Let Go

He had always been a man’s man. Tough. Strong. You can tell by looking at his hands. They were thick, rough and hardened from years of outside work. Those hands had seen hammer to nail, bullet to gun, and rod to child, feed to beast, years of struggle.
Even on his deathbed at 86, James’ hands told a story. They showed his personality, always independent. He cut grass to stay in shape, which helped him stay well oiled.
Out to his last days, James wanted no one to cry over him, or to look with pity. At 86, he’d seen a many of things. His mom and dad went to glory. Friends gone. He’d already accepted his fate. He would go out like a solider. No help wanted.
Once a proud service man, he used to tell the little ones tales of his battle days. During that time he’d traveled around the world.
“I flew out from New York and (a few months later) flew into California,” he said. “I traveled by boat, train and plane.”
He’d come back home to the deep bayous to raise a full house. Generations came and went. Though educated to a mere secondary level himself, he was a master in sending several to school to get degrees. He pulled baby teeth. He taught the children how to ride bikes. He taught them how to sit at the dinner table. He did everything a man was supposed to do. So he’d almost ran his course. The family was grateful.
One day his only son came to see about him. The son held his father’s hand. He recited a strong, short prayer. Then son just continued to hold his father’s hand. If just to feel his warmth. But dad’s grip weakened. He struggled. Dad called. “Reggie,” he mustered. “Yes Daddy,” Reggie answered. Son leaned in close. The man’s voice wouldn’t carry far. A minute passed. His hands falling limp in his son’s grip. Down on his bed, unable to move anymore the old man took heavy breaths. He needed his son close. Son still gripped his hand. Dad gathered all his strength, and yet still weakly led his son’s ear to his mouth. Dad voiced (to his only son).
“Let. …Go. …My. …Hand.”


…After all he’s still a man.

In memory of my Uncle James.

Sunday Blu's

It started out innocently. It was a normal Sunday morning in church. Like everyone else I waited in the lobby while Rev said a prayer. When he finished, we walked in and just to be appropriate Brother Blu, an usher stretched out his hand to mine for a handshake. I politely returned gesture with a friendly, warm handshake. Quick. Then I leaned my head to the right and smiled. I hadn’t walked but five steps to get to my regular seat when a stench hit me. I prayed a prayer. Then sucked my teeth in disgust. After shaking Brother Blu’s hand, mine reeked of stale urine.
Now, I’d vowed before to never shake a man’s hand again. Or hug one, unless he’s my kinship or boyfriend for that matter. People sneeze. And don’t wash. People eat. And don’t wash. People use the restroom. And don’t wash. That’s about a million germs. Festering.
Brother Blu caught me off guard. I woke up feeling great and looked forward to service. I planned on being nice that day. Besides I figured that since I was in church it couldn’t have been that bad.
Yet, I sat upset in my nice, cream tailored suit. Not a string or button was out of place. The stitching was flawless. As the overhead fan spun my hair flowed in the breeze. I looked like I’d stepped straight out of the pages of Vogue. I wore a light perfume to bless anyone who came close enough to me for the scent to touch them. I woke up extra early to prepare for church. Did all of that for Brother Blu to come and put a blemish on my design. I frowned hard. I was almost Heaven until he came along. Normally, I am cool. But when I made it to my seat, my hands started to perspire. Rev started to preach again and it would have been rude for me to get up and wash my hands. I sat stuck and disgusted. I didn’t want to hear anything Rev had to say. From time to time I’d smell my hand to see if the funk died down. It didn’t.
Then I took to looking at Brother Blu out of the corner of my eye to see who had sat next to him on his bench. It stayed empty. He nodded to the sermon. And clapped when the choir sang songs. The whole time he’s totally oblivious to his offense. Up until the end of church, a woman sat next to him. She was trying to sneak in, hoping no one saw her late so I guessed she didn’t care if Brother Blu needed a bath (with about a capful of bleach). She looked to be in bad need of one too.
From then on I’m a mean girl.
If you see me don’t shake my hand. Don’t even try to give me a hug. I don’t deserve it. Pass me over. I will not be upset. Just think, B is snobbish. I’ve got funny ways, only speaking and smiling to certain people.
And the meeting of a guy I hadn’t seen in a long time in Blockbuster made me write this blog. He felt dissed that I didn’t shake his outstretched hand. He shouldn’t be.
I just had a bad case of Sunday Blues. I had an unfortunate contact with Brother Blu.

I Am the American Gangster

Finally!

After waiting a full year of seeing the teaser previews I saw the movie, American Gangster. The events are based on (New York) drug-king pin Frank Lucas’ life.
Like everyone else, I wanted to see the action. I looked for entertainment. I am a movie buff and lately I hadn’t been satisfied with what Hollywood is doing.
While I was waiting, I read articles on Lucas. My anticipation grew as my eyes raced across the stories of him. I had to see what made Frank so potent. Frank’s haunting. He had a kill everyone and take never collect names attitude. I guess hard living made him that way.

When the movie came out I just couldn’t wait to drag my best friend along with me. Before the movie started I felt odd. I knew I probably was the only person in the theater (besides my bff) who was against Frank Lucas. I don’t care if he was played by Denzel.
Usually people cheer for the main character. For more than a year a lot of hype surrounded the movie. But, I think maybe people forgot what Lucas did. He masterminded the corruption of Harlem. That’s H.A.R.L.E.M. Ya'll They got flavor! I went once, and it will forever be in my heart. He killed a part of my city. …in the 70s, when everything was real. For once, I cheered for the white guy, who brought him down.
But this isn’t our fault. Hollywood is ‘the man’. And forgive me for being silly, but I forgot they do pick our Black heroes. Shout outs to Martin and Rosa, you know they were the only ones who saved us. Du Bois, Angelo, Langston and the gang never did anything for for the world. ...and I bet Denzel gets an Oscar for this one (any part currupt).
Now, You want an American Gangster. I am the real American Gangster. …getting up in the early in the morning to face my professors (who hold a key to my future), that’s gangster. …spending hours studying for that exam, then acing it (and I’ll never need the information again), that’s Gangster. Spending time in clogged traffic, without losing my mind, that’s Gangster. Respecting my elders, that’s Gangster. Paying my bills on time, legitimate, that’s Gangster. Going to the dentist and being cavity free, that’s Gangster. And I love candy. I’ve got a stash in my room, car, bags, everywhere. Having credit, that’s Gangster. Shopping for a piece of land and property at 24, that’s Gangster. Graduating as a Master of all Arts, that’s Gangster. Penning my own book, that’s Gangster! All of this is a small part of my Gangster!
Course though I ain’t gonna get my props. That would be too like right. They would give Frank’s idiotcrocy glory and more. While I’m the real Gangsta! Young, Black and Gifted. As for Frank, he needs to be under the jail.

Beggars

Within the course of a week, two beggars approached me. Fast. Like I was a magnet. Or smelled like money. The first came by foot and asked for whatever change I had. I sighed. Out of all the people outside the gas station he selected me. I saw men and women, older than me and probably with considerably fatter pockets.
He looked dirty and desperate. I guess he picked by age.
“Hey, do you have any change? …Please. I just need gas,” he said.
His old dusty red truck blocked the gas pump. I felt for him. Then I dug into my pockets and unfolded $5.
“Awww, thanks. God Bless,” he said then hustled off into the store.
I figured that the five would get him a little more than a gallon.
The second fellow came by boat. Literally. I stood on the Ferry when he approached me. He looked the part of a pauper. He wore an ill-fitted business shirt; dusty khaki pants with a hole bore in the knee and 1980-styled high-top dark Reeboks with the straps across the ankle. Under that get-up he carried a toned and sculpted frame, not from working out but malnourished. His hair hadn’t been combed or cut in months, and curled then matted to his head. Like he prayed to God before approaching me, I did the same. But mine went a lot different from his.
Me:
Dear God,

Please. Don’t let this man come bother me.

Bum:
Dear Lawd,

I jus need some money.

In that instant, he thought the words of a thousand men.

