Well, I’m back in Durham after the NABJ Convention in Philly over the weekend. The proof that I’m getting older and wiser? That I took Monday off, just to be safe. Smart move, because I feel like I got hit by a truck. That’s a good thing, actually.
Anyway, this year was a little more interesting than usual. First, I made the dreaded mistake of telling people before I got there that I would be out of work at the end of the month. That meant flowers thrown on my grave for four or five days, even though I’m not even close to dead. They mean well, so it’s all good…but I suggest you tell people about something like that AFTER the convention is over. Trust me there.
So where to start on the weekend?
How about here?
Every year on Thursday of the convention, the Sports Task Force has a mentoring breakfast sponsored by ESPN. In previous years, I’ve asked whether we do enough to actually mentor at this breakfast. Last year, I looked in the middle of the room, and I saw this table of 12 with nothing but ESPN personalities, primarily made men, sitting among one another while the younger in the room were in the back of the room making conversation with each other. I’ve never been sure how to fix that, but this winds up happening.
So how does it go this year? I sit down at a table, look up like five minutes later, and I saw it had become that very table I had complained about…except I was one of the (quasi-)ESPN personalities. It’s been an interesting year, as you can see.
Anyway, we listened to Rob Parker and Claire Smith give great talks on mentoring and why it’s important for the grownups at these things to reach out to younger folks. I always agreed, though before now I was in an awkward place. Ostensibly, because of the jobs I had, I could have been someone’s mentor. But uhhh, just because you’re job at 26 is good doesn’t mean you’re not 26. Now, I’m not 26. I know a lil bit, and I’m at the point where I wouldn’t think I’d have to explain whether or not I know what I’m talking about.
So while Ms. Smith was clearly stating how the moral imperative mandates that people in my position do what we can to help those coming up, I look across the room and see a college kid dressed sharply…with a Mohawk.
I had a Mohawk once. Summer of ’89, I got one. For weeks, I didn’t want to go outside. I was so embarrassed at how stupid I looked. Parents would want to go out to eat, and I would have been content to have cereal at the hacienda. Even at eight years old, I knew I looked like a fool.
These days, looking like a fool is in fashion. You can’t take two steps without seeing some kid sporting a Mohawk. But never ever ever ever ever did I expect to see a Mohawk at a professional convention. But when I did, and I saw it at a mentoring breakfast, I asked myself a question: am I going to get up and tell a stranger he needs a haircut?
I asked around my table to see if I would be wrong if I spoke to the young man on it. Everyone said I should, and they all knew I could really give a damn if it made the dude upset. I’d rather you be mad at me than sit idly as someone gets laughed at by an entire convention. That said, I didn’t want to embarrass anyone, and it would be counterproductive to say something in such a way that stopped dude from hearing my point. I wasn’t talking for me. It sincerely was for him, because he clearly had no idea what the hell he was doing to himself.
So the breakfast ended, and folks in the room began to mingle. I made a beeline across the room and found dude with the Mohawk. I got his attention and pulled him to the side.
“As soon as you leave this breakfast, you need to go to the barber shop and get a haircut. Whatever money you spent to get here is being wasted. The last thing you want to be remembered as is the-guy-with-the-Mohawk. And I know what you’re thinking, and I wouldn’t come tell you this if I wasn’t willing to put something on it. So here’s $15. But if you don’t get a cut, I want my $15 back.”
The young man was polite, said thank you, and took the cash I pulled out of my pocket.
Later that afternoon, I turn around and see my man…and he hasn’t gotten this haircut. That’s when those tweets above were sent. So I told the dude, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted my money back if he didn’t get a haircut.
Fast forward about 24 hours, I’m leaving an event with Vinnie Goodwill — whom, it is clear, is going to become a star — and who do we see? We see Mr. t (got time to go before he earns that capital letter). And he’s still got that damn Mohawk.
At this point, it seems pretty clear he stole my money. If dude wasn’t going to get the cut, fine. But, you don’t take my money. It’s simple as that.
And if it’s not that simple, we’ll put it like this: while I can’t stand people kissing my ass because I’m “the dude on TV,” I can’t understand how someone under the age of 25 wouldn’t heed “the dude on TV.” And here’s a formative moment for that dude on the TV…
Summer after my first year in grad school, I came home with corn rows. Well, after a couple of weeks, I was waiting on a job to come through, and it hadn’t. My father had decided I’d waited too long on it. So one day, he walks in and pulls out two $20 bills.
“This one is for gas. This one is for a haircut. Get a job…you’re too old to wear your eccentricity on top of your head.”
So, yanno, I got a haircut. Why? Because I wasn’t about to get a job with those damn braids. Granted, I got the cut for free and pocketed the dub, but I damn sure got the haircut. And I haven’t done anything “fun” with my hair since. That time in life had passed.
Well, once you start showing up for conventions, that time has passed for you. ESPECIALLY if you’ve got a Mohawk.
Two things to do at a convention: get money and get on ’em. That’s it. You ain’t about to do either one with a ridiculous haircut. Doesn’t matter what your lil friends thing, or who the girls you go to school with are willing to sleep with. Once you show up at NABJ, the assumption’s that you’re about somebody’s business.
Unless you’ve got a Mohawk, of course.
Did I ever get my $15 back? Nope. Maybe the young man thinks it was funny, or that he was just going to say “forget Bomani” and keep it moving.
Not with my money, Marquise. If you read this, leave a comment so I can tell you how to send me my money. You stole from me, kid, and you didn’t even have to. Between that and a soft handshake, it seems we got some #insufficientdaddying at play here.
But eh, that’s the thing about mentoring: no one ever said they have to listen to you.
Wishing dude the best. But we will settle up on my money. Pleebeleedat.
