THE OBSERVATION BOOTH
OP / ED & PHOTO CREDITS ANDREA DIALECT
The definition of punk was quite clear to me. I was bent on the title weeks ago. Ironically, its true origin never crossed my mind. Punk, to me, meant punk. You know, that someone that allows anyone to do anything to them – no pushback, no fight.
Coming across a lot of that lately. But Google gave me a reminder. Ironically, my punk definition was even harder to find. And when I asked ChatGPT, although I begged it to differ, that copycat came to the same end – until I disclosed what I meant. Then – voila – it kinda knew what it meant.
I find that I stammer more than my daddy did when chitchattin’ while crossing paths with many of those so-called non-punks around the way. “I ain’t no punk” is usually the intro into that verbal exchange, the bridge that extends to a roadway of driven caution, making for a smoother ride. My response in that convo – clean version – is usually one size fits all.
When weighing self-control and gagging and hog-tying the ego – while ignoring the peanut gallery, who gladly coax ya on by telling you to redeem yourself as they pave the way, plotting your demise – I tell ‘em, “Now you got all those years in the big house trying to convince yourself you ain’t, which will be triggered even more so when one of those Cos likely female is barking them commands.
Now that you seeing red all the time, your ol’ boy ego is snug as a bug ‘cause he got playmates for days – and now he’s the man; And for the peanut gallery that you had to impress? Sorry, they probably can’t make no visits, but your story will live on. ‘Cause they gonna tell what had happened every chance they get – now that you’ve been punked.” Now, weigh that against all the years you’ll spend pumping that iron, Iron Man!
I am literally in shock at the state of the world – by how much we’ve lost ourselves, wanting to be accepted by other folk, listening to all those self proclaimed hierarchy and our own ego driving destruction. My daddy, aka Mr. Brown – I can truly say he wasn’t one. His not being a punk was voicefully stated, mainly by his actions.…In loving memory of Mr. Brown!
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STUTTER
Google Donny Hathaway’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” and let it play as you read this short…
First off, I heard the ins and cries quite often throughout my life. I was quite young when he stumbled into the church house at my mama’s surprise – falling on his knees at my mama’s feet, then at the feet of Jesus. Didn’t seem to care whose feet he cried at, whether those from the deacon board, house mothers or that pastor.
After witnessing that once or twice, he’d eventually adhere to those calls – tired of those spiritual lashings – and become a saved man. That man of God’s life had changed.
Although we never really saw him do much that was out of pocket, so change just meant riding with us to church forevermore, as opposed to poppin’ in after that God. Then that was all she wrote.
Then there were the cries I’d hear every night at our house, behind that locked door tightly shut. Sometimes he and Mommy would join in as a duo, with a melody that reached the heavens – summoning the angel choir as backup. Other times, Daddy would go at it alone.
I can see him in an image I’m conjuring up right now – he’s in the living room, plucking his guitar, singing with those elongated riffs. Songs that, once they started, seemed to never end. With those never-ending starts. Back then, I thought that Daddy was in love with his own voice, for sure – trembling on every word. Now I think they were his singsong for affirmation. Donny Hathaway’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” was ritual.
We’d be giggling, my sisters and I – but never at his cries nor ever at his beloved solos, but at his daring to be himself. Even when we giggled a bit too loud, he never put on that he knew. He just kept right on plucking and right on singing, and I’m sure he did. With the sudden outbursts here and there – he still plucked, and he still trembled and sang. He paid no attention at that time to little snotty-nosed girls. He overlooked his own blood and his own flesh.
I remember throughout the years that every day, seemingly, or every night, he’d sit at our kitchen table that he’d built by the way. Gazing at the page of that book tripping, over words that had been stretched to no end till indefinable. There were also times when we’d pass by Daddy in his bed, book in hand while reading in his head. The Bible – his favorite book, his lesson book – so he learned while he learned. As he taught, as we taught.
