Poem: A Tribe Apart [1] – Brendon Lamont
Sampling high school life from an à la carte menu:
Wrestling is his important sport
Trademark Boston Red Sox hat turned backwards
There’s a “Wild Streak” in the Lamont family
Loves his hobbies of drawing and fly-fishing
School is a game to outfox the adults
Felt really cool on the float, dressed as Fred Flintstone, happy, accepted; it was a blast
Graffiti, God, and Other Meaningful Things:
Buzz of alcohol topped by Phillies Blunt
Escape cares and feelings
Sick of waiting for the money
Out here in the night life is sublime
It is really fun to make trouble
Transforming: from class clown, to class pain in the ass, to bona fide delinquent
Special thrill in owning the darkness
When the art starts rolling you can see what I am all about
Loves his graffiti artists notebook
Sneaked cans of spray paint under his jacket
Go out there, get lots of practice with someone significantly higher skill level
Hollows and throwups, like essences, raw emotion
Laughing Hands: hands of a demented circus clown/outside laughing/inside wearing a frown
Turmoil within his mixed up life are guarantees
Crave being close to extended family; grieve at the miles that separate
Walking wounded of the middle class
Nobody knows his anguish
Bomb everywhere as long as the art is good
Fulfilling sensation of his graffiti adventure slips away, replace by deep sadness
Creating My Own Space:
Long cold winter and descent into darkness
Scribbling is communication: artists draw, other critique – integrating into a community effort
Paradox: Art and vandalism, beauty and ugliness, bravura and stupidity
The thrill of a secret society
Deep in the tunnel of his soul
Underground home for impulses: another arena for anger, acting out, and soulful expression
It’s a bitch that he is locked up
Dad has a bad temper
That evil police woman is destroying everyone’s friendships
Comforts of extended family and rhythms of the Deep South
Less concerned about money, more concerned about staying together as family
Don’t shoot me/don’t talk to me/don’t look at me/don’t touch me/leave me alone
Feared as a wrestler
The Darkness that Enlightens: is your child caught in a failure chain?
School is hell, people are morons – teachers are morons and hypocrites
Stupid rules, like you can’t talk back, though most of the time they deserve it
My prison ball and chain is my backpack
Drugs: it’s all about connections – selling to friends, who sell to friends, who sell to friends
Trickles down, trickles down – it’s all about the money
Who gives a damn about love? I need some stuff
Closest to work ethic: Do your homework before you get high
I’m not a real junkie: torn up with acid, pot, codeine, hash whatever
Kiss my teacher’s ass? They are all jerks
Money talks, everyone is corrupt, so why shouldn’t I make money illegally?
Deep emotional part seeks God in solace
Cancer, choking, death: God made me mental
The “what if’s” haunt my family
It’s not really wasted potential; it’s still in my brain
Flashes of optimism fade back to regrets and bitterness, to wounds of the heart
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[1] Patricia Hersch, A Tribe Apart, NY: Random House, 1998.
Henry E. Hooper 