Phunky Blu

One thing though, you could walk into a crowded room and if its musty, its not necessarily everyone in the entire room. It’s really usually just one strong person. And it’s hot. So the funk from that gross individual has fermented under their hairy pits.
Under the pits, there are sweaty glands working overtime because it’s heated and the pubes hold in the funk, which festers in more germs. The cotton shirt on his back can’t retain sweat and funk too. That one person fouls up the entire room, making you think it’s everyone in the room moving. When in fact, it’s one culprit -- the guy having the most fun.

Book Slut

Can you guys believe that I bought ANOTHER copy of Harry Potter (book # 7)?
It’s a special limited edition book. Its full color and have more drawings inserted in the back. I have planned on not opening this book. I want to save it. It will be a collector’s piece for when I open my own library.

I have also decided to start a book section. Like my own book club. I want to review the newest books that I read and love. My book club will be cooler than Oprah’s. Yes, I said it.

About two weeks ago I asked you guys for suggestions and they poured in. Thanks. I have a stack of books next to my nightstand. And I plan to stay up many hours of the night to complete them.

On my list of books to review:
- Time Taught Me to Fly by Russell Nichols (FAMU Graduate and my friend, so pick that one up at Amazon when you get a chance).
- Lessons From the Fall by D.L. Carpenter (another FAMU alumnae, very special lady. I had the privilege spending an entire summer with her and she is going to do more great things in the future. Very inspiring. Pick that one up too.)

… One of my main goals is to support other HBCU grads, students or anyone Black who is trying to do something positive. Whether you are a video game designer (Ivan) or trying to peddle your new perfume. I usually buy two copies of these books and things. One to keep and one to give as a gift. By the way I am ordering Black Sheep by Black Ivory Toldson, (Thanks for the look Enitra)

Back to the book list:
-The Art of Seduction by Robert Greene
-What Your Mama Never Told You (True Stories About Sex and Love), edited by Tara Roberts
- And the Walls Came Tumbling Down by Ralph David Abernathy

I will be posting reviews soon. Check back.

~b.

…I believe that I am going to change the entire world one day.

No Hyphen

I was reading an e-mail from my cousin. It was about something funny. I can't remember because the thing that stood out to me was my cousin's name. She signed her name: Treva Mitchell.
And I just thought that was sooo AWESOME!
Plain and simple, this is a note for Black women.
I loved the way she wrote her name. Treva just got married a little over a year ago. I thought it was a great look the way she wrote her name. She did not write in her maiden name: Treva Green Mitchell or (the way I see a lot of Black women write) Treva Green-Mitchell.
Black women have this bad habit of using a hyphen in their new last name. That's not right, if you ask me. I told her Mitchell is a nice ring. I think Black women should drop their maiden name and acknowledge whoever they marry as the Head. We know Treva is independent. If we as Black women continue to do that we will continue to slow the progress of OUR Black males in this European society. Because little boys look at that and grow up thinking, well I will never get her to accept me for all that I am if she continues to bathe in this society's mentality of "Independence." But at the same time I understand that you gotta survive, and that's a way to do it. Its also wrong.
Now, while she was engaged she battled with the decision to use a hyphen or not. And she was also wise enough to know that she was going into a marriage to become ONE. If you are using the hyphen, you are probably planning on getting a divorce and not letting the marriage grow from the start, she said.
So, I asked.
"At your wedding, who gave you away," I said.
"My father," she responded.
OK!!! "Great your father gave you away, so it’s OK to drop the name because you are now apart of a new family."
Treva's family loves her. She will always be her mom and dad's child. At the same time, her father gave his blessings to start a new family.
At the end of the conversation we laughed a little just at the thought that great minds think a like.
Then she said, "If the guy was a ballplayer, who made millions of dollars Black women would be quick to drop their name and take his."

Probably.

just a thought,

~b.

New Respect

Shaq has always been respected. He towers well over 7 feet and weighs more than 325 pounds. Whether off the basketball court or on the court, a guy of his size just commands respect. Everyone who runs across him, probably just part ways to give him room. He wears custom made clothes. I would hate to share a plane seat with him. I would feel like the entire time my side is lopsided or something.
It has always been easy to respect the physical aspect of a guy. But I really like what Shaq has done lately. He has his own show, Shaq’s Big Challenge. And it focuses on helping pre-teens lose weight.
Personally I think the program is Awesome! America has so many choices of food. Children have access to more food that’s unhealthy for them than in the past. Add in video games and television and it’s a path for self-destruction. We have all heard older people say “it was better back then.” Sure, they are right. They had exercise. Now, there were fattening foods, but they had exercise.
Times have changed. And which is why I think Shaq is great. He has had his own battles with weight on and off the court. Then the NBA provides him with experts to keep him healthy. So, Instead of him saying, “Oh, it was better back then,” or just “get out an exercise.” This guy took his own personal trainer and chef and hand picked the kids who he felt needed the most help then he helped them. He showed them. He worked out with them. He encouraged them. This mega SuperStar took his off-season and spent time with kids who really needed it. The kids looked so much better. They gained confidence.
I used to just think Shaq was just this talented basketball player who joked around a lot. Now, I have an entire new respect for him. I respected him, but it’s different. No. 32 has great personality. He’s not entirely perfect, but he took what he knew and made it work to make others feel better.

As a world class winner should. I guess that’s what this life is for. Now I’m motivated.

by example,

~b.

Project Line UP

Happy Tuesday! (I am out of B-Day celebration mode)

And it’s back to work!

I hope you all have checked out my new article on R&B singer Crystal Dove for On Wax Magazine. Get On Wax! (www.onwaxmagazine.com). It’s a positive music magazine, created by, young, talented Black people! So support us!
I’m working on a couple of projects right now. First, I need to survive registration. Back to school baby! This is my last semester. Thanks …. (pray for me)
Then I’m crafting a couple of stories on Trill Entertainment. Headlined by rappers Lil Boosie, Webbie and Foxx, Trill Entertainment is one of the biggest talents in the South right now. And it was cool and professional to work with TE. These guys have made major hits as, “Wipe Me Down,” “Adios”, and “Do It Stick It.” This is going to be another one of my fun projects. Check back for my article in the September issue of On Wax Magazine’s one year anniversary issue! And for a little pop trivia: Fiend graced the debut cover. And I appreciate you.
Also on my list of projects is completing my long awaited BOOK! Thanks to all you guys for your kind words and support. I am still working. This is my FIRST book, so I am learning a lot. It’s not like I am at a newspaper or magazine where I actually, kind-of-sort-of know what I am doing. …and what I have been trained to do. Writing a book takes a lot of time and patience (which God is blessing me with). :o)
I am also reading a lot of new material. Thanks guys for the suggestions on new books.
I have a lot of projects lined up and, yes, I’ll always nag the same people to read my art! I like to keep the energy.

This is just all what’s new.

It’s got to be funky!

~b.

p.s. Check out that new Vibe with Obama. Its a good look.

Special Thanks

To all my friends who made it out to my birthday dinner, to every Facebook message, to the Facebook monkey gift (Aliah), to the phone calls, cards, gifts, trips to Barnes N Nobel, shopping spree in the mall, to trying to be the first person to wish me a special day (Kyle, I see you baby!) to spending time with me, I most graciously thank you all!!

Of course I read and appreciate every kind word sent. I also posted pictures. There will be more, so check back soon!

Thursday (July 26) goes down as one of the best days ever!

You guys made my day awesome.

As sweet,

~brandi.

Book Worm

This weekend I slowed down. I wanted to savor the last 759 pages of Harry Potter (Deathly Hallows, book 7). Every page was just as exciting as the next.
J.K. Rowling really put her heart into creating the series. Her efforts showed. And she left her foot in book 7. I completed the adventure. ..and I am thoroughly satisfied with the outcome. Plus, I’m still excited! This has been a great experience.
Three Cheers for J.K!!

Now, I have to find something new to read. Plus, I’m taking suggestions.

