Momentum

By Lance West

A compelling journey into the psyche of a middle-aged American black male, from an upper-middle-class background with bipolar. Delving into past experiences and all that formed his perceptions, both liberating and binding, this book will provide you with the same tools Lance used to motivate and inspire the creation of this book and five records

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lance Wesley Hudson
• Release date: Feb 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781681027906

Lance West

Lance West is a Christian singer/songwriter and guitarist/vocalist for Jazz/Rock Fusion band "Humanomaly." He is also a new author and medical billing specialist. He is constantly seeking inspiration from all that the Lord has created. His primary intention is to motivate and inspire fellow humans to turn dreams into goals and goals into accomplishments.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Let me skip ahead in the story, for just a second, to introduce you to the man I am still becoming. Some super kind industry insiders have called me a crafty singer-songwriter whose sound is fostered by his eclectic taste in music – born in part by his San Francisco roots and involvement in the ’90s rock scene. My sense of self is intermingled with the musical influences of artists like Mat Kearney, Jason Mraz, Jimi Hendrix, Jethro Tull and Bootsy’s Rubber Band (1970s funk at its most brilliant.) All feeding back to a spiritual center and my Christian faith. The music I create vibes across genres, often landing in indie rock with a message.

My original musical compositions include lyrics/vocals recorded over electric/acoustic guitar, bass, keyboards and electric piano tracks. I’ve been told my songs – based on the experiences I’m about to share – both uplift and inspire.

As I work on my new album momentum as a companion to this book, I can’t help but reflect on my previous album Gratitude which was conceived and created to show respect and love to the very creator of creativity, God. I opened my heart wide channeling a unique blend of rock, soul, blues and Christian influence, with the mission of being a beacon of light in the all-to-often darkness.

Through it all, my momentum was building. Growing into areas of my life beyond the studio jam sessions and the lyrical writing. I decided to share more of my story here – my journey through music, mental illness and tested faith.

So, if you have experienced mental illness or want to understand someone who has, let’s delve deeper into this topic together. Let’s learn how to use momentum to overcome the fears that can keep us bound to an unfulfilling life.

1

SO MANY FIRSTS

Before I knew it, I had sunken into the morass of sorrow at an age not even in the double digits. It was a somewhat unfamiliar feeling I felt in times of duress. Blackie was a spunky 5-year-old collie with a single color to match his name, except for a little white patch under his muzzle that was often wet with doggy saliva. A week before, I’d been playing with him and picked him up. He squealed in pain, turned and bit me on the arm. I dropped him to the concrete there in our sculpted backyard of half grass half concrete, curving around the house like the sand and the shore. What was wrong? He loved me. He would always rush over and look up at me through the fence when I called his name.

One morning before school, I heard a heaving sound coming from the backyard. I pulled back the curtains and looked through the sliding glass door. There he was undulating on the pavement. Heaving uncontrollably. When I opened the door, the heaving sound increased dramatically and white foam was coming out of his mouth. I sat there on my knees next to him for what seemed like an eternity. Until his body was motionless and limp. I was just kneeling there next to him. My mom called my dad who took the day off from work to take Blackie to the pound for cremation.

My dad had one of those ’70s Dodge van conversions with the bubble windows. So, I rode in the back with Blackie’s body which was now stiff. As a lay next to him, gazing into his brown eyes that looked like marbles in his head, I wondered where was the Blackie I knew? Full of life and love. I knew he was no longer there. I don’t think I realized at the time this happens to all living things. They cease to exist in the form we knew them. When we arrived at the pound, Dad had me carry Blackie in. I just remember he was light and stiff. I reached up on my tippy toes and handed him over to the proper authorities. That was the last time I saw him. Dad took me to Togo’s for lunch to comfort me. I still remember that.

