IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE...it's never going to happen

Me and my food baby...

Christmas makes me think a lot about pregnancy. A teenage girl, while betrothed to a man, finds out she's preggo by the power of the Holy Spirit...and everyone ends up being cool with it because it's really God's kid.

If I showed up at my parents' home pregnant and told them an angel came to me after I read the results off the stick and said, "It's okay, Bruce. Your child is going to make a huge impact in this world," I'm pretty sure my parents wouldn't buy it...and I haven't been a teenager in quite a while. They'd be more concerned that I wasn't married. That nobody loves me. That I would suddenly become another statistic (even though I have two degrees; am balancing a mortgage and student loans; and am a pretty good bowler when I want to be). But statistics are all what you make of them.

I have spent my whole life being responsible because I never wanted to ever have any excuses (namely children) for not fulfilling my goals, the way I often thought the great women who came before me and raised me did. I never wanted my child to be raised by someone incomplete. And now that a milestone birthday is rapidly approaching, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever have a child at all. I've turned into a statistic I hate more than being a teenage mom - the successful woman who has no one with whom to really share it.

When this house seems small, I'm grateful for my solitude, but it ain't small all the time. Sometimes its suffocatingly large and quiet...and cold...and I wonder if I'll ever really be somebody who matters.

And this is the real point of the often-told Christmas story to me - you have to understand what really matters. Mary was not a dumb, young girl, but even if she was, she was the mother of Jesus. And even people who don't believe in Jesus can admit that's kind of a big deal. Did it matter that she wasn't married? Nope. Did it matter that people were probably skeptical of the whole "no-really-it-is God's-baby fiasco? We're still celebrating Christmas, right? All that mattered is that her baby didn't stay a baby. He became a legend. Bet the haters never saw that coming!

At night, I put head to pillow and it really doesn't matter how smart I am. The dreams of a genius (which I'm not) and the dreams of an idiot (which I'm also not) probably bare a striking resemblance, but because a person can't be both at once...who knows? It also doesn't matter that I've tried to be a good person or that I have tried to treat people better than they have treated me. What's a "good person" anyway? That term is just as subjective as everything else. And though I've helped some students in my 8 years of teaching, I've done it at my own expense. I've looked at children all day long for so long that I've realized they are the ugliest part of society because they honestly reflect all the BS their parents put into them or don't try hard enough to drive out. And while it's true that I try to prepare them for the world at large, I get nothing in return...not even the feeling that I'll be a good mother when I have my own.

In addition, I've found that every man who has ever said he loved me (romanitcally) only meant it temporarily, and as I've found ways to move past this disappointment, I've had nothing to hold on to but my stupid sense of responsibility for being "the bigger person." That well has long run dry.

In short...NOTHING I HAVE DONE UP UNTIL THIS POINT IN MY LIFE HAS REALLY MATTERED...not much to me, anyway. SO NOW WHAT? Honesty.

I hope the next year brings me some clear answers because this time next year, I hope to be living my life instead of volunteering in the lives of others. I mean...I don't expect to birth the second coming or anything, but I do hope I won't continue to be the unsavory statistic I am now. I want to matter...

Just Wondering...

If my level of insecurity complemented your level of vanity, would you have married me? If I went through your phone and called numbers back, inviting innocent bystanders to my psychotic tea party, would you have fallen in love? If I had pretended you were a good man, ignored you ignoring me, and settled for your cheating ways, would I have been your "main chick"? How about if I had played small and called "my" house "ours" to protect your fragile ego, while you purchased Jordans and Blac Label? Happy then?

If I threw myself at you like you were the last street N-word from Seat Pleasant walking, would that have cracked my hard exterior in your eyes? Or was it about the baby I refused to have just because you had a testicle tickle? If I were the jealous type, would that have made you feel like "the man"? If I took your money and wasted it, embarrassed  in front of  and separated you from your family, then created a life with you and used it as a bargaining tool for marriage, would I have been "the one"?

All rhetorical questions, of course, but then...the revelation:

You picked the right woman to help you reap all the wrong you've sown in my life. ENJOY ETERNITY, HAPPY HUBBY...

2:29 AM

I am at my best now. In five hours, I will be at my worst. In seven more hours, I'll be pissed about something stupid or insensitive said by the king of stupid and insensitive. Then off to my hobby that has turned into a career of sorts. He'll probably text me tomorrow; I'll definitely respond. Then back home to the keys to spill my brain on virtual canvas.

Sleep has become the lowest priority. My dreams leave no room for it.

The Marionette, The Rear View, and The Truth About Rims

What does it say about a man who is more confident in his choice of automobile than his choice of wife? I'm being serious...

I love my car. I knew I wanted it since I went to the dealership to get my old car serviced and ended up taking the brochure for the new model home. I saved up for it, kept my old car in pristine condition, so I would get the full value of my trade-in, and even though I bought it when it was no longer a new model, I loved it and all of its features UNCONDITIONALLY. My wife? NOT SO SURE. Don't mean to be honest...but I'm being honest....

I used to date this girl who had a talent for one-liners, and it drove me crazy. I was young then. Not used to hearing the word, "NO." Hell...not used to "MAYBE." And here she comes. Smart-ass mouth to match that smart-ass mind.

I tried to get her number and she asked, "What's the last book you read?"

"I don't read," I replied with the subtle swag that I now realize only the ignorant employ when they don't know what the hell else to say...or actually think the dumb shit they say is a valid comeback (or "retort," as she would say).