My list includes:
- Ralph David Abernathy (I’m just researching this guy)
- The Secret by Rhonda Byrne
- The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People by Stephen R. Covey
- Freakonomics [Revised and Expanded]: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner

An Amazing Journey

It has been a long run. But I will finally get my hands on the seventh and final golden copy of Harry Potter. I feel excited. I bought a cute Harry Potter shirt to wear to the book party. For the last several years, I have been in love with a wizard and Hogwarts. I have laughed and shed tears. I stayed up until midnight to watch the new movies, on school nights. I feverishly flipped through the pages over and over again.
I remember the one year I foolishly ordered the book to come to my house (to beat the long lines). Then I had to wait for its arrival. The UPS man did not show up until 3p.m. and already other kids had their books since midnight. Lesson learned. I attend the book parties now!
I have made friends with the most unusual people. Little people, big people, black people, white people, hippies, rockers and Christians. I once waited for hours in line with a 70-year-old doctor, who you would have swore that we were friends all our lives. I have taken my time and really trained myself to be a great reader.
This truly has just been an awesome journey. As a writer I am indebted to all the great authors before me. Before I knew God made to be a writer, I was a reader. When Chi Fa Lu penned Double Luck, I cheered and cried for him. I felt sorrow when Alice Walker walked me through the rough passages of the Color Purple. I sat on the clouds with Tupac when I read his poetry. And I walked through the slums of the ghetto with Iceberg Slim. Hey Amber, I’m saying it. “…I’m a book slut.”
When I first met Harry, I was a weird and creative 16-year-old. One who was hardly ever in the grasp of peer pressure. I made my own little trouble here and there. Yet, I choose my own path. One day on my round to in-school suspension I picked up the book. There I sat. Harry and I. Since that day in my 6X8 wooden cubicle, once an alone kid, I have never been the same. Harry and all those before him changed the course of my wild thinking and decision making for the better.
In my book, my younger self once wrote a note to myself today. Here is an exclusive peek at my note:
“Books saved my life.”
Thanks J.K. Rowling, for sharing your brilliance.
I will miss Harry Potter.

My Credit Inform

Money wise. Money matters.
I try to learn something new every day. It’s so many books in the world I have not read, yet, so I do not know everything.
But my latest venture is not necessarily more books or money, yet it’s about a name. {Money is not going to bring happiness. But I do know it’s a hell of a down payment. ;-) }
My current project is getting my brother’s credit right. Yup! You do not have to make a lot of money, but can have great credit. This is really important for him {and me}. First he’s young, Black, gifted, {holds a degree} and is in America. So all of that translates into; I have to look out for him. Plus he’s not a criminal. In this day he’s a rarity. He’s sweet too ladies. Hint. Hint. Plus, I’m getting his credit right.
I’m using big brother as an example for many others out there. Besides I’m tired of so many of my people unable to acquire wealth. {A great tool for your credit report: www.mycreditinform.com. They give you an update of everything you ever owed in your entire life, and a break down of how to get out of debt. You receive updates every three months. It costs like $6. A note to the wise, don’t pay over $10 for a report, most likely it’s a scam} Anyway. …The task is easy, it just requires consistency.
I did my research and this is what I came up with.

What is a credit score?
A credit score is based on variables in your credit file that help determine your creditworthiness. (Your name here) The number is based on various factors, including the number of trade lines you have open, the number of late payments, delinquencies.

In my research I also found:
6 Steps to Better Credit
1. Pay your bills on time. Creditors scrutinize your credit history. If you pay your bills on time, this reflects well on you. If you have a record of delinquent payments, you might want to consider credit counseling on how to better manage your finances.

2. Manage your debt. Your debt/income ratio — the percentage of your income that goes to paying off debt — is another gauge of your financial health. You can calculate this ratio by dividing your monthly minimum debt payments (excluding mortgage) by your monthly take-home income. If your debt payment absorbs:
• Less than 20% of your income, you are doing well
• Between 20% to 35%, consider reducing your overall debt
• More than 35% consider credit counseling or some type of aggressive debt-reduction strategy.

3. Don't over-apply for credit. Limit the number of loan applications you submit. Each bid shows up as an inquiry in your credit report. Even if you're just comparison-shopping for the best rate, too many inquiries can be viewed as a desperate bid to obtain credit to get out of financial trouble.

4. Shred your documents. Be sure to destroy any piece of paper with Social Security or credit card numbers. Thieves often go through garbage retrieving people's identification so they can use this information to commit fraud.

5. Don't give information away. Never include your Social Security Number on checks or driver's license. Be extremely cautious how you use your Social Security Number, it is your key personal identification number that is a gateway to your personal identity. If required to provide this information, always ask if there is another option.

6. Check your credit report on a regular basis. The only way to protect your name and credit is to be proactive. With the rise of identity theft cases, it is important to review your credit files, and to report any inaccuracies to the major credit reporting agencies.

…may this help us all into the quest of the “American Dream”.
Source: www.mycreditinform.com

Random Act of Kindness

A lot of times we remember the bad things that happened to us.
Like, everyone can name the teacher who was mean to them. Or everyone remembers that most embarrassing moment. Or the school bully, who made it happen. No matter how minuscule or groundbreaking the incident was, people remember.
Well, in my case, I have a crazy memory. It’s very selective. I can remember great moments in my life. But, a lot of times I have trouble recalling names and faces of people. I would forget a person who I met last week. (Awful, you think? ...I know.)

To fix my little problem, in my blogs I’m creating a Random Acts of Kindness list. It’s going to include every kind act, which touched my heart for the day. Though I remember the teacher who was mean to me in the ninth grade, I also remember the very nice ones. And I want to keep remembering the nice decent people and moments. Just to make sure I do and for a bit of inspiration here’s my first entry to the Random Acts of Kindness.

(First Entry)
The rain poured heavy at work. I had no umbrella and wore a brand new outfit. I looked like a fresh breath of air. Yet, the drops fell down in horizontal sheets. I had been at work since 7:50a. And the day was long and a little tough. So much that I was more than prepared to get soaked if it meant I'd make it to my car and away from the building. The trade off sounded worth it. My spirits were already defeated, so the rain could do me nothing more. Plus the mood around the building was sour. People rarely spoke to one another or shared a smile. It was just a bad day.
I slowly lowered my head. I needed to catch a second wind. Then I heard footsteps behind me and decided to not even look back. Because the sight of another sad soul would break me. Just when my right heel toe was about to step from under the covered walkway to make the half-mile trek to my car, an angel walked around the corner with a magenta umbrella.
She asked, "Where's your car?"
To my surprise all I could do was point.
I pointed my bony index finger towards the road. (I always park closer to the sun, far East to freedom than to the building.)
"OK," she said softly. “Just wait here and let me let my windows up.”
I nodded. I couldn't gather words. Someone actually did something so kind for me that I would have normally had done for someone else. It's just nice that that came back to me true fold.
Now, by the way the rain was falling, I thought the lady was walking to a hoopty. That’s just the way I’ve known people to treat old cars without a/c, “to let it cool”, considering it was hot too.
The Angel walked to her brand new car and I noticed the sunroof open. Thick droplets fell on the fresh leather. She closed it and pulled up the windows. She returned to me within a minute and though I couldn't find words, I thought quickly. I thought of anything that would keep her from going out in the chilly rain again.
"Instead of you walking me, can I use your umbrella, get my car and bring it back to you," I asked.
"Sure," she said.
"Cool," I smiled politely.
I made it to my car, dry and still intact. When I pulled up to the curb, my first initial reaction was to run out and bring her the umbrella back. But she beat me to the punch. She ran out from the cover to my window and grabbed the umbrella.
“Thank you,” I yelled over the weather. I felt special.
It sure made my day bright.
Because she didn't have to.

Send me your Random Acts of Kindness. There are still nice people in the world.

Basketball MVP

My moves were superb. I dribbled with ease from right to left. A crossover. Then through my legs and behind my back, just for a little extra show.
I’m great. I mean I could be the G.O.A.T. If I wouldn’t be doing this writing thing, I’d probably be a playmaker. My skills are so tight. So far one-on-one, I’m undefeated. And I’m playing against a boy. Just call me the Talent!
I only have a small advantage. I’m 5’11’’ and know how to use my strengths. I have championship tournament experience. I possess great court vision and shooting accuracy. Off the court, I know how to handle myself in an interview. Somebody give me the MVP trophy and some endorsements.
In the last game, some say I dismantled my opponent’s defense. Some say I owned the boards. Some say I’m underrated.
But then there are the critics. They say experience over youth. Speed over power. Skill over talent. Truth is, I really knew how to take my opponent out of his game.
Well, he’s going on 1 and stands 2’2’’. Now, some say it’s a mismatch. I don’t see what’s the problem. We might have a huge height difference. I’m thinking Devin will catch up. His muscles will get stronger. He really just stands, watching in awe of my moves. Or he’d throw his bottle on the court. (He’s going to start getting a technical foul call for that.)
Truly, I just think he needs to start being more of a hustler on defense. Or crash the boards for rebounds. Plus, instead of watching, giggling, and expecting me to pass while I’m preparing to drive or shoot over him, he should defend. So, for some jazz I add in an awesome dunk on the PlaySkool goal.
I know why he smiles and stares in awe though; it’s all because of my skills.

