The Bottom

Some how or another we all find our way
Way, way, down
Down at the roots
The bottom
The base
Where your mouth only knows how the soil tastes
Where your eyes can’t see because there ain’t no light
There ain’t no fear cuz there ain’t no sight

Way, way, way down at the bottom
The place where we all came from
The place we’re going back to
Where we will party hearty all together as one
Deep down there at the bottom

The bottom ain’t cold, not the very bottom
It’s warm and calm and easy
No rain, no storms, no wind to blow
That happens up top
Not here below
Ain’t no raking leaves or shovelling snow
No crops to harvest or seeds to sow
We’re safe here, in the lowest parts
Where we feel the beat of our hearts
Where we can hear the sound of a thought
A novel one, not borrowed or bought

Yes, down at the bottom where I let my mind play
Until the sun finds me on another day


The Void

Minute by minute
Hour by hour
Day by day
It all slips away
Into the void that swallows everything we don’t hold onto
A space that consumes the moments we let go of
Memories that explain love and hate, fear and comfort
The details that we only felt
Things with out a name to help us grasp them
Stories too short to be worthy of remembering
Pages of a book stuck together
Intricacies that would smooth the curve of our path if we didn’t let them wash away

But we forget them
We fogret which way brought us to this way
Now came from yesterday, and soon today will be tomorrow
Every step you forgot along this path brought you here

Why do stories take longer to live than they do to tell?
What did we leave out of our account?
Why doesn’t it all add up?

Here we are again

Here we are again
In the midst of the illusion
Bombarded by the clamor of voices fighting to say nothing at all

We were here yesterday and we will probably be here tomorrow
Fighting to hear ourselves over the cacophony of chaos
A fight we can only ever win momentarily

There is no true escape
No true way out
No true end to the cycle

Like death and birth and death again
Ideas laboring to leave the womb of our minds
Hoping they won’t be forgotten before that get a chance to breathe

Here we are again.


Here’s a post about an experience I had that reminded me of how important community is. It also reminded me that being overly selfish is a part of our humanness we should fight.

There were two lines at the embassy where I was applying for my VISA, both filled with people waiting for an interview. As I moved to my place in the front of the line I heard a voice say to someone on my left, “Don’t let them go ahead of you, take your turn next.” I was immediately irritated because I knew that my turn was next; my line was meant to go first because we were just handing in documents we had been sent out to retrieve. When I turned to see who was plotting on my turn I saw a thirty something year old guy with a bald head and a teenager in khakis standing in front of him. The bald headed guy and the teen didn’t look like the typical father and son I was expecting. The man wore gym shorts, tennis shoes, and white tee-shirt while the boy was wearing tennis shoes (and not the euro-styled, don’t play ball in them, kind of sneaker) with his khakis in an awkward combination I didn’t expect a teenager to agree with. The kid, who seemed to be about fifteen, would not make eye contact with me. I had glanced at him earlier but now I realized that he was someone I had seen before and there was something unique about him although it took me a second to remember what that was.

A few months earlier this same young man had visited the Island School where I managed an Aquaponic system. He was accompanied by someone who actually appeared to be his father and I had given them both a tour of our setup. What took me a second to remember was that he seemed special when we first met. I don’t mean to belittle him by using that term but I don’t know a better way to express myself here. I believe a physician would say he was on the autistic spectrum. Just like during the tour, this young man was very quiet as he stood next to me but I attempted to start a conversation. His silence and unwillingness to meet me eye to eye actually made me feel like he had better things to think about than what I was saying. We got as far as him acknowledging his visit to Eleuthera and seeing our campus before the bell rang to summon the next interviewee.   I waited for him to take his turn to be interviewed and as he walked over to the window his mother swooped in to help clear things up with the lady sitting behind the glass. The bald headed guy and I engaged in a little small talk before the bell rang again and he deliberately waited for me to head up to the window, nodding as I walked away. I doubt he even knew that kid’s name.

— Bradley Watson


I see things the way they should be very rarely and for the briefest moments. Moments short enough to mark the progress of the opening and closing of a camera’s shutter. Moments that answer fewer questions than they inspire; stoking a burning desire for enlightenment. Moments that change me so that my journey back to them is no longer an adventure in search of happiness, but a search for refuge in a desert of discontent.

I cannot remember these moments with great clarity. Their life is too short to be wasted in in the paralysis required for proper observation. In fact, such paralysis would kill them, for their life is in the emotions they stir in their passing. I would trade the inspection of a cold, frozen eternity for a moment like a day filled with light passing so fast that sunrise and sunset are separated by the blink of an eye. Such a moment vanishes so quickly I have to feel to warmth on my skin to decide whether I’m remembering a dream at dawn, or a day at dusk.  

These moments form no certain, detailed memories, nor can they inspire great tales for those who have bathed in the glory of their sun. The passing of so much life in such a short time blinds me like the flash of a blinking strobe. I see only the shadows of my surroundings allowing me to recognize only barley the elements of this moment that combine to inspire its truth. But the truth is all that counts.

— Bradley Watson 

Death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death. If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig.

I heard this quote last night while I was trying to fall asleep. I was watching one of the most informative and entertaining pieces of media I have seen for a while, a stand-up performance by Russell Brand. Today I was going through my hard drive and found this piece from two and a half years ago. I wrote it on another night when I was unable to sleep but had some inspiration that I have to reach for now.


Black in Science. Not as hard as being black in Ferguson, but still weird all the same.

   I was writing this in a different mindset and with a different goal until Ferguson, MO happened. That ongoing tragedy popularized by racial tensions but equally influenced by economic inequality made me want to finish this little essay. I had forgotten how sheltered I was by my environment but I still think my experiences are relevant and representative of the struggles of other blacks who are infiltrating fields that were/are dominated by white people.

I was in a lab meeting this summer and offered to drive some samples of the prairie plants we study back to Omaha with me if we needed more time to process them. Our PI said that she could get the biomass processed here in Michigan and joked that I would be a huge target for the cops driving through Chicago in a car full of dried plants. All six of us at the lab meeting (me being the only black person) laughed our heads off. We extended the hypothetical situation into stories about me trying to explain that the dried grass in the black plastic bags was for an experiment leading the police to call our PI to ask if this story was true. Someone even said the word marijuana… IN A LAB MEETING! At the end of it all I was taken aback. My boss, a 60 something year old white Christian lady from the heartland of America had put herself in my shoes and recognized that things were a little different for me.

She used the phrase, “a black man.” Many people shy away from blatant acknowledgement of racial differences but she didn’t and I respect her for it. I have been one of a few blacks and often the only black person in my classes for a long time. I left the Bahamas where I was in the racial majority for school in Canada where I was often mistaken for being Nigerian or Jamaican but not really discriminated against because that country is so diverse. After a year there I moved to a school in Charleston, South Carolina. I knew racism was historically a part of southern culture but I always thought that being international, well spoken, and well-mannered (by my nature and to the point of being timid sometimes) meant that I wouldn’t be a victim of this racism… wrong! I remember the first girl to cross the street as I approached. It was on a well-lit side walk at around 10 pm. I was shocked when I realized that she was just avoiding walking past me but I rationalized it; she could just be avoiding the threat of a male instead of the threat of a black. Then there was a night when I was escorting a white female friend home from a party and stopped two fratastic guys from harassing her. They left her alone and laughed at me… slapping me on my ass as I walked by. I chalked that one up to their inebriation and the idiocy encouraged in some fraternities. One thing I could never justify was why blacks made up 10% of the population in the US but my school had nearly 100% black janitorial staff and more than 95% white professors. I remember just one black Biology professor and I’m only calling him black because it takes just a little yellowing of the skin or crimping of the hair to be perceived as such! The final wake up call for me was in a plant taxonomy class surrounded by white peers whom I got along extremely well with. I forgot how we got to this point in the conversation but the professor, another older white lady, looked at me and said something like “Do you know how long they tried to keep your people out of this school?” (The best use of “your people” I have ever heard btw) It was a shock for me; she recognized this bias and felt strongly about it while I was trying to ignore it. But what choice do I have? Am I supposed to think about my race all the time?

I think the answer to that is no, but I have to be aware of it. I just started a teaching assistantship and had some trouble with my paperwork… I admit that I was being a little slack but I had just gotten into town and was balancing departmental and international student paperwork and orientations simultaneously. I can’t help but imagine that my superiors consider the fact that I’m the only black TA when I screw up. So as a black man I feel pressure to avoid making mistakes at all costs whether it’s having too many friends riding in my car at one time or playing my music too loud in the lab. I just don’t feel like I’ll get as many second chances as others. Ironically, one of my good friends told me he thought people would take it easy on me since I’m a Black Bahamian. I don’t know which of the two adjectives would encourage this lax attitude the most in his mind.

This brings us to the issue of affirmative action. I was in my senior year of undergrad applying for a travel grant so we could show off the work our lab group had done that year. This time the professor I’m talking about was one of the sweetest ladies you’ll meet; she happened to be middle-aged and, surprise, white. She asked about my parent’s education and incomes and I had to admit that they both had master’s degrees and made OK money even though that wouldn’t help my chances of getting funded. In the end I didn’t get that funding so she took the time to call in and find out why. It turned out that I should have mentioned more of my research experiences than I had in my essay. Later I met a black professor and told him about this experience and he told me that there was other funding for black students that would have gotten me to that conference. This past summer I told a black administrator at one of my favorite schools that I couldn’t find funding there so I went to another institution. He also let me know that he knew where to find funding for me, a fellow black. Some people think these pockets of funding for minorities are unfair but I disagree. When the number of minorities in scientific leadership roles reflects the percentage of minorities in the general population I will concede that affirmative action is unnecessary.  I have been blessed with mentors and professors who invested in me regardless of (or possibly because of) my race but when I meet black professors there is something else there. The three ladies I mentioned earlier were the kind of allies M. L. K. was looking for when he wrote his letter from that jail in Birmingham but meeting black professors is like meeting Dr. King himself for me. Being in the presence of a successful black academic, or even their work for that matter, makes me feel like I now have to succeed because it really is possible since others have done it before me. I’m almost certain that female students experience the same emotions when they meet strong women in leadership roles.

So, yeah… black in science… black in this world. I just want to be treated like everyone else but I am no longer naive enough to expect that. This human experience is crazy, and what’s even crazier is that we can alter other’s experiences by sharing our own 😉

— Bradley Watson