Originally written November 17, 2009 for Creative Writing with T. Medina.

Obsession and Reverence*

By: Mahoganie Jade Browne

he was taught to pray three times a day.

Sunrise. Afternoon. Dusk.

Sometimes East. Sometimes West.

No true religion.

Just fun and games.

Until…

he stubbed his toe.

Lost everything to friend and foe.

Bare.

Cursing.

he walked away, feeling forsaken

Thinking.

he did his share of proper worship.  

Asking.

What had he done to trigger what he had wrought?

No reflections in the dark.

No echo.

No sound of his own breathing.

The open space rang loud and clear.

Empty.

Like his prayers.

Suddenly playing church wasn’t an option anymore.

*Title taken from Lloyd McNeill’s painting “Obsession and Reverence” (1963) currently on display at Howard University’s School of Fine Arts Art Gallery.

I was in the middle of my creative writing class with Medina yesterday when my Blackberry kept vibrating. A couple of times it was just the annoyance of emails coming through, but then came the phone calls. First, a call from home. I didn't answer, figuring if it were something important or something wrong my mom would call right back; otherwise she would leave a message. She left a voicemail but seconds after her call my cousin "T" calls. I picked up thinking something was wrong. Turns out cousin T was inviting me out for the evening to see a fashion presentation she was giving in the midst of DC's Design Week at the Boffi Studio in Georgetown for the PechaKucha event.

We conversed for a few. She sent me the details via email.  I read the email over on my Blackberry and contemplated. It's a LOT going on this week... homecoming... work projects I have to indulge in, another paper and another assignment. By the time yesterday (Thursday) came around I was feeling worn out and burnt out. However, I wanted to go and show my support since my cousin personally invited me and was looking for me to attend.

The presentations were slated to start around 6:30 pm with my cousin going on about 8. My classes aren't over until 5 and once I get home after dodging rush hour (and homecoming for this week only) traffic it's nearly an hour later. I came home and immediately felt sluggish as I piddled around doing my "mommy thang" - giving the Snickerdoodle her dinner and her night bath. Once I got the Snickerdoodle straight for the evening, I somehow mustered the energy to shower and get all gussied up to go out.

Nevertheless I was late and missed ALL the presentations. However, what followed after was a reception/networking social that turned into an after party in Level 2 lounge located behind and below the studio in Cady's Alley. I stayed with my cousin, her boyfriend and her friend as we mixed and mingled with Washington's up and coming creative designers in various fields with various backgrounds. For a few moments I felt like a fish out of water. I was a writer amongst architects, interior designers, fashion designers and a little bit of everything creative that falls in between; photographers, graphic designers and design consultants. The more I talked with people the more I began to feel in my element...with my brethren.

Roughly the crowd was in their 30s or that "young and restless" crew, we all at one time had fairly decent jobs but QUIT them to pursue our dreams and to some degree what most of us feel is our calling. Some of us are making out okay with steady income; some of us are still trying to find our footing as we are viewed as "starving artists."  The common thing I found was WE LOVE WHAT WE DO, even in the struggle of a tough economy. Even more common, most of us (well at least the folks I spoke with) are originally from the DC area and we are passionate about bringing a diverse creative culture to the city. DC actually has one, but it's so underground and out shadowed by the political fanfare that occurs here. There is more to DC, the city itself, than the federal government.

For the first time in a while I felt like the social butterfly I can be when I'm not being withdrawn or so far into my own work and personal issues that I miss a moment to breathe and experience life...other people. After all I am only a quasi-socialite. I enjoyed the connections and even attention I was receiving via the camera man. Yeah, there were moments when the atmosphere seemed a bit superficial with everyone looking so young professional, or having a bit of the artsy quirky flair sipping on a vodka/champagne punch concoction and later moving to gourmet bar food and martinis. But for some reason I didn't mind the superficial so much as I connected with genuine people. What seemed superficial was just the bling-a-tude or accesory for the evening. Which is to be expected at such a setting...come on... it's Georgetown.

