Talking real heavy to me...

There are times that I'm completely oblivious to the signs, too caught up and comfortable mastering left when I should head right. Unforseen transitions can be hard because I want to be ready. So once I catch a clue and peep the change coming my way, I frantically start packing my mental,emotional and spiritual suitcase, hoping to cram every and anything in there that may help me on my next journey. But there isn't always time for all that. And that's when my Higher Power makes a housecall and stands in my doorway, telling me to step out on faith that I was given all that I'll ever need.

Overheard on the 4

5 year old boy: When I'm 8, I'm going to be that tall (pointing to the ceiling of the train car).

Middle-aged mother: Mmmhmmm

5 year old boy: And you're going to be old.

Middle-aged mother: Mmmhmmmm

5 year old: When I'm 8, you're going to 25.

Middle-aged mother: MMMMMMMMHMMMMMM! (giving her son a huge hug).

I am so hearing you...

She smiles, I smile
She walks, no she glides softly by me changing night into day
She opens her mouth to speak, and so sounds ring in my head
She speaks, and I want to dance to her rhythm
She moves ever so gently, increasing my desires,
As I place my arms around her waist,
Hold and squeeze unto me,
I want to melt into her body, and discover the base of her warmth
Her beautiful black body that, no human mind could ever conceive
Shes love
Shes truth
Shes real, as real as the stars that shine in the heavens
As real as the sun that bathes her body,
As real as the moon that glows and the birds that sing and the rose
That blossoms in spring for she is that rose
And not just any rose,
But a black rose,
Black rose stands tall and stronger than any other plant
A black rose, that stands as creator, of nations of
Black rose
That never loses her petals, and blossoms all year round
Black rose,
Sweet rose,
Thornless rose
Eternal rose
Please look my way,
Please look my way
Please look my way
Black rose

-- Dead Prez "Mind Sex"

Quote Unquote

When asked to share a favorite tv show that he would love to star in for just one episode, one of my 8th grade students replied, 'I would like to star in the first episode in the miniseries 'Roots', 'cause it shows how we used to live before slavery'.

Nothing at all

Back on July 5, 1852, Fredrick Douglas asked, 'What to the slave is the fourth of July?'

In 2007, I'm wondering the same thing.

I'm sending up much thanks to God, 'cause I can look back and remember when...

I am grateful for the things that You have done
Yes, I am grateful for the victories we've won
I could go on and on about your works
Because I'm grateful, grateful so grateful just to praise You Lord
Flowing from my heart are the issues of my heart...

gettin' up, gettin' out and doing somethin'

have you ever seen a ghetto bird?

sure, you say, of course.

there's dawn who lives down by lexington

with her 5 kids and deferred dreams.

oh, and don't forget mrs. ann's kim

who left here

only to come right back

with a habit

you're right, the kims and dawns

are ghetto birds too

but not the kind i ask of

i'm talking about that one ghetto bird

who always seems

to have its eyes cast

upward

while the rest of the flock

is busy pecking

at the fruitless concrete

have you ever seen a ghetto bird fly?

fly? you ask. they don't fly

i mean, not too far from here anyway.

there's a few that try

but wind up discouraged

and eventually content themselves

with only hopping

from perch to perch

i've seen a good number of

high flying ghetto birds, i share.

i've seen them soar

above the jagged mountains of

at risk

and through the stifling haze of

disadvantage

have you ever heard a flying ghetto bird's song?

no, you admit. can't say that i have.

well, once they're used to

trusting their wings

they sing a song

to the other ghetto birds

down below

it goes:

i'm soaring

reaching heights unknown

freeing my soul

as much as i wish

you could be up here

with me

i've realized it's

too hard to teach

someone with their feet

planted so fimly

in the ground

how to

fly.

soul that lives within...

"Eventually I knew precisely what hair wanted: it wanted to grow, to be itself, ...to be left alone by anyone, including me, who did not love it as it was."-- Alice Walker, Living By The Word: Selected Writings 1973-1987

This goes out to you and you...

Today, I’m really feeling like one of those rap stars accepting an award at one of them hip-hop ceremonies or artists who have five pages in the back of their album dedicated to everyone they’ve ever met.

Excuse me as I give a shout out to my peoples and ‘em.

