"Non lo so, signora, ma non vendiamo i pantiloni . Mi dispiace che tu puoi provare Macy's o Bloomingdales, uno è lì, proprio dall'altra parte della strada." The phone rang and I answered, "Blah, blah, blah, may I tell her who is calling?" I told the lady this who had been searching with her grandson, and finalmente she said, "someone who could help me." The manager looked at me and rolled her eyes. I had only told the lady we didn't sell Paco jeans and she said to me, the manager, she said,"Perhaps, you need additional training, we don't screen calls."
What was I thinking: the mess was deep and thick. My parents didn't curse or say bad words when we were little. The only thing I would rarely hear my father say was the sh that ended in it. And, that will be the only word Iuse in this scenario.
Those thoughts, that circulate in our heads form stuctures much like Alexander McQueen shoes or La Sagrada Familia, they will make us amazing or they will make us ridiculous and self conscious. So when the lady, a different lady grabbed my hand and thanked me for being so kind, she began to flood my little space with questions: did you graduate, what did you study, where are you from and what my parents do, how you speak Spanish? And I answered: yes, UVa, I went to school for biology to become a doctor but I studied commerce for two years and changed to English. I will be a journalist. I am from the South, my father works in a factory and my mother, a school. Ma'am, I was speaking Italian, and I speak Spanish because I wanted to learn and because I am smart."
She looked at me confused and I smiled. I don't know why I am here in this place, at this point. I don't know why things happen as they do. And though my life has propelled in that way of The College Dropout, good things come. And the more twisted the scene the better the irony, the stronger the person, and greater is his love.
The rain was falling straight down and purposefully. I thought about this guy I dated, who, asked if I could express myself normally, if I could be less artistic. I knew it wouldn't work, I am a rebel.
Do you know what its like to stay awake at night waiting for the sun to rise just to again chase dreams once more? It is like walking in the rain, for many distances with no umbrella and alone. Should you stop, there is no reward other than the peace of mind had under a ledge or at some place of shelter. Lest you not forget that pot of gold, maybe you will find your treasure and the company of someone who has too, searched for his down a muddy and unstable path.
Walking down Wisconsin Ave, donning a shirt from where I'd rather not say, I think to myself, maybe I will give up, 'cause that major that I majored in it don't make no money . . . but that thought gives birth to another, the fear of which I could not bear. Maybe oneday, I think to myself, but not today.
I figure it like this: there must be more and it must be amazing. A lady had thrown something at me because I told her unfortunately, she could not make a certain return. I stepped back and looked up and said nothing. I asked myself whether I knew Jesus loves me or if was I simply afraid of Hell . . .
I drove down the street and there was NPR there was WUSA and here is me, in a cotton t-shirt that reads, "ready to check out." Sometimes, we can just shake our heads and remind ourselves to be still.
It happens. And whether or not the mess digresses the way I see fit and my life progresses as I wish, I know God loves me, and for whatever pot of gold awaits, that is good and that is sufficient.
I am smart, I am strong, and I am brave. Fear. . . I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
via a trajectory unprophesized by Kanye West, via exceptional brillance, via soul
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