Later that week I went out to the backyard, welled up with tumultuous emotions. Frustration, anger, sadness. I wildly picked up a post along with the concrete base – way heavier than anything a child my age should be able to lift – and threw it to the ground, tears pouring down my face. I could taste the salt in my tears. A bitter reminder of my loss. After frantically picking the post up and throwing it down for several minutes, exhausted, I fell to my knees into the cool wet winter evening grass. Something in me died that day. And l feared that I would never get it back. The part of me that was attached to Blackie.

I can’t describe the numbness and emptiness I felt. But it was to become a reoccurring theme in my life, both self-imposed and circumstantial. Perhaps I’d learned something that applies to life to this day. We are only here for a season. Do not get attached to the things of this world. Life is a moving thing that perpetuates itself and changes all the time in cycles. Blackie had completed his cycle and his spirit energy returned to the source of all light – the center where the spirits of that very light congregate. Pure energy untainted by the slightest careless doubts that we indulge in while here in physical form.

According to science, energy cannot be created or destroyed. It just changes form. Much like water, it cycles within itself. From the rivers, lakes, streams and oceans, up into the sky, then rains back down on us indiscriminately. Just as Blackie was made of water and his essence returned to its source along with the electric energy that flowed through his anatomy. I couldn’t physically hold onto Blackie anymore. I was forced to let go. Little did I know that letting go is one of the most liberating and transcendent things we can do. I couldn’t possess Blackie and keep him forever. He was his own being, sharing the same space and time with me. I don’t think I fully realized the inevitability of death at that age. I just felt the hurt of loss. Too young to realize the same rules applied to me. And that someday, I would face the loss of loved ones.

The beginning and the end are where the most profound changes happen in existence. From conception. The actual creation of life. A seed being planted in a woman’s womb. And the fruit of life growing for nine months, the perpetuation of life. The gift of creation given freely to all indiscriminately that your mother nurtures, feeds and unconditionally loves until that child too grows to bear the fruit. Perpetuating life until the setting of their own sun. The cycle is completed only to start again. In a sense, I was Blackie but just way earlier in my cycle than him. The same natural laws apply to all life. Some of the most profound lessons can be found in some of the most hurtful experiences.

Yet I struggled with the whys of loss. Why didn’t Blackie live longer, if not forever? Why did he have to suffer so much? That was something else I had yet to learn. Sometimes we don’t get an answer, we are forced to accept things. But it was my choice how I responded. I could have gratitude, that blessing of Blackie’s doggy friendship in my life. I could remember how he would look up into my eyes and make a comforting whimper when he saw me cry. I could remember frolicking with him in the backyard, spraying him with the water hose in the summer as he ran about me in circles, barking and tail wagging. He was alive in my heart. He left a profound impression on my psyche. One that can only be lost when my cycle ends. When I too return to the Lord. I had not lost a friend, I had gained an experience that taught me profound lessons in life. Lessons I would continue to build on as my life unfolded. As a child, I could barely phrase these feelings in words and now I only try. Some of the joyful experiences I had at that age were almost transcendent. The thing that made these experiences so wonderful? Everything was new – so many firsts were unfolding.

Another profound first happened just after kindergarten. My mother Mable was a teacher and I was fortunate enough to attend the school where she taught. Often after school she would have meetings and teacher conferences. So I would stay with a babysitter for a couple of hours after school. My first babysitter was Mrs. Beckman. She was a white woman who’d adopted Julie, a black daughter my age. Julie and I were like peas in a pod. We would go out to the backyard on blistering summer afternoons and struggle through the thicket to reach the warm blackberries that could be found on their vines. Much like a rose bush. You could really get scratched up. But we roughed it and fought our way into the bushes. I remember the burst of flavor when I bit into the warm tangy berries and playing with the seeds between my tongue and cheek.

Mrs. Beckman was a strict disciplinarian and would hit Julie on the hand with a spoon if she misbehaved. Thankfully she would not do that to me, instead telling my mother I’d been acting up. Julie and I were your typical, curious little 6-year-olds. Discreet and shy. We had a cute little secret we were keeping. We would go upstairs and shimmy under the bed and play what we called love motion. Which was basically kissing and talking to each other. I think we had seen these things in movies and were trying to emulate it.