Dad: Thanks for giving me your charm and your walk….which bothers me a bit, ‘cause either you had a questionable twitch or my stride isn’t as feminine as I thought.

Mom: Thanks for being the originator and allowing me to be your remix. I know, I know “mad” corny, right? Waking me up early every, single Sunday has definitely shaped my cooking skills. I’m honored to be considered a part of your fortune. Yup, more corn. But you’re a mom and love that kind of stuff.

Shirlgurl: Your text messages keep me going during the day. Though I’m not really down with all that “princess” stuff, I have to admit your boughetto ways are cute and very witty.

Junebug: I love all our late night catch-up convos, since you believe we don’t truly “know, know” one another. Thanks for laughing at my outrageous stories, which I promise are all unfortunately true. You're right, my life is a “poetic comedy” and I’m glad you’re interested in hearing alllll about it. Don't forget, your NBA contract is paying for my student loans. Everybody knows that pinky promises are just as valid as notorized documents.

Flojo: You’re the first best friend I’ve ever known and the co-star in a lot of my early memories/escapades. No worries, with a little time, we’ll get us back.

Jenny: The fact that we’ve never gotten into a fight in the entire 17 years we’ve been friends, says something. I love that we can spend close to 6 months with no contact, and start right where we left off. Thank you for accepting me how I am, smelling real good all the time, and sharing my X-rated sense of humor. I love that you make half wigs look so chique, so much so, you got me wondering if the Asians sell half ‘fros. Ummmm, nah, never mind.

Sawnee (said with a real heavy Brooklyn accent) aka Big Sis aka Mrs. Mike Black aka Sister from the Same Two Mothers by Spirit: Thank you for recognizing the woman I’m becoming – even when I don’t see it sometimes – and placing me on Crown Woman status. Thanks for conversations on God’s plan, finishing my thoughts, and putting me onto Arkansas 77's "no facts" reporting style.

Kindred: Thank you for being there when I laugh – hard and often – at the audacity of life, and laughing right along with me till our bellys ache and tears flow. This is just the beginning of not only a beautiful business collabo –our books will be best sellers, for sure—but a budding friendship. I think that we’ve officially discovered the cure-all for life’s mishaps: food, wine, and tons of laughter. Promise me, that if you ever get that newsletter inviting you to become an adult, you’ll throw it away. Psuedo grownups for life.

Jess: Even though you’re real brand spanking new in my life, you’ve managed to become one of the first people I seek advice from, and share my extremely hilarious and humbling experiences with. It’s wonderful to have someone who is genuinely enthusiastic for most of the things I do and want to do – no matter how small or out there. Thanks for all the email convos ,that we use like IM since the man likes to breathe down our necks. Your peach cobbler is sin in an oh so sweet pie crust.

Lis Lis: You’re mix of bitter sarcasm, dark humor, and love for poppin’ lockin’ and old school boy group R & B is always just what I need. Thank you for letting me see your tender side and understanding that ‘everybody needs some time away’.

2006: You’ve taken me from Ms. Pantene Pro-V, making the Dominicans a heck load of money, to psuedo Cape Verdean with the wet and wavy look, and now the ultimate earth mother rocking a fierce natural. You bought a lot of firsts, lasts, and change into my life. Every new year, I will recognize the impact you’ve made upon my life because, not only, did I survive you, but you’ve helped me to get so much closer to the woman I’m destined to become.

Last but not least, big ol’ shout out to G.O.D for giving me everything I need and not what I want, ‘cause sometimes -- depending on how the wind blows—I want some real off the wall stuff. Thank you for your patience. You gave me life and I keep you entertained as I live it --definitely not an equal deal, but it works. Something tells me you love me. I don’t know, just a feeling I have.

I know there are several folks I didn't mention and no one wants to be the "and 'em", but my wrist is tired from all this typing. To be continued.

some kind of wonderful..

"The way you cook, makes a brother feel good about himself," said by Junebug, as I prepared food for a New Year's Eve dinner party.

Thank you, God, for all the wonderful men and men-in-training that you have put into my life. Amen.

Goodness gracious

I was caught all up in my own mental-mind at the end of my break today. So, I didn’t feel like responding when a brother wished me a nice day, as I passed by him on my way back to work.

