I Feel Like I'm Alone Everywhere I Go

And that's not a cry for help. Solitude can be a blessing.

I plopped down in the window seat directly behind my sister, resting my still-hot latte in the makeshift cup holder to my side. The ferry left right at 11:45 AM, and my latte had taken longer to be ready than it does for the Braves’ offense to finish a half inning this season. Had I hesitated and been even a few minutes late, I would’ve been left on Pier 39. The Uber to Napa is about 45 minutes and $200. I probably would have just gone to the baseball game.

Surprisingly, I’ve lived most of my adult life near large bodies of water. Sans my sojourn to Phoenix, lakes, bays, and oceans have been part of my daily life. Even if I don’t interact with them, I see them, and I feel them.

The piercing wind off Lake Michigan in Chicago has no mercy on your face. Lake Ponchartrain near New Orleans is a behemoth unto itself. Rivers flow up and down and everywhere in the DMV, from McLean to Hyattsville to Baltimore. Yet it took a voyage to the other side of the country to mark another year of life to strike up an appreciation for the scenery of the water.

I celebrated myself quite a bit for this birthday. It’s the first time I’ve done such a thing, and if any regrets exist, it’s that I didn’t find the joy and necessity of doing so much sooner. It took me 34 years….

One of the main reasons I picked the Bay Area as the hub of my birthday activities is what the city means to me, figuratively and literally. I lived in Northern California as a child, but not at an age that enables me to have any memories. When I first started thinking about college, California dominated my dreams. I fantasized about undergrad at USC in Los Angeles. When I first started applying myself intently to my academics in my first year of college, I knew that if I had the capacity to be a naive, carefree, and whimsical child, I easily could have ended up at Berkeley. I’d fall in love with the Bay, I said, find an ancestor of a Panther who has since moved to Concord or Richmond, find new ways to love that same woman over and over again, and live happily ever after. I soon learned that life doesn’t work like that, unless it does.

The Last Black Man in San Francisco is one of my favorite films. I frequently write about and reference it. I first discovered it during the early days of the pandemic, and since then, it has been a source of inspiration, guidance, and comfort more times than I can count.

In the immediate aftermath of my divorce, Jimmy and Mont comforted my soul. When I closed on my house, they were a guiding star for all things possible for a simple little nerdy Black boy from suburban Georgia. When friendships fail, the film is a source of grief. When friendships and relationships blossom, it’s a source of craft and identity. There are about twenty films that can help someone understand who I truly am, as an emotional and philosophical individual. The Last Black Man in San Francisco is near the top of that watchlist.

So this year, as I became determined to celebrate myself and all the bullshit I’ve managed to navigate through, a trip to the Bay, one that’s been on my list for the better part of seven years now, was a no brainer. That two of my favorite people in the world could join me was a plus.

People often ask why this film resonates with me so profoundly, and any attempt to explain it usually falls short of its internal meaning. Sure, it’s the music and pacing, the cinematography and nuanced exploration of the Black male existence in a rapidly changing place that we’ve never really acknowledged we helped build.

More than anything, however, The Last Black Man in San Francisco is a portrait —a complicatingly perplexing invocation about Black male friendship and loss, about relentless perseverance through the most trying circumstances, and about how one can do that while those who should understand him the most remain oblivious to his challenges.

I’ve seen the film a dozen times, and I still can’t tell you if Jimmy really thought his grandfather built the house, or if he had just told himself that so many times he started to believe it. Nonetheless, I still want it to be true. I still want Jimmy to get what he longs for so desperately, because it's rare for people like Jimmy and me to have those kinds of opportunities.

I’ve had to learn how to see the glass half full in life, how to celebrate and love myself, with the expectation that nothing and no one else can ever match or reciprocate that. Birthdays make you think about the things you’ve lost, sure, but they tend to be a catalyst for examining all the ways you overcame those losses, and what you’ve been able to turn them into. In some strange way, the sights, sounds, and smells of the water hugged me. They validated my existence and affirmed the vastness of my dreams. The water spoke to me. It said happy birthday, young man. It said you’re doing good, son. Keep going.

I think there are moments in life where we all want to be more understood, where we’d find solace in a place, either real or imagined, that affirms our wildest dreams and sheds our deepest fears, and that tells us boldly and with strength, “You matter, and you are loved.”

To say I don’t need that from humans would be toxic naivety. We all want to be important, at least to the people closest to us. But the last few years have taught me that basing our outlook on life on how others perceive, receive, or ignore our sacrifice is a cruel way to live. I’ve experienced countless loves based on the most asinine conditions. I pray the Lord that kind of love never finds me again. In response to the growth that resulted from such encounters, it became evident to me that celebrating myself as much as I engage in self-reflection is the only way to live a balanced life. I’d encourage you to give it a try.

I come from a long lineage of humans who have had to carve their piece of this violent ridden world with their bare hands, and I carry in my heart and on my shoulders the prayers, aspirations, and encouragement of many more. The social media comments wishing a young man a happy birthday or stating that you’re happy to see me doing well mean a great deal, and I am truly grateful. Love is powerful, and it ain’t gotta be reciprocated on the daily to be real.

I guess Jamila Woods said it best, “I’m not lonely/I’m alone/And I’m holy/By my own.

Where two or more are gathered, the Lord appears, but I’m increasingly finding God in my moments of solitude. Here’s a celebratory toast to that.