After about six months of this, Julie moved away to Pennsylvania. My mom told me I could write to her but that made me feel bitter. I didn’t want to write or receive a letter. I wanted to continue to play with Julie. But this was a different kind of loss than Blackie and brand new to me. This was circumstances working against me. Circumstances taking someone out of your life makes you feel so helpless. I knew she was out in Pennsylvania, but it was light years away to me. I couldn’t see her. She was out of reach. After a while, I didn’t even think about her anymore. It was as if we had never shared those special fleeting moments of early childhood.

My mother was always showering me with attention as most mothers do with their little children. Letting me have candy before dinner, playing with my friends before my food had a chance to settle. My dad left for work early, so I would climb into bed with her. Snuggling up to her warm body as if I was still suspended in the comfort and safety of her womb. I had not been in the world too long. It was as if I were connected to her with a spiritual umbilical cord that could never be severed. We would lay there until the last possible minute and then hop out of bed, soles hitting the cold unforgiving floor. Often, I would go in the bathroom, close the door and lay on the floor to continue my slumber with a makeshift bed of the bathroom floor mat. Laying in the fetal position, to keep my exposed flesh from touching the cold bathroom floor.

I would hear my mom’s voice: Lance, time to go.

I would lay there until the final booming, LANCE!! Let’s GO!

When my mom reached her limit – which happened often with a terror like me – she would yell. And I deserved it. Now with barely enough time to make it to school before the bell rang, we dashed out the door, jumped into the Maroon ’78 Buick Electra 225. We floated down the street and hit the corner like evading criminals in a car chase scene straight from Streets of San Francisco. Only we were being chased by time.

Sometimes we would get to school early. In those days, teachers had to provide the lesson plans, worksheets, charts, even pencils and erasers. Plus, they had these manual ditto machines where you would put in a two-ply ditto master, like those old credit card machines, and attached it to a cylinder you’d rotate manually with a hand crank. The image would be pressed onto the blank sheets of paper. And she would hand the dittos out to the students, with all the addition and subtraction problems. I remember the machine had an ammonia smell to it. We usually had limited time to prepare for the class, so I’d wear out my arm, repeatedly rotating the cylinder to help my mom who was taking care of another task. I was her little sidekick.

The interesting thing is I was the only Black child on the campus. I didn’t know it or understand any perceived difference between me and the other kids. It’s interesting how some adults, who are supposed to be way more experienced and mature than children, couldn’t understand the basic principal that we are all a part of the human race. Maybe their innocence was tainted by the hatred, intolerance and indifference of their parents. Maybe when they were children they never learned these fundamental principles and became set in their ways. Maybe it was a lack of exposure and positive experiences with those different than ourselves. Our perceptions are formed by our experiences or lack thereof.

Although my school was predominately white on the West Side of San Jose, I lived on the East Side where there was a wide array of cultural diversity. Asians, Latinos, Blacks, Indians, Whites. Being in an environment like that is a huge blessing to a person privileged enough to have it. Being raised in an environment like that, you’re bound to form friendships outside of the cultural comfort zones. Beyond just eating their food and drinking their beverages. A real connection to their culture through the love for a person from that culture. The only thing that can derail that growth is peers and family members who teach and demonstrate intolerance and hate. Also, it can grow from a seed of feeling unloved. Neglect from a parent. Verbal, physical and maybe sexual abuse.

Most young children do not know true hate. They haven’t had enough bad experiences. All they know is the feeling of being loved or unloved from what parents, friends and teachers say and do. And often things they don’t say or do. One of the mistakes parents make is always pointing out and fixating on the negative with their children. Saying things like, you’re lazy, you procrastinate too much, you’re stupid, ugly, fat. These hurtful things are internalized and can eventually become their self-perception. Often someone, who had overcritical authority figures, feel they could never be accepted and become overly critical of themselves. Even unsupportive and cruel to themselves. A healthy perception comes from healthy seeds planted in the psyche and nurtured to maturity through kindness, support and an overall feeling of being loved unconditionally. I’ve heard some parents say: I am not angry with you, I am disappointed because I expected more of you.