Big mistake.

"Sistah…Sistah,” he called, continuing his attempt at trying to get my attention.

I noticed more than a few people stop, in the middle of the busy city sidewalk, to see who in the world this man could be hollering at with such commitment, and why in the heck she wasn’t answering.

Occupied with my thoughts and slightly embarrassed, I tried to get lost in the crowd before the scene escalated.

No such luck.

“SISTAH! SISTAH!...... SISTAH, WITH THE BIG LEGS,…. HAVE. A. NICE. DAY!”

…………

Yes, I am sistah with the big legs and that’s what I get for being shady.

randomness...

I spend most of my days on hold, while media relations people decide if they want to speak with me or not. Due to the classical or easy listening music that usually plays as I wait, I’m half asleep by the time someone decides to answer my call. If I ever have an office, when my secretary puts folks on hold I want callers to hear M.O.P’s “Ante Up”- probably the censored version. Regardless, of where I am or how I’m feeling that song never fails to get me amped and ready.

Yesterday, my thoughts fell upon my high school phys ed. teacher, Mrs. Gilmartin. With her long blonde hair and light colored eyes, simply by looks, she is the epitome of “all-American”. Out of the many people I’ve met in life, she is indisputably one of the realest. She is the same Mrs. Gilmartin who after asking the class to break into groups, noticed that a set of Jewish girls hadn’t budged. Without skipping a beat, she looked up from her clipboard and told Nicole to “stop being corny and sit next to those little Black children”. When it came to the swimming portion of her gym classes, Mrs. Gilmartin’s only requirement was that everyone had to fully submerge themselves into the pool at least once. Well, there were a lot of girls who tried to find creative ways not to get their hair wet. I remember one class Blair refused to put her head under the water. At first Mrs. Gilmartin paid her no mind; until the period was just about to end and she noticed that from her shoulder’s up Blair was completely dry. Twice she told her to go under and each time Blair refused. In a second flat, Mrs. Gilmartin jumped into the shallow end - clothes, sneakers, whistle and all – and dunked a shocked Blair under the water. Oh my goodness, I can’t forget one Bring Your Daughter to Work Day when a classmate asked Mrs. Gilmartin if the toddler with her was her daughter. “No, Tonya,” she said, “This here is just a midget I hired to follow me around all day”. All of my siblings have also had her as a gym teacher, and Mrs. Gilmartin told Shirlgurl that she felt sorry for our mother. My fondest memory of Mrs. Gilmartin is my senior year. A group of friends and I performed an African dance at the school’s Black Awareness assembly. Out of all the 2,000+ people in attendance, it was Mrs. Gilmartin who clapped the hardest. When we were done, she approached us with her hands clasped in front her face and a hint of tears welling in her eyes and told us , without her sarcasm or dry wit, that our performance was beautiful. Man, I need to pay her a visit.

I told a friend that for my birthday I want to go to some real illegal, sweaty, tight dance party in a concrete floored basement, underneath somebody's uncle's West-Indian restaurant. Monday, I got an evite inviting me to a weekend full of carnal exploits and hedonism, all in my honor. I love my friends.

Oh, to the brother who told me he loved my hair this morning and kept it moving – THANKS.

For winter fearing women when bubble jackets aren't enough

Lately, I've noticed co-workers throw envious gazes at adolescent couples in Union Square, as they unabashfully radiate that pubescent I-can't-live-breathe-or-survive-without-you-and-even-if-I-could-I-don't-wanna kind of love. I listen to countless tales told by girlfriends who religiously hit up every happy-hour function, regardless of how many hours they've just put in at the office.

Winter is coming ladies and gentlemen, and all the single women around me are concerned with the impending season change.

Blouse buttons are released a little lower and sistergirl dinner plans are canceled two steps from the door, once a phone rings and a baritone voice is heard on the other end.

"Winter.Is.Coming," declares this fair weather friend, who seconds ago was starving, as she takes off her coat, gets comfy, and coyly coos into her cell.

Heffa.

You'd think that with all this fretting over winter, women would be running to buy BJ-sized bags of melting salt for the soon to be icy roads.