At the kitchen table, when he’d summon us – there most often times, those younger than I, Toy being his favorite instructor. I guess I wasn’t called upon as much due to my not knowing how to tell time. So I guess he wanted to go with someone who had the patience and the know-how. Perhaps he was sparing me the embarrassment, so he thought. But Toy taught me that, although she was much younger. Allowing her to – that, I guess, I got from Daddy.
My sister Toy would so patiently sound out the words, whether standing there beside him or she sat, she’d enunciate perfectly, although so young. And he’d drag behind, stretching those words out even longer than the riffs of his favorite song. After years of stumbling and tripping and asking little girls of all ages to take his hand and drag him along with those words, Daddy had finally tripped all the way through.
Soon enough, my Daddy’s reading became smooth as jazz. A change had come. But he continued to sing his affirmation song sometimes before or after he read his favorite lesson book. He didn’t need us as much anymore, but on those occasions, he’d beckon Toy. And once again he’d trip and stutter his way through.
He did or sang it as long as I can remember. At the table, he’d read alone in his head or aloud. He is the strongest man and the toughest non-punk that I ever knew. Never in all those years of him being my father has he opted for the stupid.
So I say to you: trip. Stutter. Stammer. Fall, get up, and fall and stutter and stammer again and again. Look stupid. Sound stupid. Let ‘em watch. Let ‘em laugh. And if you really want to grow – need be, ask those snickering onlookers for help. If you need to, feel free to use my daddy’s image. I’m sure he won’t mind.
Conjure up the image of the man – my daddy. Become that man. Conjure the image of either me or my sisters as youngsters, aiding my daddy, helping him read. Don’t get hung up on our looks. We won’t mind. Conjure the image of him stumbling in the church, with all eyes on him, crying at our feet. Or the wails heard nightly behind that door. See him in your mind’s eye, plucking his guitar, singing a song with elongated trembles like he did. “A Change Is Gonna Come.” Use all these things to galvanize those words into your experience. He did, and it did.
Top of Form
DID YOU KNOW….
Stutter
A speech disorder involving frequent problems with the normal fluency and flow of speech.
- spoken with or characterized by a stutter.
“his slow stuttering speech”
- progressing in a hesitant or irregular way.
“her film career got off to a stuttering start”
Noun
- the action or fact of speaking with a stutter.
“there is little support for the claim that stuttering is associated with anxiety”
Feb 2, 2025 – The meaning of STUTTER is to speak with involuntary disruption or blocking of speech (as by repetition or prolongation of vocal sounds).
I DESCRIBED MY DAD TEACHING HIMSELF TO READ SOUNDING LIKE STUTTERING. GIVE ME OTHER DESCRIPTIONS THAT WOULD DESCRIBE SUCH AN ACTION WHEN LEARNING TO READ WHEN ILLITERATE
ChatGPT said:
Here are a few alternative ways to describe the process of someone teaching themselves to read while being illiterate:
- Halting and broken, like stepping on uneven ground with words.
- Choppy and unsure, as if testing each letter before trusting the next.
- Like a record skipping, trying to catch the rhythm of the language.
- Words spilling out in stops and starts, like a car stalling on a hill.
- Sounding out each letter like piecing together a puzzle with missing parts.
- Like a baby bird testing its wings, flapping before catching flight.
- A hesitant melody, each syllable a note he wasn’t sure belonged.
- Like striking a match over and over, waiting for the spark of recognition.
- Letters tumbling from his mouth, some landing right, others rolling away.
- Like walking through thick fog, words forming slowly as he felt his way forward.
Would you like something even more poetic or straightforward?
You said:
when urban slang calls a person a punk what does it mean
ChatGPT said:
In urban slang, calling someone a punk can have different meanings depending on the context. Here are some common interpretations:
- Weak or cowardly – Someone who is seen as soft, scared, or easily intimidated.
- Disrespectful or troublemaker – A person who acts up, disrespects others, or causes problems.
- Submissive or easily controlled – Sometimes used in a prison or street context to imply someone is weak or being dominated.
- Young and reckless – Can refer to someone immature or acting foolishly.
- Fake or not real – As in someone pretending to be tough but isn’t.
It can be an insult, but depending on tone and context, it might also be used playfully among friends.
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