They always tie everything together with a general feeling of love.

Planting the right seeds in the first place is much easier than having to unravel an elaborate knot of self-doubt, insecurity and fear later in life.

It was not until I was verbally attacked by several white teens in my neighborhood that I learned some people hated me because of the color of my skin. Some perceived difference between us. Across the street from my house there was this huge walnut grove, about a 20-minute walk deep and about 10 minutes across. Must have been a 100 trees out there. I remember trudging through the big thick dirt clods, almost twisting my ankle with every step, to make it to the base of our tree fort which was really just a piece of wood stretching from one branch to the other. Just big enough for a couple of us to sit with our legs dangling over. There were several white guys in the neighborhood that didn’t like my friends from the block, who were mostly Black guys.

There was this big pile of dirt in the field, like a little mountain in comparison to my youthful frame. I heard yelling from a distance. When I looked up, I saw several boys about my age emerging over the top of the dirt mound, like a rising sun. One of them was barking a word I’d never heard before in a combative tone, N#$%r, Ni#$%r.

Before I knew what was happening, I saw one of them draw his arm back and swing it toward me, hurling a rock in my direction. Instinctively, I reached down into the clods without even looking, eyes trained in their direction. Haphazardly, selecting a rock to retaliate. As I released it, a barrage of rocks, bottles, anything they could pick up they hurled at me. Just then, my dad arrived home from work and witnessed the tail end of the skirmish. I ran home to meet him at the house and informed him of the melee that had just unfolded. He told me I’d done the right thing. He taught me to meet force with force and don’t back down. I wonder if that was my nature or a learned response to conflict. It felt like instinct but who knows.

About a half an hour later, a woman appeared at the door of my house with an inflammatory demeanor. Telling my dad, I’d attacked her sons. My dad, not the back-down type, jumped to my defense. Having witnessed part of the skirmish with his own two eyes, he told her that was her problem.

Later that week, while riding my bike around the corner by their house, I noticed a flag I’d never seen before, hanging in front of their door. It was red with a blue and white X across it with stars in the X. It was ol’ Dixie. I didn’t know the correlation between that flag and the contempt those boys had for me. I wished it was just a flag and didn’t represent what it did. Some say it’s a sign of freedom and rebellion. I would follow the facts and look at history. The country was divided in part because the Southerners wanted to keep their slaves and the Northerners didn’t agree with that. Had the Southerners had their way my family and I would be slaves right now.

Let me be clear, I believe in the oneness of mankind and anything that perpetuates division is the real enemy. We were just children who had been indoctrinated a certain way. If we had our way, we would have been sitting up in that old tree without a care in the world. But we had a lot to learn. And we didn’t even know it. Hell, some of our parents may not have even known it. I was too young to understand. I was a lover by nature.

She had no idea I liked her. Lara, tall and thin, with straight blonde hair just past the shoulders. White-and-red ’70s short shorts, white tank top with a rainbow in the center. Woolworth Brady Bunch blue loafers with white soles. White socks stretched all the way up, almost over her knobby knees.

Fourth grade had just begun earlier that week. A new chapter in the elementary school play they call campus. Today was the day. Sitting there in class before recess, I opened my Star Wars Trapper Keeper and tore a page from its center, making a ripping sound that caught the teacher’s ear by not eyes thankfully. On it I scratched a single question with my No. 2 pencil: Do you want to go around?

This was our elementary school version of boyfriend and girlfriend in our childish circle. Along with two boxes with the words YES and NO next to them. Now I just had to drum up the courage to give it to her. So, later during recess, I saw her in the hall, threw the note at her and bolted out of sight around the corner. Within seconds, she was in hot pursuit around the corner past the tether ball poles, through the basketball courts by the library. I couldn’t shake her. She was fast with those long legs. At the time, I was probably 5 inches shorter than her. Over by the principal’s office next to the kindergarten, I finally ran out of steam. As I stood there winded, she opened the letter I’d folded into multiple squares, sloppy origami. I almost felt like I was getting in trouble or something, but I think she enjoyed the attention and the chase as much as I did. I don’t recall what she said, but I do recall her not checking either box.