But the thirsty determination in their eyes, reveals the statement's true meaning: Ain't no female ,in her right mind, wants to trudge out in the numbing snow to any club, lounge, restuarant or the like to find a man. So, the hunt is now on and it's real. Cold weather snuggle buddies are wanted.

Jess said it best, as we waited on the subway platform for the A train:
'If you're trying to get got, you'll get gotten.'

Well, there's a whole lot of women praying that the gettin' gets good waaaaay before snow coats the ground.

Am I among them?

Ummmerah, it would be nice to spend frosty nights indoors with a brother- who loves Scrabble, eating, and Toni Morrison - shampooing my mini 'fro with peppermint hairwash, greasing every inch of my scalp (yes, Reg, with no gloves. LOL), and cuddling while reading Black classics. Yeah, nice indeed but I'm not beating those mean streets.

Good luck to all those ladies out there on a mission. I understand. 'Cause the cold and loneliness are truly real.

Treating tricks

After declining Jess' invite to witness how folks from the Bay area get down on Halloween, I sat on the four train next to a 3-year-old cowboy and five-year-old angel. Needless to say, they were too cute.

By the time we reached 125th street, both the angel and cowboy collected quite a few dollars from our fellow passengers.

I didn't get a dime.

I guess no one was feeling my make-pretend-grown-up/journalist-on-the-grind costume.

This just in...

Over a week ago, I ordered a book from Borders. I was told that if it didn't come within seven days I qualified for their " 7 days or It's free" giveaway offer.

As I still wait, I'm letting you know now....

*pulling out bullhorn*

BORDERS IS GIVING AWAY FREE BOOKS!

Thank you.

Welcome back fam

My father, an old school West-Indian man, respected anything that required talent, hardwork and discipline. So from birth my siblings and I have been sport fans. We've spent countless school nights in our pjs , ignoring bedtime and the scolding of our mother, watching the rhythmic intensity of tennis , transfixed by the delicate elegance of figure skating, and getting riled up by WWF's Royal Rumble - dad's personal favorite.

Over the years, we've adopted several professional athletes into the family, referring to them by their first name and memorizing their stats. To these select few we've remained faithful. We groan, yell, and curse at unfair calls made by bias game officials, give standing ovations for glorious plays that require heart, and cheer till our voices are hoarse when our favorites win.

In our household basketball will always reign supreme. My lil' brother has said numerous times that it is absolutely unacceptable for me to date anyone who doesn't play basketball. He doesn't have to be nice or hold NBA dreams, says June, just a great appreciation for the sport is enough.

Every fall since 2003 , without fail, I've asked June about Jay Williams. We've followed his journey as a star Blue Devil, assistant to Coack K's third NCAA basketball championship, college graduate within 3 years, and second overall pick of the NBA's 2002 draft by the Bulls. We were devastated when in June of 2003, Jay lost control of his motorcycle and crashed into a utlity pole. With three of the four ligaments in one knee torn, a fractured pelvis, and a severed nerve in his left leg, there was little hope he'd ever return to the court.

Earlier this week, out of habit and genuine curiousity about his condition, I asked June if he heard any recent news. He shared that he thought Jay was a sports commentator now, giving up any basketball aspirations since his near fatal crash. A few days later, my little brother called me to see an article on NBA.com about Jay playing the preseason with the Nets.

Tonight, we watched in disbelief as the New York Knicks played a game against the Nets, who sure enough had our man Jay Williams in their lineup.

They didn't win tonight, and that's okay. None of us are wishing for a championship ring. I'm simply happy that he is able to come back to a sport that he loves and the family loves watching him play. There have been many who have died from far less, Jay is blessed to have a second chance.

**UPDATE**
Last I heard, Jay wasn't picked up by the Nets for the season.

We stay fly, no lie

Yesterday, with my nervous hands, I pinned the visitor's tag onto my blouse and pressed the button for the sixth floor. As the elevator traveled to its destination, I said a prayer for my first interview after weeks of job hunting.

I tried to calm down and remember what my boy Reg said about everyone being people, who started out at the exact place I am now. When the doors opened at my stop, I quickly passed my hands through my hair and over my slacks, attempting to smooth out any wrinkles and self-doubt.

