I waited one whole year to wear this. . . I feel something like:

a pimp.

and, pimping . . . a'int easy.

via my mad shopping skills, via 95% off.

thorough. legit. and otherwise unduplicated.

At a dumpster in NW, Washington DC

When I was in second grade I was obsessed with perfect handwriting. So much so, I would erase holes in my paper and cry during spelling tests. Mrs. Simon-Stokes knew I was a special case. She and my mother made perfect letters. Perfect. So, when one of these spells would happen, when she would see my frustration, she would come over to me and remind me how perfectly amazing it was that I was getting better. Those giant letters slanting around here and there, disconnected stems from p's and b's and obese o's did eventually get better. And, Mrs. Simon-Stokes, the same lady who braided my hair in the hallway the day my mother had to rush out of the house before combing it herself, leaving my father with Just for Me hair grease, a fine tooth comb, and his own devices, reminded me that it's not about perfection. It's about progression. Mrs. Simon-Stokes, my mother, my father, not perfect- just people with diligently warm hearts.

It's funny how my father thought it was alright, the pigtails directed in every whichway, the jagged parts, and combed out kitchen. He walked me to the door and I remember, licked his thumb to clear any residual sleep from my eye or particle from breakfast on my face. He rubbed a little lotion onto my arms and looked at me proudly. Then walked me to the school-door and said he loved me. And, I walked inside, with bows clamped into my hair however he had managed.

My mother taught me how to make a ponytail that night.

I would sit in my room with my back against the closet door and make up speeches. Writing things down in notebooks and on pieces of paper here in there. I had a slough of journals over the years. Second grade was a powerful year. It was the year I decided to adopt.

That age, I figured at 21 I would be married, have a home (in my parent's garden. That was one of those silent and congenial ploys my parents had to keep my from moving away from home. Half of their 26 acres would be mine.) At 25 I think it best to not worry so much on the timeline or equate my progression on the plot of land I do or do not own, I'll just let things be and come as they are and do.

That is good. Though, my parents also knew that I was quite different. That I wanted to see the world. And despite, their ploys, plots and devices they had figured the same.

It has been in my thoughts, mostly in my thoughts, until yesterday. I don't have much money, a one bedroom, and that Land Rover I wanted is a pick-up truck. But, there was a puppy left in a box by the dumpster. The vet told me she would nurse him to health but he would most definitely need a loving home. It was white with a bright pink nose. It had no one.

Children are so precious, so made by God to illicit pity and love and those who have no mercy on children, puppies, and the infirm are Satan incarnate.  My co-worker scuffed at the Gay couple who had adopted an little African girl. Saying it was disgrace. I bit my lip remembering how I needed the work and how grace itself was teaching and not telling. And so, I told her the same thing I told my three-year old students when they asked questions. Questions waiting for answers that would shape their understanding of the world or define a greater, more haphazard, and perpetuated sense of ignorance:

"Some babies are born from the belly, and some babies are born from the heart. Mommies are mommies and daddies are daddies because they love and take care you. And that is a family."

Then Loyle, a little precocious for her age, left with her own mother waving goodbye, saying "Byebye mommy."

"Loyle, I am not your mother."

"Ok, grandma." She said snickering and holding her mother's hand.

Looking down the hallway I responded, "Not your grandma."

And Loyle got in the last word which made me laugh, "See you tomorrow, auntie!"


Was this my moment? Not perfect am I, but my heart, I know is good and diligent. Was this the moment I would become, albeit for a precious baby with four legs, a mother?

via fam

On Barcelona via Milan, From thought per Washington, DC

El País: gli editori ingrassano e i giornalisti a casa.

Which is Italian for:

        El País: some newspaper bigs wigs sent journalists home.

        Which is American for:

               It gets real.

               Which is generic for:

Can we just all keep our jobs?


via "the writer's life",  that thing ellison had tried to articulate:  exactly what he felt to be truth. no one was satisfied.  how had he said it: “what and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do?”

so, some fall from the roster of some other's payroll.  in the end, i believe it was not comfort from the check that pulls together the huelga, but the tinge of losing a platform.

should i be most fulfilled by the thoughts that set forth these sentences. understand or don't understand, struggle for the platform or be posted up in front of a couple hundred thousand, reading, listening, watching. That is what i wish for.

that is real.

real, like real talk no talk.

http://www.corriere.it/inchieste/reportime/societa/el-pais-editori-ingrassano-giornalisti-casa/794783e8-2830-11e2-9e66-88ac4e174519.shtml

"And in some years, I'll be like . . ."

Cheers Michelle, Barack. . .  This is how I imagine my future . . . flyer than them other cats.

via change we can believe in.

Turkey Thicket: Polling Place, DC

Let me tell you something about America. Rather, let me tell you something, America.

My hope is not in you. O no.

This empire. This state. These borders. . . mean nothing to me.

I am not a Democrat or a Republican.

I am a Christian and thank God that my roots run deeper than the American flag.

An anecdote:
It was around mid-night and I went to Columbia Heights to pay rent. Just then my car battery died. Now, some of those people who rode down the street comfortably with Obama 2012 signs and Romney/Ryan stickers looked at me and kept moving, (no cheap anti-elitist stab) they kept moving and one man honked his horn and made gestures as a taxi cab stopped to see if I was ok.

Now, this is how I made it home.

An ese, me dije, 'buenas, mami, que pasa?' And the first fluent sentence I learned in Spanish had once again been an amazing point of connection.

'Aye, senor, puede ayudarme?" Es que no funciona el truque . . ."

'Buuuueno.'

Now this man, of no more than 5'7'' in stature stopped in traffic, popped the hood, jumped the car and told me to check my alternator . . . all before the red light had changed green. I dare say these are the workings of the Lord and sin documentos o no, this is community, and that is the America I have the audacity to hope for. 

I drove to advanced auto and a man had been so kind to explain I desperately needed a new battery. Which would be abt a hundred dollars. This man, who was working at the parts place with a degree in mathematics and an Masters in electrical engineering. We talked the irony of life, and being black folk, the irony of perception. Some El Savadorian men were talking about their girl troubles and I told them to buy flowers, everything would be alright.


Yes, Virginia, Florida, Ohio, and Wisconsin. Whether Barack Obama, Mitt Romney, Jill Stein, or Rocky Anderson, everything will be alright. Because the President is not God. God is God. And God is perfect for me, you, and America.
 
That being said, I thank God for Jesus, I thank God for America, and I thank God for its however broken political system.

Vote and carry on.

God bless America and every place else.