Final Goodbye

Editor’s note: The author would like to thank everyone for their condolences, thoughts and prayers.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Sadly, everything felt so real. From the lonely tears in my brother’s eyes, who sat on the pallbearers’ bench to my mother silently weeping, we all sat sadly. I would have paid anything for anyone to just make it a bad dream that can be erased. Every blue moon or so, everyone has bad dreams. This one I wanted to wake up and just go back to normal. But it wasn’t a bad dream. There will be no normal.
This morning, I woke up with headache but my head was not in any physical pain. It was probably more my heart. I don’t know right now. I just can’t believe that I had to say a final goodbye to my uncle. No one came to wake me. As, you’d expect to get saved from a bad dream. My family and everyone were there. I went around to hug everyone. So I know it was a sad reality.
I wrote a special piece for him. Then stood and recited it to the crowd. I didn’t stutter, stumble, say “ummm,” or croaked. I felt it was a huge honor bestowed upon little me. My family is big, and I’m quite sure they could have had easily picked a better person. But I wanted to speak for him. I wanted to let people know that we had a lot of great times. In my uncle’s 86 years he taught us about the importance of family. He gave us strength. He made us strive for an education. In the past year he saw four of us earn degrees and the little ones got their diplomas. He wasn’t rich, but he always gave something to everyone (in school) at Christmastime. I’m not mad at anyone that he’s gone. Actually I can’t complain. Because in his 86, I enjoyed 23 years of great time with him and I learned so much. It was a blessing to know him. Can’t complain at all. Thankfully. Gratefully. I’m just sad because I’ll miss him.

--Dedicated to James Elwood, 1920-2007

Long Time

Lately, I have been working feverishly on my first book (HBCU, A Survival Guide).
Actually, I feel kind of shy writing this blog right now. I left you for a while. Excuse my absence. Charge it to my mind and not my heart.
Now, in my days off I have fresh material for you all. (All 10, who I know is out there watching me. I appreciate that!)
First off, make sure you check out my new article for On Wax Magazine (www.onwaxmagazine.com) about R&B singer Crystal Dove. It hits newsstands Monday, July 16. Pick up a copy for me. It’s some of my best work, so far. :-)
In other news, Hope is expecting her first (and last) litter. Devin stated walking and I’m really working on improving my financial knowledge about Keeping excellent credit and home ownership. (I plan to stay out of poverty.) I’ll write more on those topics later.
Also this month, my Uncle James passed. He was 86 and a great man. I am very glad I knew him.
In the music world, I got to see Beyonce’ live for the first time at Essence. That girl is a piece of art walking. More on her later.
And to round off my news briefs, I’ll be making an ant’s hop of victory. Friday, Dec. 7, I’ll be a Master of all Arts. (I’m jumping on the ant mound now). In the meantime I’m looking for a job to provide my bread and butter while I do what I love best, Read.

…well, & write too. :-)

May the Prince of Peace Bless You All.

Five Dollars

Every week my aunt gives me a crumpled $5 bill.
I’m 23. She’s 72 years young, and has been doing this since I was a child. Over the years the amount of her givings has not changed. It’s always been the same, $5. No more, no less --unless it’s a holiday like Easter, Christmas or my birthday.
So far, she operates like clockwork. After I leave work, I make a trip to her house and her wrinkled hand would hold five dollars. Just five measly dollars.
I don’t know if she noticed the change in inflation. Today a $5 gift to someone is meager rations. A gallon of gas costs $3.23, milk is $3.67, and crawfish is the cheapest at $1.90 a pound.
When I was a child, my $5 would take me a long way. I would buy Cherry Heads, Lays Potato Chips at four for $1, Cherry Air Heads, Cherry Popsicles and a small cherry juice. Then I’d have change left over!
Now if I take one of my regular trips to Chill’s my tip is $5.
You just don’t give someone $5.
Unless, you’re teaching that person.
In a way, my aunt Mae is the greatest! She doesn’t hold shares or stock on NASDAQ. She doesn’t shop on Fifth Avenue. She gets by at Family Dollar for everything, especially now since they sell milk. Then she relies on Social Security and is in need of a new TV.
I don’t ask her for money unless I really, really need it. Most of the time, I don’t need money. I’m a shopaholic, who loves to buy a new pair of sneakers all the time. And I do feed my habit. I’m two generations her junior. She uses her money for church collection, whereas I’d get something frivolous, sometimes. She knows I have a glove box compartment full of sweet Cherry candy in my car. Still, if I waste the money or not, she always hands me $5.
Five sweet bucks for me!
Her gifts has taught me that no matter what the amount is that someone gives you, they thought about you. Something on their heart told them to give you a gift.
Now, a rich man may not give you a dime, but the poor man will. Appreciate him. Some people never knew their father or mother, even if they knew them, they probably never looked to say ‘here cat, dog, this is for you.” Or nothing.
It’s not about what I can get with the $5 today. Five dollars isn’t really measly. I know that when she gives me the $5, its 5 more than what I had. So, I’m grateful.
Because I can always say my aunt gave me $5.

Top 10

Top 10 reasons St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital and Enitra Jones are cooler than me:

10. St. Jude is in the heart of Memphis, and the doctors always have the option of eating good, finger licking bar-b-que and Alisha Tillery lives there.
9. The hospital's daily operating costs are approximately $1,220,004, (to be exact) and they treat the kids at no cost (politically correct) to their families. In our terms, the kids are cared for FREE, despite not being covered by insurance!
8. St. Jude makes giving donations to the hospital easy (www.stjude.org/donations), or just drop a few dollars in the bucket at your local grocery store.
7. The hospital has been successfully operating for over 45 years, (February 4, 1962).
6. St. Jude has treated God’s Angels, kids from all over the country and world (70 countries).
5. Enitra won Ms. Southern and after that she always thought she could still try to make it to class “low-key.”
4. Enitra kicked off the Up ‘til Dawn (St. Jude for college campuses) campaign at Southern, built up a strong foundation where Ms. King and Ms. Sweazie gracefully pick up and carried the torch. Now, Jasmine (2007-2008) will do the same.
3. Even though it’s been three years since she wore the crown, and she has a tougher course load, she still finds time to follow up on the progress of St. Jude.
2. These guys are our peers, the children are our future and we can donate because we never know who we will need. We are capable of anything.
1. The Prince of Peace, hasn’t made a mistake, yet.

I am going to continue my writings and charitable contributions. Which are; St. Jude, Breast Cancer Research and my own scholarship program for Black kids I’m trying to build. Sometimes I struggle to find something to blog about every day. Then Ms. Jones helped me out and gave me a new story (St. Jude). First, I smiled because she felt that I, a nerd, can give it justice. Up top is my list that I came up with. This one was special, because I believe it’s always great to give to someone else.
We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give. -Winston Churchill

Last Round

Editors note: This letter is a tribute to the 2007 graduates (Facebook Edition).

It’s truly a great accomplishment. You’re crossing over. When you go out in the “Real World”, try not to get caught into a complacent web . Always look directly at your dreams. Know that this may be the brokest time of your life. But don’t let it be the loneliest. Call your mom every day (tell her I said hello too). Last but not least I know everyone will be great. Just don’t forget from whence you came.