My nerves chilled, a bit, as I walked into the office of the publication's human resource director. Her easy-going banter and infectious smile were able to put me at ease, as if I was chatting with an old girlfriend who was glad I came by to visit. I taught her the meaning of diaspora and she shared with me pictures from her first walk against breast cancer, an illness that her close college buddy has battled for five years. But though I was comfortable, I remembered where I was and the position of the woman sitting across from me. I guess I passed the prelimiary round because within fifteen minutes of our meeting, she called a few editors to see if they wanted to meet me.

Our friendly conversation continued in the elevator, through the newsroom, and until we arrived at the office of the executive editor. With a quick introduction she was gone and so was my confidence. As the door closed, I had half the mind to call her back to save me.

There I sat, in his small office with several pictures of dogs and famous faces, as he grilled me on everything from my past experiences, last non-fiction book purchased, and feelings on 'skut work'. Under his critical journalist's eyes I felt like that little girl, who is more accustomed to wearing kicks and jeans, getting caught playing make pretend in her mother's business clothes. I tried my best to keep up with his quick, dry wit and prayed that my demeanor didn't betray the the flip flops that my stomach was doing.

At the end of our interview he offered to see me out. On our trip through the newsroom, I quickly scanned the workers that I hadn't noticed twenty minutes earlier. My eyes were met by faces, belonging to mostly white males, offering quickly disappearing thin-lipped smiles that followed my exit.

And that's when it happened.

At that moment, I ached for the false protection offered by conformity and the days countless Dominican hair salons helped my hair live the lye. Instead, my in transition strands seemed to sense their surroundings and defiantly stood on my head, reveling in all their naptified glory. With each step towards the elevator, the slacks, which were flattering when I left the house, tightened under the strain of my behind that was growing to monstrous proportions. My nose took over my face and my lips began to look like the after picture shown to hopeful patients before their collagen injections.

The executive editor offered a detached indifferent handshake, pressed the elevator's bottom button, promised to call within a week, and sent me on my way. It wasn't until I reached the city's sidewalk, that my body returned to normal and I was proud of the many months spent sticking to my natural headed aspirations. This morning, I immediately sent out my thank you notes and half-heartingly prayed that the position was mine.

A few minutes ago, at the top of my inbox sat an email from the publication's human resource director. Convinced that they were so incredibly unimpressed that they decided not to even wait more than twenty-four hours before giving me the bad news, I read her two sentenced email asking if I got her message and if I could start later this month.

I've been doing a non-stop victory dance that can rival any of Chad Johnson's post-touchdown celebrations.

My two youngest siblings, Shirlgurl and June, have been known to entertain the family and my close friends with hilarious catchy songs, that they write themselves. After hearing the good news, I can't seem to get the Dipset inspired, unabashedly braggadocious chorus penned by my little brother out of my head: Been through the fight (Can you feel me)/ Been through the hype/ Been up on top (Now I'm stuck)/ I can't get down from up.

Ballin'! HAHAHAHA!

True,you may need one but you won't find her here

I am not your ride or die chick.
Leave that to the Charlies, Kims, and Trinas.
I refuse to be your down for whatever secret
while your wife/fiancé/girlfriend
keeps thinking that she’s playing half to a monogamous commitment.
I don’t do shapes
so take your love triangle elsewhere.
Oh, and forget what you heard
I.AM.NOT.THOROUGH.
Fights with women who hold your last name and your seed
is not what I do for fun.
How can one dare argue with a sister
whose anger is fueled by betrayal
and heart is broken from lies?
What did you say?
Ain’t no fun if the homies can’t get some?!
Are you hearing me?
Must I repeat myself?
I.AM.NOT.RIDE.OR.DIE.
Since you care about your boys and ‘em so much
why don’t you personally take care of their case of the blues?
And no, there isn’t any room in my purse for your glock.
Live out your Bonnie and Clyde fantasies with someone else.
I will not play Elvira to your pseudo Tony Montana.
It is not …
will never be…
that serious.

Thinking Outside the Box

Much props to Saki and Trevis for recently opening up their All-Nite Upscale Apparel and Juice Bar and being featured in the recent Weekly Dig!

All those in Boston, make sure to head down to Grove Hall and give these brothers some support.

we all have something to give...

www.worldonfire.ca/donations