This was the beginning of me liking girls who did not feel the same way I did. Or so I thought. We were just kids obviously, but I felt a sense of rejection and wanted to be accepted and embraced by a girl I liked. A friend of hers wrote in my yearbook later something along the lines of You need to stop pursuing girls that don’t like you or your feelings are always going to be hurt. She actually said it way more eloquent than that, an elementary school Ann Landers before her time.

Often no one pulls us aside and gives us instruction as far as how to build healthy relationships. We just piece it together through experiences and long conversations with close friends and family members. In my case, I hardly ever told anyone about the experiences I was having and the problems I was encountering. I was raised with one sister and I didn’t have an older brother figure growing up. I was always the one helping my friends and sometimes being an older brother figure to them. So, I didn’t have a brother to discuss these things with. My brother may have told me it’s stupid to give a girl a note and run away. He may have really given me a hard time about it. And that may have been a good thing.

I didn’t go to my dad much with things that were embarrassing to talk about, like being rejected by girls. My dad was a very strong old school Charles Bronson type. He was not afraid to face adversity head on. He was and is one the strongest willed people I ever known. He really had faith in himself that he can handle any situation. No matter how difficult or insurmountable it seemed. See he had faced unspeakable conflict and adversity and never backed down. My dad was raised in Vernon, Texas, just south of the Oklahoma border at the bottom of the pan. He had experienced the racism of the South firsthand. The segregated school, water fountains, bathrooms.

One time he went into a soda shop much like a Denny’s with stools at the counter. Kids would congregate there and have chocolate malts, ice cream, sodas. He went right up and hopped up onto one of the stools and ordered a Coke. The woman filled a glass with a fountain Coke. He sat there anxiously waiting for his ice-cold Coke as she went down to the end of the counter and walked out by the front door, Coke in hand. He reluctantly followed her, and she said, You have to drink your soda here. You can’t sit at the counter. He was about 10 years old.

When I think of the things I was worried about when I was 10, the contrast between our experiences was obvious. Dad didn’t have the luxury of worrying about if a little girl liked him or not. He was in survival mode. There is such a dramatic difference between our experiences and different perspectives.

They say when it comes to conflict it is fight or flight. I have learned both have their advantages and disadvantages. If you put up a good fight and don’t back down, you gain people’s respect. Respect must be earned. That is how my dad deals with conflict. There is an old Jamaican saying, He who fights and run away, lives to fight another day. That about says it all for the case of flight. I also think there are personality and character types with humans. We are much like the animals of the wild. There are predators and prey. Predators stay and fight for territory, food and respect, and prey eat grass and run when there is a conflict. Both creatures are trying to survive. They just have different methods of surviving. Both are integral to the cycle of life and the food chain. My dad is like a lion, I am like an eagle. It took me time to learn that I don’t need to try to be like other people. My role is just as valid as anyone else’s. I am not as aggressive and assertive as him, but I very introspective, analytical, like solitude and soaring in the clouds. I am also good at building bridges and resolving conflict.

There is a balance in nature. A harmony, a rhythm and reason to things. I truly believe God is in control and this is all written. There are lessons for every one of us. I believe no one leaves this world until they have served their purpose. Some people’s lives are shorter or longer than others, but the big picture is like a moving collage of pictures, humans shining and fading as stars in the sky.