Pecans

On Sundays my aunt, 75, catches a ride with me to the morning service. Along our weekly route we pass a pecan-shelling shack. People can buy or sell pecans. I read a homemade sign advertising that the owner was paying 85 cents a pound.
As a kid I’d pick pecans from my uncle’s tree for what seemed like hours in the cold. My bony fingers trembled as I picked each seed, and for my hard work he’d pay me between $10-15 --though I gathered no more than two pounds, he was a kind old man.
I brought my half-full bag in to him grinning like I’d had a corker sack full.
Everyone usually has their own tree in their own yard.
I can’t remember exactly what the going price was for pecans then but that day the owner paid up to 85 cents. It sounded like a great deal. Today, I wouldn’t mind picking, but as a college student trying to juggle several jobs I just don’t have that type of time to dedicate myself to pick a great haul. $10-15 isn’t even a full tank of gas!
As if she read my thoughts, my aunt told me that Boon, the neighborhood handyman/drunk/panhandler picked ‘tween $300-400 worth of pecans.’
“Wow! That’s great, I’m very proud of Boon,” I said with the knowledge of whence Boon came from.
Boon used to be a petty criminal and people in the hood kept him around to wash cars, windows, nail a few things together here and there, small outdoor tasks just to keep his mind busy. (An idle mind is the Devil’s workshop) As long as Boon was out of trouble he did meager jobs to get a little money for his beer on weekends. A simple man, with bad teeth he wore ill-fitted rags and smelled from time to time, but that came from his hours of walking the streets with a hammer in his back pocket. I could see Boon now, maybe with the money I figured he could get himself a fresh sweater instead of the holey one he sported. Then I thought about how hard Boon had to work to get that many pecans. As I thought, my aunt praised Boon and I agreed.
“Boon did a really great job. That’s hard work,” I said.
I’d even considered adopting his work ethic for a minute. Until my aunt added;
“Yeah, he made plenty money picking and don’t got ‘nah tree.”

A Hug for O

The thing about hugs is; you give one and you’ll get one right back. I watched Oprah yesterday, like I’ve been doing for the past 20 plus years of my life and most of her guests give her hugs. Or some will shake her hand. She’s Oprah. Enough said. I just noticed the hugs. Hugs are the only things other than words and food that reach down and touch people souls. I know I’ve been lifted up a many of days by hugs. (And by the way I appreciate all the people who give me hugs.)
The people invited to her show, who usually give hugs, walk up smiling and kind of gently pats Oprah on the back. She’s Oprah. The last thing people could do is put a soft hand on her back. Besides Elmo and Susan, Oprah was like the third person in the world I knew. My daily schedule was to watch Sesame Street, Oprah, naptime then meet my mom at the door. That’s how I learned to tell time. I sometimes say I’m lil’ Oprah, because I respect her work ethic and accomplishments. She’s done great things for a lot of people. You don’t just half ass a smile or hug at Oprah, or anyone for that reason.
Now, I’m a hugger. When I see my family or friends I always give them hugs. I’ll give bear hugs to people and really mean the hug. Like, I just took all the strength in my heart and connecting veins and hugged you. Then I’ll remember to breath.
I love Oprah. And if you’re watching the show and I’m on it, I won’t give Oprah’s back a small tap. I’m going to actually hug Oprah. I’ll give the same bone-crushing hug I’ve been issuing. I’ll just be there a moment. I may lift her spirits. You may see military-like security in the background shooing me away. I won’t be crushing Oprah. It’ll just be a real hug.

Booty Bounce Music

In this moment I’d like to take the time out and thank some Hip-Hop rappers. I’m not a huge rap fan, I’m a fan of music and country out sells everything anyway. So if you listen to rap and just rap you’re missing out. I listen to everything else because I get tired of hearing corner boy stories, booty, booty and shake that thang. But I do listen to rap and I love the hits, which these brothers are currently creating.
Shawn Carter, Mr. Jay-Z, the Ace of Spades lover rapped on “30 Something”, an ode to his aging gracefully off his album, “Kingdom Come”:
Young enough to know the right car to buy, yet grown enough not to put rims on it.
HOMERUN, Sir Jigga! Loved that line and the color Jay-Z Blue!
Then one of my all time favorites André Lauren Benjamin made an appearance and blessed Unk’s “Walk it Out” remix with such a grown up verse. Matter of fact, he was the only rapper on the track to actually say something. 3000 poetically went:
Your white tee, well to me, look like a nightgown
Make your momma proud, take that thing two sizes down
Then you'll, look like the man that you are, or what you could be.
HE HIT AGAIN! Damn, we keep this up we might become that race which starts a moment and stays ahead! Actually make MLK’s dreams come true, or become what we could be.
Now, when I first saw Rich Boy I said, “that dude is ugly.” He’s my last choice.
After listening to his album, self-titled Rich Boy I loved the song “Let’s Get This Paper.”
In young Marece Richards’ chorus a guy preaches:
“Yeah when you look at us just think about it, we don't own nothin'. If we get money, we got a lil' few dollars, but our whole family tore up ni**a, you gettin' money for the people in ya family that ain't got nothin'. When it's all said and done, what do you own? You don't own nothin', you don't own you... The ni**a playin' basketball, he don't own that jersey, he can't even be in a commercial wit' his name on the back, so when it's really all said and done, what did you do this for? What difference did you make?
OK. THAT was driving the point HOME.
These brothers rhyme intelligent lyrics and make it look easy. Then the world isn’t so small after all. I’m not knocking rap. This is my props to rap section. Just don’t make rap you’re only choice. There are more lyrics like stop, drop, roll and lock, bounce booty, booty. Booty. Booty. Booty. More Booty. Check out some other lyrics and genres.
Because if you don’t listen at all you’re missing a real important message.

Too Much Information

I just need to know why the clerk in Wal-Mart felt the need to tell me all of his business. Or anyone I don’t know for that matter. On a recent trip to the wholesaler, I picked up at least 15 items. Ok. I lied, it was more like 20, but I didn’t count the little bottles of cat food. The clerk, a guy about 40-50 years old talked to the customer in front of me about how his line is a 10 items or less. And that explained the short length of the checkout counter. I didn’t count this time. The lines in Wal-Mart are brutal on your feet and patience, on any given day they always snake around through the aisles leaving you standing and waiting. Anyway, I didn’t move I just knew I’d be his next audience and prepared myself accordingly. He started by reading the writing on my t-shirt.
“You think you know but you have no idea,” he read.
I smiled politely.
“Yeah, you know that’s funny because it explains a lot. People think they know you but they have no idea. Like people would talk about you but they don’t really know you.”
“Um, hummm,” I responded, with another smile, halfway this time.
Really, I thought ‘dude if you really knew me, you’d just check out my groceries and let me go.’
“Ohhh yogurt,” he grinned with delight as he scanned my Yoplait. “You know what? You should try Breyers. That’s some good yogurt and it’s helping me loose weight. Go get you some Breyers,” he said.
“I. Don’t. Like. Breyers.” I said as my patience wore thin, with him scanning and reading every item in my basket and making a conversation about it. I was glad my shopping list held Just grocery items.”
If I wanted Breyers, I would have picked it up. I bought what I liked.
“That’ll be 49.52, cash or credit?” he said.
Buzzz….buzz…my cell phone went off.
“Hello,” I answered. “Mother?” … “Ok. I’ll get it for you.”
“Excuse me, sir can I just run and get something for a second?”
“Sure,” he said.
I ran to the next aisle. He worked at the counter behind tobacco, so the pharmacy stood on the next aisle over.
In no time flat I picked up a bottle of Imodium AD and kept my word and ran back to the counter, as to not hold up the line.
The man took the bottle then scanned it. Instantly, I figured what he was going to say so he didn’t catch me off guard.
“Everybody’s sick,” he said.
“I guess so,” I replied.
That dorky attempt at a conversation didn’t get me; it was what he said next that got me.
“Oh yeah, I just had an upset stomach, and my cousin had it for six weeks. He was real sick. Girl, let me tell ya’” he went on.

….Too Much Information

My Momma Did That!