I made it home around 4 in the morning, ready to crash. I honestly don't know how I made it through the day... the evening working on little to no sleep. I was up the previous night working on a paper until 8 am the next morning - just in time for me to get ready to head to campus for the day's classes. Thankfully, my Friday's are free. So I had all day to spend with the Snickerdoodle, conducting a little business from home and taking in catnaps when the window of opportunity was there.

Now I have to brace myself for tomorrow. To attend or not to attend any of the day's homecoming festivities in the rain.

How much of a die-hard Bison am I to do this?

In Her Own World v2.0

1 comment

I created this “scene” in response to a piece read during my creative writing class with poet Tony Medina. The poem was called Mermaid Song by Kim Addionizio

www.poemhunter.com/poem/mermaid-song/

Our assignment was to create the scene via snapping a photo or drawing one - based on the poem.

Though my own child likes to pose for a photo, I wanted to do something a lil bit more than to have try and recreat the picture presented in the poem.
I thought the shot was rather cute, so did a few of my classmates, one of which had to create a poem from my photo. 

Today my heart cringed as the ultimate verbal assassination took place in front of me.

It was day two of the [final] semester. One class in particular, I've been thirsting for. You see, once upon a time, I took a poetry class taught by the infamous poet Tony Medina. It was during the spring 2005 semester, before I took my personal sabbatical from school. At the time I didn't know how much of a big deal Medina is until students who weren't even registered for the class broke their necks to sit in on a session to watch and listen. I loved every moment of that hour and 20 minute class. It was my time and space to sink into my Aquarius Abyss and pull out from depths unknown hidden words. I loved the books he had us read; a poetry book by Audre Lourde and another by Nikki Finney. He even shared some of his own published work, including the then newly anthology he co-edited "Def Jam Presents: Bumrush The Page."

I still recall the day an arrogant I'm-so-full-swag-I-can-spit-a-poem-in-two-seconds-and-serve-you dude dared to challenge Medina. Little did he know who he was dealing with and ended up being [respectfully] told off. It was also here where he talked about how old school poets like him and Nikki Giovanni will go to an open mic and will show respect by staying until the last poet has spoken.

As we "urban" folks say.. he dropped jewels.

Today he dropped more jewels as nearly eight of us wanted to know our fate for the Creative Writing Workshop class. It seems that since Medina's first days on Howard's campus, he's become very selective in who he allows to register for his classes. During registration, his classes are always listed as open, but are blocked, unless he authorizes. This is part of his process to see who is serious and who is just plan ol' bullshitting.

To start the process he went around the room asking us a few not-so-random things, but mainly what are some things we like to read. I watched his expression become a little perplexed and intrigued at the same time as two classmates expressed their not-so-fondness towards reading. Both mentioned they do read but one, however, claimed it would depend on whatever the literature is and if forced to read, she would, but other wise she wasn't enthused. The other said the ultimate as he expressed how reading is still pretty much "illegal" in his eyes because society still doesn't think it's cool to read. When Medina asked him to name a poet, his only response was Lauryn Hill. Granted "L-Boogie" can flow and drop knowledge on a whole slew of so-called rappers/hip-hop artists out here, but as Medina pointed how there is a sure fire guarantee that she's read something, she's studied someone. Medina asked the young fella has he heard of Sonia Sanchez.

Answer: no.

Shots fired!

Ears Ringing!

I heard a confused sigh released from another classmate. My own heart stopped and my guts, teeth..entire body cringed. Without warning, I didn't realize I was ready to rip into this 21 year old, until Medina beat me to it and I felt my body relax. Again Medina dropped jewels as he explained to the entire group, but mainly to the two non-enthused readers, that in order to become a good writer you have to read, study the art form, READ other writers & poets. He pretty much reiterated something he shared with the poetry class I took that '05 semester; when your thoughts are dry, go to the well. It's a lesson I NEVER forgot and ALWAYS carry with me.

The "Forced Reader" took offense and became somewhat defensive. Medina softened his tone a bit in order for her to see his point - it's pretty much a painter telling someone he paints but can't explain his craft. We spent the whole class time talking about the importance of reading, especially as it pertains to a writer or someone who aspires to write. At some point Medina felt compelled to share his experience when he fell in love with reading, which helped him realize he wanted to be a writer. He made the point that his home life growing up wasn't filled with books. It took a teacher from the 9th grade to almost fail him for not doing a book report for him to pick up a book - Flowers for Algernon - and read.  

As the discussion rolled on, I couldn't help but wonder what is with some of the folks in my generation who are younger than me and teeter on the borderline of being in someone else's generation. You would think, being on anyone's college campus that one would want to seek and even have a thirst for as much knowledge as possible that reading shouldn't even be a question nor a chore. Yet, in the past year since I've returned to campus I've notice something that kind of bothers me, that goes beyond taking a college education for granted. Intellectual laziness.

I noticed this last semester as I finished up my journalism courses and was pretty much in an intense, almost journalism boot camp world. It was only just a few years earlier, that our instructors expected and demand so much from us journalism students that we frequently gave 110 percent PLUS. Yet, during a time when I had to serve as an editor of one of the school run publications, I noticed how a lot of "reporters" were turning in regurgitated stories from other news sources (ugh!!) or opinionated pieces and not going deeper; like finding a new angle to a story while staying objective.

Granted the population of Howard is large (not sure of exact number), so I know not ALL of us are suffering from this sleepiness, but I have to ask of those that are feeling it, where is your quest for a challenge? Where has education "failed" you?

Then a general question: Why have we, descendants of slaves and civil rights children have taken EDUCATION, especially READING so lightly or for granted? As Medina pointed out, this sleepiness or laziness to read is generally across the board, but when it comes to US, the children of Linda Brent, Ella Baker, Frederick Douglass, W.E. B. Dubois.. and even from Sarah Bartmann you would think we would have a greater appreciation for it....

There are some of us who get it and some of us who don't.

Today, my heart actually bled for those that don't.  

Shots Fired.....

Today I received an interesting surprise.

Upon logging onto Twitter, one of my follows posted a link to the online magazine Clutch. The article talks about turning 30, from a woman's point of view. I found it to be fitting or right on time for me this morning. Since Howard's graduation on Mother's Day weekend, I've been feeling a bit weird. Aside from what has been going with my grandmother, I have also had time to think about graduation and how pratically I'm at the point where I can say "This is it!."

Granted I'm not really a graduate just yet. I still have one more semester to go. However, this year I avoided graduation again, but saw the aftermath in lew of pictures online from classmates.

(side note: I did learn that my name was called during a graduation exercise for the school of communications. However, it is believed that was a mix up and really another person with my name that was called but spelled differently)

In the past, graduations have always brought feelings of depression. I felt like I had failed, simply because I let another year go by without finishing my undergrad. Actually the year that Oprah spoke (2006?) was the first time I didn't avoid graduation since attending the school. Her message spoke volumns (as if she should be a minister) as she talked about being motivated and staying motivated in doing what God has called you to do. Basically.. act on your calling, don't just sit on it. 

I didn't feel depressed this year. The end of the semester felt bittersweet. I felt sad because I actually was going to miss the bonds I created in such a short time over the semester. Granted this class is younger than me, but when we all worked together and shared that same passion for journalism I truly felt at home.. at peace. So as I looked at their pictures as they were dressed in smiles and in their cap and gown I got to wondering about my own fate... destiny... my life.

So in a matter of months I will be 30. One of the things I'm most anxious about is finally finishing something that I set out to do many moons ago; school. By my advisor's calculations I can either finish in December and walk in May with the class of 2010, for finish completely (internship and all) by May and be a 2010 graduate. Either way, by or AT 30 I will be done with undergrad.  I try my best not to look back on the "what ifs," but that's a hard thing to do. I can sit here and say I was suppose to be this, this and that by 30, but I honestly believe there is a reason or a hidden agenda behind me being 29, a single mom, still in school and even still living at home with my parents for right now.

I love how the Clutch article was written, because it seems that it was me; a female struggling to gain her peice of the "pie" while living out her dreams and God's plan for her. As in her article she mentions that she isn't going to act as if she is all "zen-like-at-peace" with her struggles, but she understands that there is a reason for it and that 30, is the time to tighten up, take hold, walk through and deal. No excuses. 

Funny thing is, I use to feel like I'm such ahead of my time, especially age wise, but I think it has finally caught up with me.

I am 29 going on 30.

Yet I'm still wondering what's next for me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Via Clutch Magazine.....

30 Rocks?

It's Valentine's Day night and I'm in the house. That's because I actually celebrated V-Day last night. It's pretty funny, considering that I've never been the type to trip off of V-Day. This wasn't because I never had anyone special to share the day with . I was (yes) one of the ones who believed that it was just a pointless holiday for marketing gimmick purposes. Despite my feelings about V-Day I still managed to have special memories. Such as the time when I was 13 years old and my childhood friend, Clint, escorted me to my school's V-day banquet. There was also a special moment in the early years of LAF and I's frienship. Our high school had a bookstore/gift shop connected to it. One particular V-Day, teddy bears bearing t-shirts that said "Somebody at _____Loves Me," were being sold. We both bought ourselves one and out of some silly gesture exchanged each other's bears as if we were giving them as V-Day gifts.

Another special V-day included a time when Brandon and I dated. Because my birthday and V-day are back to back in weekends, sometimes I'm given a lump sum of special gifts. One particular time Brandon treated me to a fancy dinner at the BET Live Jazz Resturant that use to be downtown. That was both my birthday and V-Day gift. Also, I can't forget the V-Day during my pregnancy. It was a night in which I took myself on a date. I treated myself to dinner at Ben's Chilli Bowl and afterwards walked next door to the Lincoln Theater to see the Vagina Monologues show.

One of the things that I will always appreciate about V-Day is the fact that my father never disappoints. Every year, he looks out for his "girls." A card for my mother, a card for me and this year for the first time a card for the Snickerdoodle. Sometimes a small bag of chocolates or hard candy comes with it. Even if there is no candy, I can always count on a card.

Though this year V-Day wasn't really any different from past V-Days, it did feel sort of special in a weird way. I guess I'm ready to admit or accept that Papi and I have been dating for the past two years. We've never really "celebrated" V-day, but I was taken aback last year when he presented me with both birthday and V-day cards. He did the same this year. I felt compelled to do something nice for V-day for him, just to (continue) to show my appreciation to him.

I lucked up and managed to find tickets to a midnight poetry show given by a group of poets. To be more exact; the group being The Punany Poets. The Punany Poets have been famously featured on an episode of HBO's Real Sex. Since seeing them on TV, I've always been curious about their shows. Everytime they come to DC, I miss out. Orignally there was only suppose to be one show last night, starting at 9:30 p.m. with a reception just before starting at 8. Word must have spreaded like wild fire, because the show had sold out, but a midnight show was added at the last minute. Since Papi and I had talked about the poets before I figured this would be something he would enjoy. No sooner had I purchased tickets, the midnight show was close to selling out.

The show was pretty good and it actually met my expectations. It's certainly different live than it is on TV. Unlike the soft to hardcore porn image some have assumed it to be, it's raw, explicit, but still done in a tasteful way. As explained by Jessica Holter, the shows' creator/founder (also a communications Howard alum), the show was created to raise awareness on a few topics that affect African American woman; the main one being - acting sexually responsible while being sexually liberated. A majority of the peices performed did contain an underlying message of safe sex and even hints of HIV/AIDS awareness. Other topics included lesbianism and hetrosexual African American Women being deceived by men who live a double life.

There was one peice in particular that caught everyone off gaurd. A female poet took the stage and performed a poetic monologue as two different people. The first person was a church going female who was married to a man that hung out with one of the deacons. She was suspecious of her husband and wondered if he was cheated on her with another woman and using the deacon as a cover up. The second person was the husband who couldn't face up to the truth. While he was cheating on his wife, he was doing so with the deacon. He admitted that he liked being with deacon, but loved and needed his wife.

The poet also presented a third point of view. Her own, as a person on the outside looking in. She recounted a lovemaking scene between the married couple, where in the heat of the moment the husband called out the deacon's name. As the poetic words moved on, it gave a sense that the husband was forced to face his reality. The wife stopped what she was doing and phoned the deacon. Told the deacon that the husband called his name and mentioned "this isn't a conversation I should be hearing." The delivery of the poem shocked the hell out of everyone, but in the end we all erupted in applause.

True to what was seen on Real Sex, some of the poems were accompanied by music and dancers baring much skin and performing erotic moves. Still it was (sexual/erotic) art. Jessica Holter even performed her famous "Head Doctor" poem (as seen on Real Sex) but claimed it would be the last time she would do it. She's been in quasi-retirement and actually last night's show was suppose to have been the first time she had performed in a while.  The show was funny, serious, sexual. It was good.

Papi enjoyed it and even told me he was surprised when I mentioned this to him when I did. Apparently he and his co-workers had been discussing relationships and how some of the women (they had been dealing with) were takers. Of course they argued both sides of the coin; some are, some aren't. In any case, Papi knows I'm not a taker. We've seem to be doing the give and take thing pretty well; even when it comes the smallest things. What's been weird is the fact that we seem to be on the same wavelength with a lot of things in our life at this time; especially in regards to healing from our previous relationship(s). 

I do have a small nagging fear, that as with everything things will change. Right now as we coast along.. I get a small sense that something is going to change between us. For the better or worse? I don't know.

I'm so drained from today, but I feel I have to write this out more for me and to keep my motivation level high more than anything. Today (Tuesday) kicked off my second week of school. Actually it was my first full day of classes, since at the start of last week one professor that I have for two classes was out. My schedule isn't bad with classes only on Tuesdays and Thursdays; Four classes with Tuesday starting around 9:40 am and ending at 3:30 with three courses and Thursday starting at 9:40 am and ending at 7 pm. One class only meets once a week (Thurs.) and I do have an hour and thirty-five minutes window in the afternoon.

This semester I happen to be taking the last of my major (journalism) courses. Though not hard, the expectations are high and the concentration is pretty intense. I consider it my journalism boot camp as I'll be back in the field.. hands on. Pitching, writing and editing articles for local publications and a school run website that services ALL of DC. For the website I was assigned a beat. Each student was asked to pick a ward of the city for their beat. Naturally I chose my own, Ward 7, since I pretty much know the who's who and obviously in a good standing relationship with YA. So there is no excuse why I shouldn't be able to deliver when it comes to this.

All of us (journalism students) are bracing ourselves for next week. The inauguration. It's a big possiblity that we will dispatched at various locations covering the various events. We were given the opportunity to submit our names as volunteers for WashingtonPost.com; to produce stories and reaction pieces for them. Yet there are mixed emotions about covering this event. Folks are worried about the cold, but really in the realm of journalism... it's almost like the postman's creed. Rain, Sleet or snow, he delivers. Faculty is having a hard time smoothing over the logistics, especially with security measure being taken to a whole other level. Even as I sat in on an ANC (neighborhood meeting) tonight, YA was there explaining procedures for tickets and security for those interested in attending.

It's enough to make my head form a dull headache. Actually it did. As I listened to council hearings about all of the events taking place for Martin Luther King's birthday, the demonstration that's coming to town on Monday AND the inauguration... there was just this overwhelment in the council members voices. A lot of the District residents and those living just outside of DC are feeling like "Just get it over with." I'm overhearing conversations on campus of various students are still excited, but ready for action. More like skip the pomps and circumstances, just swear Obama in, move the family in and move on.

Road closures, free/highways will be closed (I395, I66). With the swell of people expected secret service and homeland security are asking folks to be in place to their desired event (parade or swear in) no later than 7 am. That's just to be in line to go through security. What's a bit disturbing is the fact that secret service/homeland security will turn away people from an area; i.e. bleacher seats, if they are filled to capacity, no matter if the person bought a ticket to sit in the bleachers or not.

Craziness.

YA is offering me tickets to the parade. More than likely I will have to accept in order to get "the job" done. I will have to let her know by Thursday on what I plan to do. If I go, I will be stationed at The Wilson Building, which is a DC government building literally next door to the White House. The city council is housed in the building and YA's office has a beautiful wide view of Pennsylvannia Ave.

Aside from the journalism boot camp I'm under this semester, I'm also taking one of my minor courses as well. Sometimes I wonder what was I thinking in picking African-American studies as a minor, knowing it's a concentration that will encourage research papers or something of the like. I think in the past this is part of why a lot of times I felt tremendously overwhelmed. Doing too much. Writing here. Writing there. Writing everywhere, if I wanted to or not. Then pulse fades until it's no more.

Every time I regrouped and attempted to get back to life I would vow to myself that I won't get overwhelmed. The semester is only four short months. I can do this. Yet each time I would slip and fall back down.  Funny, I spent much of this past weekend thinking about the last three years in which I was out of school. I think the time was needed, but it also caught me with my gaurd down. Eventually I fell into some kind of methphoric repose.. my runt. I got a bit tickled today as one of my professors asked returning students how was their break.. as in holiday break. I kinda laughed and thought about my three year break.

"Oh it was fine Professor_______. Picked up a few gigs. Had a baby. Wild out a bit. But I'm back now."

As crazy as it may seem and even as frustrating it has been for me I actually LOVE what happened to me. As the old folks say, "no test. no testimony." The more I think or reflect on my depression, my breakdown, my relapses, the gains and loses of my life I'm loving it. It's molding me in ways that I never thought I could or would be. It has opened my eyes a bit more about who I am.

The more I think about this semester the more I'm beginning to think.. this beaten and worn path was made for me. NOW is the time I show what I'm really made of. A single mom of a daughter that is in a stage where she is demanding your attention, taking on a course load in a field where much is demanded of her to be called here and there....wow.

Granted, mothers in my position have practically been doing this since the dawn of time. Still when it comes to the nitty gritty.. it's time to step up and show that resilance.. be the resilance.

A couple times today I caught myself thinking and praying over and over. Hoping that this was it. That I wasn't and wouldn't be in over my head this semester. Being a journalist is like riding a bike to me, but now it's really time to take off the training wheels. If I want to be taken seriously I have to step up the game, match and exceed those expectations coming from the professionals who are teaching me.

I've always taken pride in the professors that I had to guide me along the way. Well known journalists from major publications and networks. Yet I managed to only have wanderlust moments with them when I take their class and never try to make a strong connection. Hoenstly, I wasn't ready...for real life. This time it's different. I've already started to create a working relationship with one editor of a magazine and working on others.

More importantly, my completion of my degree has nothing to do with me anymore. True I want to finish a task I started many moons ago. However, my daughter is my focus. My only hope is that I build upon an empire.. a legacy that she can be heir to.

Fuck.. just started to cry.......................

It's after one. I need to go to bed. Though I don't have class tomorrow I still need to get up early. Contractors are coming back. We're in the real final phase of the renovations. Aside from that I still have an early morning appointment to make.

In the end of this entry.. all I can do is brace myself. This is gonna be "drive" of my life....so far.

I'm officially a senior.

I spoke with my adviser yesterday. We went over what's left of my curriculum. Essentially it's two semesters worth of classwork and an internship. I can still finish by December, providing I do the internship in the summer. It doesn't sound bad at all. I feel a little of everything right now. Relief that I finally see a chapter of my life coming to a close soon. Anxiety that I want to get it over with here and now. Nervous that the federal loan may not be enough. Happy that I'm back on campus and though everything looks and feels familiar, there are some things that are foreign.

What has me "blown" a bit is the fact that if I do become and official graduate in December, there is no ceremony. I would have to return May 2010 if I want to walk. I kind of expected such. Even sort of went back and forth about it once before when I thought I would be a December 2005 graduate. Since I started college, my mother has wanted nothing more than to fulfill one of the long tradition that all Howard parents of hopeful graduates have. Sitting on the quad lawn in the mild to hot spring Saturday before Mother's Day in May. Me graduating college has been my mother's ultimate wish for a gift for Mother's Day.  Yet in all my exhaustion all I wanted to do was take my last of final exams and have my degree mailed to me.  Now I find myself revisiting that idea. After seven years of ups and downs in and out of school I think I do want to wear the Howard blue robe and once the school of communications is called I want the person standing next to me to flip my hood and I do the same for the fellow graduate standing on the other side of me.  I want to be a part of the event that solidifies the alumni Bison pride.  

I have a feeling that some of my friends have been turning their nose at me as I haven't been keeping in touch like usual. I just need this time and space, not to be completely asocial, but ample space to allow me to finish unfinished duties. In the same breath I've been back and forth about something. Not necessarily correcting a wrong, but to have my say. I still feel as if I have more cleansing to do. In a way I'm reminded of a guy I met a few years ago.

Back when I worked for Mr. Yellow and his magazine, it wasn't common to have meetings out of the office. Actually, the one thing I love and miss about that job was the fact that I spent more time out of the office attending business meetings and conducting interviews. The only time I was behind the desk was during crunch time or handling some odd business for the other part of my job which was to be the copy writer/editor for the (communications) firm. Needless to say, one June evening May, the other female working on the magazine with me as the advertising person, and I decided to do a meeting during happy hour at Juste (pronounced "joost" The owner is Ethiopian.) Lounge in Bethesda, Maryland. It was a place that both May and I frequented. She went because she knew the owner. I would go to catch a set of jazz musician Marcus Johnson.

After a few round of martinis and a somewhat business minded discussion, we were approached by two men who were sitting at the bar near us. After exchanges we learned they were buddies who worked together in a federal government agency. One in particular, Mr. Gemini, was interested in getting to know me a bit better. Afer a few more rounds I learned that obviously he was a Gemini, he was in his late 30's, what agency he worked for and what he did within and that he lived nearby. Dont' remember what else we talked about, but I do remember we stayed on the dance floor for much of the evening as the DJ spinned old and new school tunes and even some slow jams.

Honestly I don't remember what he looked like. I just know he only a smidge taller than me because during the one slow jam I was able to rest my head on his shoulder. Oddly, I never took his number. Maybe it was a little arrogance in me, or maybe cause I was still trying to work the Snickerdoodle's father out of my system at the time, I handed Mr. Gemini one of my business cards and on the back I wrote my cell number.  He called a few times after that night. We never got to the point of making plans to meet up again. It seems that even in the midst of having conversations with Mr. Gemini, everything happened pretty fast towards the end of that year... the stress level and tension rose between Mr. Yellow and me, I became pregnant late that summer and didn't know until the fall and I eventually resigned from the firm/magazine.

The following year, a few months after having the Snickerdoodle, a June night. Mr. Gemini called me out of the blue. I hadn't talked to him since that previous summer. Frankly I had just about forgotten him. Apparently he was standing outside of the Juste Lounge. He had been thinking about me, but not without reason. We talked long enough to update each other. I was a new mom. He had quit his federal job to take on his side "hustle" full time, a promotions company. The night he called was his and his partner's relaunch night for the promotions group with a sponsored event at Juste Lounge. He was calling to see if I wouldn't mind coming out to support him and for us to hopefully pick up where we left off... whatever and whereever that was.

Needless to say I turned down the invitation explaining things were different as I was a mom and I couldn't jump up and roll out at the drop of a hat like I use to. He understood and made me promise that we would keep in touch. I never called back. However, a couple months later, he did. This time his call was a bit more urgent. He needed an listening ear.

At the time of his call I was away in Myrtle Beach for my cousin's wedding. Actually his call came through during the night of the wedding. A time when all of my cousins around my age, and some older, took to the beach after the reception and had our own party. I could tell something was wrong, because his tone was sullen. I don't remember all that he said, I just remember a few key things. One in particular was the reason why he was calling. He had just had a disagreement with an ex and I'm guessing the ex told him a few things about himself that he didn't recognize or didn't want to be true.  From his tone I could tell that the person was a bit harsh. Basically his call was to say that if he was any of the negative traits as told or shown to him then he apologizes. It was almost like a scene from NBC's My Name Is Earl, where the title character makes his rounds to people he did wrong in the past and hopes to make those wrongs right.

I appreciated Mr. Gemini's call, even though I hadn't known him long enough to pick up on negative traits. I'm sure I talked to him a bit more about it, but not long since I was in the midst of company. Still in thinking about this gesture I get a sense that I may want to do my own "My Name Is Earl" kind of thing. If I do, it would be a big step, at least outside of my pride. I feel like I'm ready to do it, if not for anything else, just for the (hopefully) last of the cleansing process.

I knew these days were coming. My dreams of swimming warned me. All I can do is continue to swim.

Today has been about homework. Not for any particular reason or shall I say not for a "mandatory" reason.

The U.S. Department of Education sent me a notice in the mail today or really a congratulatory letter.

I'm one payment away from being "rehabilitated". Meaning, if I should choose to go back to the school with help from the government, I'm one paymeny away from loan eligibility.

Yippe!!!

Ironically I was literally about to pick up the phone and call them to see where I currently stand.

I'm a bit tickled at the fact that in the eyes of the US. Gov't I'm about to become "rehabilitated."

Makes it seem as if I was strung out on crack for the three years I was m-i-a from school.

I did manage to make a phone call to my school today.

"Hello, I'm a former student looking to return and I was within the school of communications. I would like to come up to the school tomorrow to speak with an adviser. However, I need the name of the person who would be my adviser?"

After asking for my name, the person on the other end of the line gladly gave me the name of my adviser.

I'm nervous about a (possibly soon) return. I kinda fear I'm going to fall in the same runt I did all those years I was in school.

Feelings of anxiety and being overwhelmed.

Yet, I do have a strong desire to finish this.

Also, I still have a hanging balance on my tuition bill too.

Blah.

Nevertheless, I know.. this must be done.

In the meantime, I'm gearing up for a volunteer gig coming up in a few weeks. Actually this is some of my mother's doing, but at least she asked me if I wanted to take part.  The chapter of her social organization that she is a member of is having a workshop for some sixth grade students. The workshop is educational and a bit artsy fartsy as it focuses on entrepreneurship, etiquette and a few other values.

Where do I come in?

Well I'm suppose to introduce or really encourage some writing skills, especially with forms of poetry.

Did I mention that I would be working with a group of sixth grade boys????

I don't mind doing this. I'm actually a bit excited.

The tricky part is... how would I start the session?

I know I want to introduce a couple of different forms of poetry that probably isn't taught in school... forms I didn't learn into I was in college and took a class by poet Tony Medina.

I thought about opening up with Tupac's book of poetry. Maybe. Then slide in Langston Hughes, Audre Lourde, Sekou Sundiata, Nikki Giovanni and Sonia Sanchez. I'll figure it out I suppose.  I won't want to choose a poet or poem that might be too far fetched for a sixth grader's mind and I don't want anything too elementary neither.

Well I guess I'll sign off now ad return to the daily activities at this "rehab."

The Snickerdoodle has (once again) misplaced her pacifier and is about to have a fit.

So the age old question arouse in my online writing group. HBCU vs. Non HBCU. Basically talk/write about your experience at an HBCU (Historically Black College/University) - that is if you attended one. Well naturally I couldn't pass up the opportunity. So here was my spill about my days at Howard University.