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Anthony Alden Photography

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Who is this Generation X? Children of the 70s and 80s by-products of Vietnam traumatized soldiers who internalized their second-class citizenship. Outrage and delusional, they created a Hollywood fictitious super nighah. A safer pathway to confront whitey racism than civil disobedience and protest.

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When Given A Lemon Make Lemonade.

“Everything I am as a Black man was built upon the backs of those who didn't become. I chose to take the lemon I inherited from the teachings of my family and friends to make a fresh glass of lemonade.”

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Earth Wind Fire

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I love when the seasons change when summer lean into fall, fall slide into winter, and spring bring in the summer. What a beautiful world.

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https://www.anthonyalden.com

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Anthony Alden photo opp.

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Reincarnation by Anthony Alden

Life is so full of ups and downs. Too many times, I rode the roller coaster of pain and hurt failing to seize opportunities for joy. Sunshine always follows the rain, as written in the Book of Life. So how did I survive all these turbulent years intact as a black man when so many of my peers faded by the wayside?

Last year I finally stopped covering up my grey hairs with dye realizing each one represented stripes of honour. Flashbacks filled my memory growing up, the good, the bad, and the ugly, yet, I survived to embrace another day. God is real, God is great, God is good, and God has never left my side. I stopped counting the losses of the loved ones I lost to death. My mother and father, brothers and sisters, grandmothers and grandfathers, Aunties and Uncles, cousins by the dozens, close friends and lovers. The world didn't birth me into this circle of love for me to never hear from them again. The world changes around me every day, but I maintain faith that things will be alright. 

"Always remember that hard times will appear and then they will disappear so stay strong and always try and do the right thing. Because if you don't, you may have to return to everywhere you have been."  

It's called reincarnation.

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“A Black King Without His Black Queen” The new femininity; love the men who hurt you and dog the men who love you.

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Columbus Funk Fest 2023

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Portrait Of Death

I remember when my brother died 10 years ago, his death brought tears to my soul. I was engaged in my normal busy schedule and heard an unearthly voice that said “Call home.” immediately stopped what I was doing, picked up the phone and called my mom. My nephew picked up the phone and said they found Uncle Marvin unconscious at home and rushed him to the hospital.

I knew the end was coming; he had been diagnosed six months ago with terminal lung cancer and fought a courageous battle to survive with dignity. You see, he knew he would lose the war, but he wanted to die a warrior. With honour and pride, he didn't want to stretch out his impending death by having someone take care of him. He chose to die in control and the comfort of his home.

I hung up the phone, composed myself, and jumped in my car to make the two-hour ride to Toledo. God is great! No one thought to call me and tell me that he was fighting for his life in intensive care, yet the spiritual connection between my brother and I had moved beyond space and time. My heartfelt heavy, I have never lost anyone close. I fought to stay in control of my emotions; how I made the drive down 23 North was still a blur. I finally broke down halfway home, gathering up my feelings outside the emergency room. I parked the car and made the long walk down the dim corridor that led to the hospital entrance.

Death can be celebrated, feared, or embraced. I chose to embrace it. I just talked to Marvin three days before his death. His words were slurred and his left hand trembled out of control as he tried to maneuver his paintbrush. He was a great artist in my opinion, one of the most prolific artists of his generation. Creating art was the only thing that pushed Marvin to fight against death. Realizing his date with death grew closer, he laid his brush down, took a deep breath, and said; “just as well I have nothing else to create, seems I’ve done it all".

There were no words to console my big brother. I could not begin to imagine how he must have felt, trying to cope with death while living. My sadness felt like it was never going to let up; I was about to lose my brother, my friend, my mentor.

Sometimes the shortest walk is the longest distance. The hallway that led to the intensive care unit was long and narrow. The floors were paved with white tile, the lighting was subdued. As I approached the double doors, the out-of-focus sign now read clearly “intensive care”. The automatic doors opened like a gateway to another dimension.

My immediate family was all gathered around the hospital bed. No tubes were coming in or out of his body, just an ankh-shaped bandage around the IV that held the needle firm in his collapsed vein. He was still alive, waiting and barely clinging to life. My mother was at the head of the bed, holding his hand. The wall clock above reads 2:15 am. I had never seen anyone dying; it was nothing like the movies. Everything was surreal, as if I was in a dream. I maneuvered myself just opposite my mother at the head of the bed. She held his right hand, and I had his left.

For the first time, I saw my mother cry; it was a soft whimpering cry. I wanted to be strong for her, so I held back any visible tears, yet my heart flooded with grief. Death is always only a blink away. Marvin always seems invincible. My brother Tommy, who since then has passed away, tried to ease our tension by cracking stale jokes. Now that I think back, it was his way of coping with the loss of our brother. Deep down, losing Marvin was tearing Tommy apart. I could see right through his comedic act.

Marvin’s breathing became noticeably irregular; he fought death, refusing to let go of this reality. He was preparing to cross over; however, I don’t think he was afraid; he just wasn’t ready to say goodbye. For all of his life, Marvin spoke through his art. He laid his soul on canvas for the world to see his pain, joy, humanity, and sexuality. The small room was silent; no one spoke a word. We all just waited for the angel of death to reclaim his soul.

My mother leaned over and whispered in Marvin’s ear, “You can go home now; it’s ok, Marvin, you can let go.” The voice that welcomed him into this world told him it was okay to depart. My mother closed her eyes held his hand tight, and waited for him to let go.

Somewhere between life and death, a space holds our spirit in limbo. Marvin elevated above us all that night, capturing his last recognizable glimpse of the ones he loved. Marvin lifted his brush high and painted his final stroke for the ones he had to leave behind. Rest in peace!

Anthony Alden Vines