Tupac’s song “Dear Momma” is like the official soundtrack for Mother’s Day. I sing that song to my mom whenever it comes on the radio, though I can’t carry a tune. He put the song together like a genius. Susan is nothing like Afenia because she didn’t fight with the Black Panthers, my embryo wasn’t incarcerated and she didn’t use drugs. ‘Pac said he was hurt more than anything when he’d found out his mom used drugs. He still took the song and honored his mom for her great attributes. The descriptions he sings about her, I just change the words and make them fit for Susan. Like, I didn’t hug her from a jail cell, but I hugged her on my way going into in-school suspension. I hugged her bye. I landed into trouble from time to time and I know it hurt her. We fell on hard times too and she always managed to feed us. Susan didn’t exactly kick me out at 17, we go shopping together and I would be like her mini-shadow. I make my own words for her. Makaveli sang from his heart so I’ll play the song and sing my own version. My mom’s a flower child and deserves every bit of niceness that comes to her. So if you want to know what I’m getting her just know that it’s not going to be jewelry, any man can do that. Its not going to be candy. She’s sweet enough where sugar gets jealous. It’s not going to be flowers, because she planted four rose bushes by her house, representing my siblings and me. Just know that I will be conjuring up something from my heart. And that Tupac song. Every day is mother’s day for her from me.

‘cause it ain’t a woman alive that can take my momma’s place.’

Hope Saved Me!!

After all the stare downs. After all the threats. After all the fights. After the all the chases of cat and mouse. Hope finally saved me! Then all in the same day she injured my ankle, but that’s a different story for a different day. Here is a story of her heroism. The afternoon sun had just made its crest and started to heat up the day. I walked into the kitchen to get a turkey sandwich on a fresh French loaf of bread and medium mayo. As soon as I saw it I stopped dead cold in my tracks. A huge grass and dirt colored lizard lay on the leg of the table trying to sun. I’m terrified of the reptilian creatures. I even lost part of my appetite. Now, on any other normal day I can’t stand Hope. And she feels the same way about me. So we’re even! About an hour earlier, I’d let Hope inside and fed her a nice crunchy meal of cat nibbles. Her favorite pastimes were going outside to pounce on innocent insects. I’d figured she’d help me out since I was nice to her. I called her name.
“HOPE.” …No response. “HOPE.” …No response. “HOPE.” ….Nothing. I didn’t even hear her heavy paws hitting the floor to run and see what I wanted. I walked around the corner to see her relaxing in Susan’s king size bed. She stretched out very comfortably and yawned. I looked and sighed, then pleaded with her to follow me. To my amazement she did! We went back into the kitchen and the poor, stupid lizard tried to stand his ground. He never matched up. As soon as Hope saw him cut across the open floor she snatched him up in her sharp teeth and toted him away.

My hero.

Night in the Hospital (Part III)

Editor’s note: This is inspired by a true story. Names and places have been changed to protect the innocent. This is a three part series.

Upon entering the hospital we walked to the help desk. I had to fill out the paperwork. Shawn stood in no condition. Once the preliminary research was completed we looked for a place to rest away from the crowd sitting crunched in single seats. Runny snot nosed toddlers danced around their mother and one lady cradled her broken arm. I wanted to get away from the sick people. I didn’t need to add to my cold.
The first bench I sat on smelled bad and I knew it would stick to me, like a smoky club but I got to the point where I didn’t care. Fatigue took over my body and mind. Both were weary. I also saw three grease spots too and wondered how they got there. I told myself if I didn’t look hard, they weren’t there.
“You’re sleepy,” Shawn said.
“No, I’m not. I’m not sleepy,” I lied.
“Yes, you are. Go to sleep,” he insisted.
“I’m not going to sleep, I’ll be OK,” my weak protest.
He securely wrapped his arm around me and like my head instantly made a pillow out of him. To block out the strong lighting he threw his cap over my gleaming forehead and dreary eyes and I went out in dreamland.
Thirty minutes passed by.
“Shawn Fill!! Shawn Fill!!” the nurse yelled.
We both jumped up in unison and ran to the door with the nurse.
It was just too good to be true. We were getting HELP! I figured someone saw the desperation on our faces and wanted to help immediately.
We rushed to the window with the receptionist. Oh thank Jesus I was going to get to go to my lumpy old twin bed back in my room!
FALSE ALARM
She just wanted to check him in AGAIN. We saw another nurse, who took Shawn’s blood pressure. Which skyrocketed because he’d been through trauma. My strength kept tears from welling up in my eyes and once again we walked out into the lobby, defeated.
By then we’d seen the birth of a new day. Around 1a.m. I started calling random friends, for no reason at all and yet to keep my mind going. Shawn and I talked about everything under the moon. The day faded, said bye-bye suckers and didn’t come back. I felt like I’d been waiting out a storm at the airport.
“Are you mad?” he asked.
“I’m not mad,” I replied.
“Do you want to go,” he continued.
“No. We’re here, we’ve waited and you need to get help,” I said as a final answer.
We did have excitement. It came from walking around the hospital and we found a comfortable couch. You would have sworn we’d just won lottery the way we acted over the sight of pillows! And just when we found a cool spot the nurse came calling again.
Shawn went to the back and after a doctor and two nurses looked at him they took him for x-rays. Then a few minutes later the last nurse took out a little tube of Dura-bond, a medical adhesive and as if she was a manicurist she painted his nail with the glue and sent him off. After five hours of Shawn mashing his pinkie finger in the door and splitting the nail, we were finally leaving the hospital. It was just badly broken nail and blood everywhere, but he didn’t want it to grow back grosteque. I understood and waited with him by his side, as a friend. It’s only a way I would have wanted someone else to treat me.

…the end... and the start of a great friendship.

Night in the Hospital (Part II)

Editor’s note: This is inspired by a true story. Names and places have been changed to protect the innocent. This is a three part series.

The clock hit around 10:30 when I figured out it became time to leave the zoo. Shawn’s bleeding started to slow to more of a constant drip. He could make the trip across the city to a better and safer hospital. The darkness started to envelope around the surroundings. The deep night made me want to leave even more. No, I take that back. The sight of the eight-month pregnant lady who suffered a bad asthma attack brought me back to saner thoughts. Well, it became a combination of things. The wait, my fatigue creating a loss of concentration and thought of me having to actually sit in the waiting room amongst thieves led me to go across the city to a better hospital.
“I have insurance we can go anywhere,” he insisted.
I shook my head as if the idea didn’t hit me sooner.
“The drive is about 15 minutes, but you’ll be OK,” I responded.
The new hospital was going to be much cleaner. During the drive the only sounds made came from the iPod. Fall Out Boy’s “This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arms Race” blared from the Civic’s speakers.
Maybe nothing was said because we both came to the same conclusion.
We were going to be in for a long night.

Night in the Hospital (Part I)

Editor’s note: This is inspired by a true story. Names and places have been changed to protect the innocent. This is a three part series.

He started bleeding profusely. Blood splattered on me.
“Oh my Gawd! I can’t watch. HELP HIM!!!!! HELP HIM!!!!!!”
“Man, I can’t do it,” Em cried!
“Put pressure to stop the bleeding,” the poor victim said.
I can tell Shawn wanted to shed tears from the pain, but his pride wouldn’t let him show it. Yet, he found light of the situation and made a small joke.
“Hey, Brandi, you cannot be a nurse,” he said.
“I know,” I responded confidently with passion. “I’m a writer! I didn’t miss my calling.”
“We’re going to have to go to the hospital.”
Everything happened in less than five seconds.
Five seconds doesn’t seem like a lot. Until, you’re in pain.
Count them.
One… Two… Three… Four… Five…
In that time, my entire plans for the night changed.
One minute I was getting ready to go into Kimikos, a trendy bar and grill for young socialites. My outfit was ON, and I smelled like pure fun summertime with less on the floral. Because I wanted to attract people and not offend them. Then the next I was heading to the nearest medical facility, none other than the pissy-pew filled hallways of Earl B. Short Hospital, the charity hospital, or a.k.a. the city zoo. The exact opposite of where I wanted to be.
In route I guessed to myself how many inmates would be chained to gurneys along filthy walls.
Or a better guess would be have been how many bleeding, smelly drunks, and psych patients I would see in the dark alley. If I had to make a bet on 20, I probably would have hit on the mark. I hoped none would try to ‘holla’. I feared if I politely said ‘No’, it wouldn’t be understood and as disrespect and we’d be in a knife fight. Already nervous for my friend, I can’t think of fake numbers and excuses to give out on the fly of why I can’t go out with the fry boy from McDonalds, who has mental problems.
Sure enough, as if on cue, when we rolled up in the parking lot the flashlight cop sat in his car and we were off to fend for ourselves.