The ’70s van was truly a conversion. It converted our lives, from the time we got it after sitting in the Dodge dealership for what seemed like an eternity. Playing with my two well-worn Bosch and Luke from Hoth Star Wars action figures. Sitting there on the floor, imagining the Imperial Walkers bearing down on the Rebel base. Pretending Luke had a fighter ship, which ended up being him just flying like Super Man. Bosch was the universal bad guy. Boba Fett, Darth Vader, Stormtroopers. Except he looked like a lizard with a space suit on. Five to six hours later I was slumped next to my mom’s warm body on the lobby couch, limp from exhaustion and fatigue. Anne and I had also run around quite a bit as kids do. Much like Star Wars, this van was going to take us on journeys. This van represented freedom. An escape from school and work. A mobile sanctuary for our family.

I remember many times winding up through the mountain roads carved in the hills through the redwood trees. V8 engine wide open, air conditioner blasting. You could hear and feel the pressure of the wind being forced out through the little slots in the dash. My mom’s cotton candy afro moving in the breeze, adorned in full ’70s attire. Maroon bell bottom hip-hugging slacks, a multi-colored tube top and brown platforms. My mom always went with the flow when it came to fashion, changing with the times.

My dad was in the driver’s seat, afro about two inches off his scalp, shrouded by a black stocking cap rolled up and tucked under, giving it a lip around his head. Beige corduroy pants and a cotton T-shirt that was dark blue on the top half and beige on the bottom, divided by a thin red line sewn just where the colors came together horizontally. My sister was in the back with her feet up on the railing that housed the bed when it was pulled down, hunched forward, face buried in a book most likely Judy Bloom at that age. She had two thick black, Pippy-Longstocking-style braids on either side of her head, sticking straight out. She was dressed much like my mom. The only real difference was the awesome ’70s T-shirts she liked to wear. Like the hand with the thumb and pinky sticking out saying Hang Loose Hawaiian style on the front and 00 on the back like a team jersey. Often these T-shirts would have 3/4 sleeves and loud colors like bright yellow and green. I had an afro too, slightly longer than my dad’s. I often wore terry cloth shirts that had a bumpy texture in neutral colors of beige, maroon, light gray.

I can still feel the cold root beer in my hand as I looked out the bubble window, watching the world go by like a fish looking out at the world from his bowl. From my vantage point, the world looked fascinating and intriguing. The redwoods stretched straight up and out of view as the sun and the shade flickered across the window like an old rotary slide show projector, flicking from picture to picture. Frames of youth going by before my eyes. I wondered what was beyond the redwoods? How deep did it stretch out back into the hills? What kind of animals call those woods home? Would I get to see any of them? Then I wondered if Big Foot was out there like I’d seen in the Six Million Dollar Man episode? And why was Big Foot hiding anyway?

My daydreaming was interrupted by the smooth tone of my father’s voice. He was singing my favorite song:

"Daddy’s home,

your Daddy’s home to stay,

I’m not a thousand miles away … "

As he went into the verse of the song, I not only heard love for my mom, Anne and me. I felt it. Dad never used the word love. He showed it. I really respect that. Often words can’t do our feelings justice. There are things that can’t be expressed in words. And I’m convinced these are the most meaningful things in life. His voice was like watching a sunset. That’s how it felt. Magical. Love is often difficult to express in words. A mother can just look at her child and the child knows it’s loved. Sound is truly a gift to me. I am really affected deeply by the things I hear, not just words but sounds. And not just words but the way they are said. The slight inflections and tiny nuances. I cherished those moments when Dad sang to us because it was a rare glimpse into his heart of hearts. Dad was also our main disciplinarian. If we got in trouble, he was usually responsible for our punishment. Dad was raised in a time where parents were really frustrated by the circumstances they found themselves in. My grandma and grandpa worked in the fields, pulling cotton where they made barely enough money to feed their family. That was during cotton season. The rest of the time Grandma ironed clothes for white people and was a homemaker. My Grandpa did numerous jobs over his life. Janitor, dishwasher, porter, garbage man, junk hauler. People then were barely surviving. Not to mention the racism. So, parents were not very patient when it came to nonsense with the kids. And in those days children were to be seen not heard. They did not talk when adults were talking, and they called them ma’am and sir.