HALF the magic tricks he used to do.
But to you,
he's the rock star of the universe, he's God Bon Jovi
he's a gold necklace depicting his death, not his life.
To me, he's larger than two lives stacked on top of one another, even
Gandhi's and Mother Theresa's
and I'm not here to debate with you about whether or not he was a great man--
you wouldn't know greatness in this day and age if the real Madonna came down
out of heaven and kissed Britney Sears dead in her mouth--
of COURSE he was a great man,
but you didn't know him.
No matter how strongly you believe
you will always, at best, just know the way,
putting words in his quiet mouth,
never resting your hat upon a friendly hook at the destination that is the truth.
The truth is he smelled like Dead Sea Salt Water Taffy,
The truth is he smelled like goat's meat pizza,
The truth is Jesse smelled
like love.
-------------------------Just wanted to share one of my favorite poems, I don't know the author, though.
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