Listen To The Man, Listen To The Message

Darryl McDaniels and I don’t have a whole lot in common.

We were both born in May. We are both in our 50s. (For now). We both love music, though he has made it his life whereas I can’t carry a tune from my shower to my bedroom. And, I suppose, we are both Hall of Famers.

He is in the Rock and Roll of Fame and I’m in the John Bapst Athletics Hall of Fame, one of seven members from my cross-country team who were inducted this summer after winning a state championship back in 1982.

I never said it was a fair fight. He wins. Period.

Last week, however, McDaniels—better known as Rock and Roll Hall of Famer DMC of Run-DMC fame—made a major impact on me, and to the nearly three dozen students he spoke to in the band room at the school where I presently make my money.

The message was simple and succinct.

“Embrace your creativity.”

This space, born in February of 2013, was once upon a time a creative place for me.

I could tell stories. Mine. Other’s. I could wax poetic. I could opine. Once upon a time, I tried to be creative for 365 days in a row. I failed by a single day. (And yes it haunts me)!

And then last year I was attacked because of this space. Because of my words. My opinions. My feelings. My life.

That act is not new to me. I was a journalist, so I’m used to such attacks. I’ve been called a “clown.” I’ve been accused of riding “on my high horse” (by a co-worker, no less). I’ve been hated. A 14-year-old girl once told me to “fucking die” because I wrote a negative column about former NBA basketball player Danny Ainge.

But life is different in the 2020s. We live in a cancel culture.

Write something that somebody doesn’t like and if that person has the power and the connections, I could be working the drive through a Big Boys Burgers in Peoria by the end of the week. Or at least cooking the fries.

When I was a journalist, somebody could call me a clown and I could call them an “expletive deleted” (on the phone, to their face, via e-mail) and not only would I be right, but I would be cheered for standing up for myself.

In the Year of our Lord, however, if I get accused of something because of the words I put together, I could very easily be cut loose because I’m not worth the fight anymore. Nobody is.

Isn’t that a major problem in this world, right now? Nobody can fight for what they truly believe in anymore.

It’s a sad time in America. It’s a sad time in the world.

Then a nearly 60-year-old black rapper told a bunch of kids “embrace your creativity” and I heard his message.

I was hooked. Awe-struck.

Run-DMC came of age, if. you will, right about the time I did. At least it was there as I transitioned from teenager to adulthood. Nineteen-eixty-six to be exact.

It was a year that tore my heart apart (Red Sox-Mets, Game 6 … oof … but love you Bill Buckner).

This tiny infinite space that is the World Wide Web is me. The good. The bad. The ugly.

I’ve used the words, “Cut open a vein and bleed” when it comes to my writing, and I’ve done just that.

And then some two-bit piece of shit attacked and while important people had my back, and realized what was happening, I still stepped back.

I moved away from my words. I didn’t want to write anymore. I didn’t want to create anymore.

I stopped writing. I was no longer whole.

Then Darryl McDaniels spoke.

The guy who rose up from Hollis, Queens, to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame captured the minds and hearts of those who sat before.

Earlier this month, before he came to my school, McDaniels spoke with People magazine about mental health.

Being vulnerable “isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of strength” he said. He later added, “When I tell my truth, I am given everything necessary for me to overcome it. If I hold it in, it will destroy me.”

Those, too, are words I understand.

For those who want to be creative, I can only hope they embraced the creativity that McDaniel spoke of just a few days ago.

As a journalist, I’ve struggled with the creative side of my writing—even though that is where it all has begun.

Short stories. Fiction. Plays. Two novels, seven chapters in … left to die.

And this blog.

These words have led to some of my best friends understanding me better and embracing me more. But these words have also led to an array of headaches that have segued into some mental health battles.

A Rock and Roll Hall of Famer told me to embrace my creativity.

I’d be a fool not to listen, right?