I think we all have had times in our lives where we've been complete poseurs. Usually such things first happen to us around puberty. In our sudden need to break away and be independent we ironically start following others and trying to do what they do. When I was in Junior High School in 1981 Hip Hop culture had begun to flourish. It was the latest way for young people to stick their finger at the "Man." "Hip Hop" became a label to what was new and fashionable in brown and black communities in New York City. Being raised in the artist community of Tribeca I wasn't exactly in touch with was was happening Uptown and in the Bronx. However there were the ghettos in Chelsea nearby the Junior High School I attended. My Junior High was named the Clinton Program. Clinton was housed on the 5th floor of an elementary school. It consisted of 90-100 kids and about 5-6 teachers. It was first class instruction but very socially claustrophobic. There was a very diverse mixture of kids but too few of them at the same time. It was in the 6th grade at Clinton that I first became aware of having a Black identity. Coming back from a field trip on the Subway I was sharing some seats with a few other kids. The leader of our little group was a kids named Andre. Andre was athletic, cool, good looking, and already showing signs of being a man. Quite the 8th grader. He was lecturing us on being black. There was one other black kid in our group who was nodding his head up and down every time Andre made a point.

"None of you can understand what it's like to be black! Just me and Jamal!", Andre exclaimed.

At that point I had what some would call a moment of clarity. I was this little overweight sixth grader with a jacked up afro. But I had to set the record straight.

"Well, I'm half.", I said clear enough for all to hear.

"I heard that!", Andre said proudly as he got up out of his chair to give me five. Jamal got up too. I was now a part of a larger club.

It was on this same train ride that Andre pointed out he had been in that particular subway car before. His graffiti "tag" was in plain site up by the emergency break. He was being congratulated by all. Andre had now become my personal James Dean. The rebirth of slick, the personification of cool. I had to get my own graffiti tag.

The story seriously winds down from here. I had no talent for NYC early 80s style graffiti. My chosen tag was even worse, "Jab". I would scrawl it, in my inept style, all over my note books with store brought felt tip markers. I was actually too scared to draw it on trains. However, there was one time I manage to pull it off. I was completely alone in the train save for one man diagonally across the length of the train from me. He was fast asleep. I curled up in the corner of my seat and snuck out my pen looking out for anyone who should suddenly walk in the train. I managed to pull off one sloppy and tiny "Jab". I was a rebel at last.

As for Andre I remember bumping into him when I was in high school. He was selling newspapers down by the World Trade Center. We always greeted each other warmly. To this day I can still hear him yelling out: "Post! Post final! Post!"