"Oh," she replied with a smile, and then with jerk-like precision asked, "Do you know a good car wash?"

I took the bait. Thinking I was going to sound like some sort of expert, I asked, with the same stupid-ass swag, "You got rims or hubcaps? The best place to go to have special attention paid to your rims is..."

"I knew it," she interrupted. "Look, I don't think I'm compatible with the rims-over-reading type. Thanks anyway."

"Rims-over-reading type"? And she walked away with that same damn smile she was wearing when she asked the question. That same smile could turn the biggest street nigga (which I happened to think I was at the time) into the biggest pile of foul-smelling feces on the block. (chuckle) In short...I had to have her.

Eventually, I did. She had me, really. She was herself all the time. Not easily impressed or excitable. Honest to a fault. Intriguing. Genuine. She read "If Beale Street Could Talk" to me after the first time we had sex. The whole book. While cradling me naked in her arms. And I paid attention. And I followed. And I loved her...right then...I knew it. But I couldn't keep up with her. Or maybe I just wasn't willing to leave all the bullshit behind to grow with her. She was making me different, from my speech to my thoughts. I didn't want to grow at all...so I stayed behind...feeling like all I could do is take her rims in for special attention every Saturday. I made myself replaceable, so soon, in true-to-form fashion, I cheated, she caught me, and without a second thought, replaced me.

In fact, her exact words were, "Welcome to mediocrity, Muthafucka," before she closed the door and left me tangled in my sheets with my (then) mistake...my (current) wife.

And all this flooded my mind as I sat at a traffic light, heading home to the life I thought I wanted, with the woman I thought I could live with, in the car I loved unconditionally, staring in the rear view at the woman who always made me think too much. She didn't even notice me missing her.

She had truly cut all ties, evidently. And there I was with all my many strings attached. Still her puppet, waiting to be read to and pulled out of my bullshit with one line.

The Last Bit of the Last Pastrami Sandwich I'll Ever Eat...

It hit me suddenly as I sat folding the clothes (a task I hate) and battling vicious menstrual cramps (a  part of growing older I hate). So I picked up the phone and text him: "I finally forgive you..." His response: "Thank you." I probably will never hear from him again now that he's no longer emotionally bound to me in any way. I'll miss him.

I don't think I'll ever love another the way I loved him. Free. Unguarded. Pure. He was my youthful hope for a normal existence. But it is also important that I continue to be a choosy lover. I hope he finds what he's looking for. I hope I do too.

Metronome (149 words)

When the sonogram was invented, that man had no idea that the string of pearls that excites parents so much would look so beautiful fleshed out, lying bare next to me 30 years later. And I felt smarter and more privileged than he as I stared at her back, wondering how she managed to keep it so beautiful when it was heavily burdened.

Inhale...up. Exhale...down. Inhale...up. Pause... And then...Exhale...down. I pull her close and she doesn't wake up. I fall asleep to her metronome.

I don't have much. I never have...maybe I never will. But if I could come home every night and have her I wouldn't need hip hop. This is what being a Black man is really all about. Not about about the ornaments women aspire to be because of who I think I am. But the man I get to be because of the jewel she is.

Soul Mates (A story in 130 words)

I looked up at him looking down at me. For a second he was familiar, and I remembered when he used to smile up there. A slimmer, younger face. Happier eyes. All the feelings he kept inside all day rushing forward as he leaned down to kiss me full on the lips. Soft. Personal.

Not like that moment when our eyes met, briefly, before he buried his face in my collar bone. Hiding from the face he no longer longed for. Perched atop the body that would do.

Afterwards we slept as far apart as the king-size bed allowed, and he tossed and turned, snored and spoke like he knew he had a captive audience in the visitor's space. I closed my eyes and pretended he remembered I was there.

The Ordinary Hero

You know what? It is me...doing the same thing with you I did with the rest...only different. Acting like a typical victim of 23 chromosomes from a shadow of a man with nothing to give but DNA. Can you smell his absence on me? I know the rest did. My low self-esteem attracted them like pheromones, and they knew whatever minimal expression of affection would surpass what he did. I thought loving them was enough to make them see what duck-and-dodge daddy didn't. I was so full of crap back then.

I didn't love you, though. Not even infatuation, really. You existed in my imagination; your presence was a coincidental manifestation of all the things I missed in them. A gorgeous manifestation...but a reflection of my hurt feelings nonetheless. And I elevated you to the level of "different" while I stayed at "ordinary" in awe of my own thoughts. You were just as I imagined you..."different."

I recently realized that it's people thinking they're different that makes them exactly the same as everyone else. Desperate for identity. Wanting to be separately connected. Looking for a place of social solace on Facebook or trying to enlighten the masses on Twitter. "Different"... isn't.

We all do the same things; the difference lies in our personalities. It's how we interpret our actions. How we redeem ourselves from our mistakes. Good and bad, right and wrong, and all the other bookends we like to claim really only exist in the murky waters between our ears and the cavity between our shoulders that connects our vertical halves. I guess I really liked the way you rationalized your life. How you made sense of your pitfalls...and forged ahead in life with your sense of duty. In my ordinariness, however, I forgot that pattern of thinking is employed by the masses.

It's my fault you began to think so highly of yourself. I saw you as something as bigger than me, and I didn't notice it until you showed me you thought you were bigger than me. Bigger than my run-of-the-mill complexion and body type. Greater than my sense of fashion. