Neutrality will be the death of us. Sitting on a fence, afraid to shit or get off the pot, we remain motionless. We aspire to normalcy. We worship average. We dream of the mean. And then he came along. With a fistful of dirty poetry and an armload of brute courage, he split open his chest and hopped under the microscope. This is not another fan letter.

His name is Eminem, and he is not my hero. He is human. For all those out there who suck down his CDs in hopes of becoming like him, I say, “You will choke.” For all those ladies who want to slap him with cute and rope home a thug-next-door, I say, “You’ll never catch him.” And for all those critics, politicians and regular saints who, looking for a place to rest their ungodly feet, tread upon his head, I say, “You step on me!” But I’m not Eminem. I’m just a small white girl from West Bloomfield who found the last human being alive.

Words are documents, records that, yes, we existed. Proof that, indeed, we thought. But while so many of us jot down lunch dates in our Franklin Planners, or ideas on our Caribou napkins, we forget to immortalize the one thing that makes this world a lifetime, and us, a life: our fraction of a moment emotions, those tiny bleeps inside our head that say, “I breathe. I think. I live.”

So when Eminem is blaring hate from blue eyes, causing Moms across America to button up the ears of children; or hurling insults at a thousand Tom, Dick and Dianas for lending a foot instead of a hand; or coughing up swears as tight and fast as a teenage girl’s ass; he is simply offering one real moment in one real man’s life. And he does it with no apology, no disclaimer, no “Please forgive me. I must have lost my head!” Rather than belittle his life, dismiss his heart, or cover up that which makes him human, he just … lets it ride.

He chooses to sit that drama out.

Eminem is a chronicle, his songs, entries. If we choose to judge a man, categorize a life, based upon a sentence, a moment, a bleep, then perhaps we should file ourselves under “Safe” and close up shop for a night. Or we could make a deal, choose the box, the curtain, the envelope. If we ever decided to admit a second’s rage, embrace a fleeting love, spit a speck of jealousy, quake with a shudder of vulnerability, perhaps we might be alive. Maybe we ought to live. Or possibly, we could love Eminem.

Laura Bond comments: In this impressionistic essay, Fisnar takes a unique approach to writing about the much-covered Eminem. Her piece is personal and poetic and again confirms that, love him or hate him, Eminem is an artist who has made people think. A little flowery at times, but don’t hold that against her; Fisnar deserves credit for taking chances with her voice and her style.

Back to Amateurs write, like, prose

Ericka Fisnar is 24, lives in West Bloomfield and teaches adult education. E-mail

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