…to be continued.

Fast Food

I made a deal with my aunt. I’m not eating out for an entire week. She says I spend too much money going out. Fact is, I have no culinary skills and an insult from my little sister kept me out of the kitchen for a long time. The troll said, “Bran, you burned the chili. Look, we can’t have you cooking food, it costs money and we don’t want to waste that!”
Since then cereal & milk and sandwiches have been my best options.
For excitement I’ll switch from turkey breast, roasted chicken, shrimp and a classic peanut butter & strawberry jelly.
So far, it’s Thursday. The last time I bought something from a fast food place was Monday. I’m doing well. I’ve probably saved about $30. For the past three days I just haven’t had late night romps to Chili’s for their piping hot shrimp alfredo thingy or Paradise Pie, a warm chewy brownie filled with nuts and topped with vanilla ice cream. At 73, my aunt knows a lot of things. She may be right. And I’m learning. I had a bad addiction to Taco Bell’s 99. cents zesty nachos, but it’s a bigger value and lesson I’m getting from not eating out and using the resources around me. I’ll be able to enjoy my check more, instead of putting all towards buying food. If it’s a success, I may just carry this on into next week.

Snoop Dogg said Hoes! I Can Too!

Now, I’m not saying that everything Snoop Dogg said was right. But the man had a point about Don Imus when he said: "[Rappers] are not talking about no collegiate basketball girls who have made it to the next level in education and sports. ... We are rappers that have these songs coming from our minds and our souls that are relevant to what we feel. I will not let them mutha----as say we in the same league as him."
I understand him. That’s why Tupac is so universal and still relevant. One day ‘Pac rapped about “Keep Ya Head Up,” then the next he said “F—k the world.”
There are different kinds of people. Some people may say “you can cook a pot of red beans”. But I know everyone can’t cook red beans. So I’m not going to eat it.
Like there are different types of college students. There’s the drama chick, nerd, book worm, homecoming queen, socialite, weed man, overachiever and slacker.
I know where Snoop is coming from. I’m not going to knock a college kid. Yet at the same time when you come from the ‘hood like Snoop, there are people with no conscious and who are out to get you. It may be for your money or happiness. Just because their not happy they don’t want anyone around them to be happy.
If I ever write about or call people hoes, they are. Hoes are not necessarily promiscuous women. Hoes are messy for no reason. They can be men or women.
I know from experience. From back in the day I knew a ‘loud mouth gal’. Matter of fact everyone knew her, because of her loud mouth. She’d do immature stuff, like loud cap someone in the grocery store for purchasing their groceries with a lot of change or food stamps. She’d get a kick out of sheer embarrassment of others. When her own hair wasn’t combed and that her face was dirty with cat shit in the corners of her eyes. Or it didn’t bother her at the fact that she was failing science and stayed in trouble. I saw no reasoning in that. I just saw a person buying food. She looked at the misfortune of others when she too had troubles. I’m not saying anyone’s perfect. Anyway no one liked that ho, she never had empathy.

Strive for More

Instead of pulling each other down, we need to be pulling each other up.
The world is so much bigger than Imus and Michael Richards.
Don’t even fight, argue or blame them. Because there is so much we could do with our time. Over the years, I’ve seen a many of things. People are like super heroes. We send text messages to talk across the globe at the speed of light. I took a first class flight, like a bird to change the forecast. The president can go on live TV and everyone see the same message, at the same time. And, yet taking time to hate has always been a wasted emotion. I just never saw a second hand stop ticking for no man.

Graduation

People always ask, “When are you graduating?” Is that really the first thing that comes to your mind when you see me? My graduation? It’s not even close to May!
I would take different routes just to avoid the inquiry. It’s not a bad question. It’s just pretty annoying. It’s a catch-22.
If you go to school, people want to know when are you getting out? (Can I take my time?) If you don’t go to school, people ask, “Why didn’t you go to school?”
What’s the world in a rush for? It’s probably nice to say you’re the first to do something, but what about the best?
With careful timing, it’s called building a foundation. And I’m not done.
There are those who watch for the wrong things—instead what I’m doing that’s right.
It’s not about when I’m getting out, but of the things I accomplish while I’m there. If you’re a student and doing great things, keep doing that and obviously you know when you want your run to end.

Quote of the Day:
Behind every successful person lies a pack of Haters. That’s on everything.

I Walked Away from Millions.

LOL. No, I really didn’t walk away. Ha! I’d stop in the middle of a busy four-lane highway and pick up a quarter if I saw one. And anyone who knows me knows that I’m not that crazy. I may be a penny pinching miser, thieving, happy scallywag, but not crazy. The headline (Walked Away from Millions) was hilarious. I swiped it from one of Oprah’s topics. The show comes on tomorrow. I can’t wait to see the episode. Privilege people see a fascination in poverty. Whereas, some take nothing for granted.

Success

We need a new window washer for the cafeteria. Someone hire a new man. Quick. The smudge from my finger on the door Wednesday met me there on Monday.
Reverend Green was right in his sermon.
“If you’re going to do something, be the best,” he said. “If you’re a doctor, be the best doctor. If you’re a teacher, be the best teacher. If you’re a janitor be the best janitor.”
Now, his janitor comment threw me for a second. It’s not a job that this society normally holds in high esteem. People are trifling and throw stuff on the ground as and say, “It’s not my job to pick it up.” Janitors have to clean public facilities including the overused toilets. It’s a discouraging job not even on the career aptitude tests.
Rev. went on. “Best janitor. …sweep the halls the best. Because when you’re gone they’ll miss you.”
I thought about his speech and then imagined my school. The hallways were always spic and span. The tile even shined every other day. I guess if Ms. Washington decided to take a month off and someone less concerned filled in for her, it’ll be noticed. I may see footprints, muck building up in the cracks of the tiles and dust on the mats.
But since she’s there taking care of our hallways, we have one of the cleanest buildings. It smells fresher and nerve calming. I sneeze less. It’s soothing to know you’re going back into a clean facility. A clean place can do a lot for you more than a filthy one. But nothings clean automatically. Somebody’s behind the scenes working. And I guess if it’s not the best, everything else falls apart.
Everyone doesn’t respect your job. Yet, folk gossip about a senile doctor. Keep working at your trade and people will file into your hospital. Pupils run from the bad teacher, yet acquire overrides to make it into the popular professor’s class. Because every young apprentice knows that under his watch they will come out of there as some one great. And well for the janitor, his job is different and if done correctly, could make an impact on everyone. A wise man once said, “Try not to become a man of success but rather try to become a man of value.” So, I know what Rev.s talking about.

Bully

As far back as I can remember I had two bullies. People pick on the hapless. My bullies did the typical bully shit. Trip me. Steal my toys. Call me cruel names. And threatened me with physical violence. I don’t recall how long the bullying lasted, but I do know I hated them.
I wasn’t big stuff. My family was quiet. They were educated, held degrees and therefore lacked street credibility. It was cool to possess Master P’s “I’m Bout It” cassette tape before it hit the radio. It was cool to have a yard full of new cars too. (But the house can fall apart). I also wished my grandmother was ghetto so she could braid my hair on the front porch or put together a great combination of explicits to cuss someone out in a minute for me. Nope. I didn’t get that. She knew how to perfectly conjugate verbs and edit school papers. My mother was also a teacher so my words came out “proper”.
I sat up straight and wore neat little cartoon character clothes. I never had the latest fashions like a pullover Starter jacket or even a pair of Nikes, let alone Jordans. To have a pair of J’s or Filas was my pipe dream. All of this must have made me a target of bullying. To top it all off, I had no protection. The school I went to was an hour’s drive away from my hometown. So I had no big cousins to look after me. Not that I sought back up or even snitched on my tormentors. I wouldn’t have ever wanted to burden anyone else of my problems. It’s just that when anyone else was picked on I’d see cousins teaming up and knock the bully down. It just could have been nice to know you’re not alone.
One day I was with a group of four girls. We were supposed to be working on a class project. Other than that they would have never been seen with me. It just wasn’t popular to be my friend. Cold, yet I knew. The lead girl started a conversation about shoes. She had a pair of brand new Nikes. The paint on the Swoosh was still fresh. Two others wore Reebok. And the last girl, who I swore up and down wouldn’t tease me because she wore a dirty pair of L.A. Gear. Now, during that time, L.A. Gear was tired, played out! Yet, they accepted her on their side! I had a pair of dingy white shoes that my mom bought from Payless. No name, not even a tag on the tongue for decoration. As I looked around my shame could not be concealed.
They attacked in song:

“Bo, Bo’s, they cost a $1.99.”
“Bo, Bo’s, they come in every shape and size.”
“Bo, Bo’s, they cost a $1.99.”
“Bo, Bo’s, they come in every shape and size.”

Now, I wasn’t a cry baby. But they drew tears that day. They found it hilarious, that I cried.

Special Episode

There are the episodes. Talk show TV drama at its peak would consist of two females arguing over one deadbeat boyfriend. Or the classic, four guys dodging the results from the test “Who’s the baby’s daddy”. The kids know Jerry Springer. Yet more than decade ago, old Richard Bay started it all.
I remember it well. After TV stopped turning itself off I’d stay up until 2 in the morning to watch people break out into fistfights. Guests on RB’s show would confess some wild story to their friend and they’d beat each other down until they drew blood. Like they didn’t know the focus of that show when they signed up to appear on it. They’d cuss each other out and look like uneducated hooligans. I really didn’t see why someone would air out their personal business on national television. The entire show accomplished nothing but deteriorate people’s self worth. What goes on in the house should stay in the house. Which is why all the while, I know well that Susan and ‘em better not, ever, ever, ever bring me on a show talking about ‘we need counseling’. Or worse, to confront me about something “Shocking!” I know what the show is about. They’re not going to bring me on there to seek help. Somebody always gets embarrassed during the thick of things.
For my show I’d act right. I’d be civil. Pepper my sentences with yes and no ma’am or sir. Pull out all the guests’ chairs to make them feel comfortable. Offer my bottle of water to break the thirst of whomsoever testifying on me in front of millions. Nod my head in understanding. Grin softly every so often. Even wear nice clothes and smell like the Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. My episode probably wouldn’t even provide for good teaser clips in commercials. No fight, no arguing, nothing.
Those people on RB’s show had a right to be upset. Its just that my aunt used to tell me, there’s a time for everything. And she’s right. So when the camera stops rolling there may be an audience stampede, folk trampled losing shoes and bags, chairs flying and then they can just lock me up, after the show. :o)

Party Planner

This is how its going down! Kell and I are supposed to throw our little annual crawfish boil. It falls sometime during spring break on a perfect day. I’m doing the grocery shopping for:
A large sack of crawfish, sweet corn on the cob, baby potatoes, Cajun spices, celery, onions, neck bones, turkey necks, ice for the liquor chest, my specialty bottled root beer, cookies & cream ice cream cake, chicken drummetts, strips of fish filets (both to be deep fried, lightly in fresh grease), napkins, plates, and utensils.
That’s our list and it’s hot. We’ve throw little parties before. People come from far and wide. The atmosphere is laid back; guests sit out under my uncle’s swing in the cool breeze and reminisce about old times. And catch up on the latest news about so and so. Kids run around the house playing tag. Plus people really show up with the attitude that they’re going to get something great. I guess it’s expected after all the other gatherings we’ve thrown. Just thinking about it, I can’t wait!
Kell is watching HotWire for a plane ticket now.
I just hope she can save enough money to come down in April. We always have fun. She’s my best bud. I’ll swim the seven seas for her. Afraid of heights, but I’ll climb the highest mountain. Give her my liver if she needs one. I do hope Kell can find a plane ticket. Because if she’s not fortunate. I’ll have to call to her tell her how sorry I am that I can’t use her part of the money to get the fish filets, chicken and neck bones. But I’ll make sure Uncle Reggie puts extra spices in the pot, break every head and wash down my crawfish.

The Hired Help

So say. My sister’s on this trip. We’ve been poor. Dirt poor. For a while. So she really shouldn’t get mad when someone asked her if she’s a volunteer at the center.
Oh, she showed out!
“No, I ain’t no volunteer! You see this dingy outfit I got on? These shoes I got crooked over? My hair parted down. …On the nappy side.”
“I don’t volunteer,” she went on with all the attitude in the world and a slight head bob towards the end. “I’m tryna make a dime!”
Ok. Granted. The job is populated with undergrads for student work. And she is in her second go around in grad school. Therefore, she may look older than the other students, and with her coursework she looks disheveled.
That doesn’t mean she can’t hustle. Side jobs are the best. Besides, we’ve known our fair share of scuffling and trying to do better. Hoping for just once, we can be on top.
All we want to do is to go some where other than Payless and buy shoes.
Or get electronic equipment when it first comes out. She just got a DVD player!
The poor child figured my sister is there faithfully, on time, for six hours, every day, at a cold, empty desk for recreation.
Like we got leisure time.

Separate Shops for Big Girls

I’m not a bias “lil” girl. I’m just wouldn’t tell any of my friends that something looks great on them and it really looks a mess. I tag along to Lane Bryant, sans the snobbery with any one of my big boned sistas. I’m just not going to sit there with a lady, who may be a size 20 and tell her a velour cat suit looks good on her, despite the roll or two that may be hanging out.
That’s where I have a problem. It started with Old Navy. Yeah, I got beef with Old Navy. It used to be my favorite stores. Now, I hate to go there, unless on a shopping trip with friends. ... Old Navy is a lie, and they truth ain’t in them. They are lying to some women!
The retailer used to cater to small and average sizes. All that’s great. But they threw me when I walked in there one day and saw a size 20 falling off the one of the hangers, in front a size 4. That’s when I walked OUT!
I have nothing against big girls. My two sisters are both voluptuous ladies and they wear it very beautifully. Yet, at the same time, what looks GREAT on my older and younger sister, like a nice peach tube top, paired with a cute denim skirt to accent her full calves may not flatter me. While I’m president of the “itty, bitty, titty” committee, I don’t have much to hold the tube up. At the same time, I may be able to pull of that halter to expose my tanned back with Capri’s to bring out my boney legs.
It’s not the consumers fault. Women just need to recognize their limitations. There are Big Girl boutiques, Lane Bryant, the Avenue and Lil Girl boutiques, the Limited and Express. They should stay separate. I should not see thick ankles in 5-7-9, when I’m looking for an empty dressing room. And other women tell the truth to your friends, stop saying something looks good and it doesn’t. That will not make you look better out of the group.
The way I look at it is that: If my friend looks great then me too! When I get a fresh outfit, I want her with one too. I’ll keep her looking great because she’s a reflection of my choices.

The Hope Saga...

We fight all the time. She bites. I run and put up my fists like Ali!
She scratches me. I cry.
We cuddle and she purrs.
I like go home with a clean and shiny car. She leaves her tiny paw prints on the streak free windows. I tip over her food bowl.
She stalks my every move for a perrrfect attack. I hide.
She comes to my room looking for me. And I sigh deeply.
She tries to kiss me and I back away. Its not that I don’t love her, its just that she drinks freely out of the toilet.
Through it all, I still have Hope.


…one day I’d like to see someone other a senior citizen win the lottery.

He wears Tussy!

My sister called me last night. She told me to turn the TV to “I Love New York.” I refused. I just didn’t want to indulge myself in such ignorance. The show is full of crazy antics. She knew I wouldn’t so she just asked, “Why is Taygo from the show still using Tussy.”
I fell out laughing. We both laughed. It actually brought up a great question.
With all the different choices of deodorant in stores today, why Tussy?
Not Axe. Not Degree. Not even Speed Stick.
Tussy.
She had to be kidding me!
A deodorant, which back in the day used to be a cream based paste. People used to dab a little on their fingers and rub it under their arms until it was, well pasted. Tussy is unisex and comes in a variety of scents.
After the thought, we laughed some more.
If you’ve ever touched deodorant it leaves a hard to get off residue on your fingers. Now, just imagine people back in the day having to rub it into their underarm. The mess it created for them had to be worse than getting it on your little black dress. And it used to be a wonder why my aunt, who’s 72 walks around today in 2007 telling us to “Take a little bit and Rub it in good, good, good,” and that’s her words to everything.


Thanks Amber for motivating me to write every day.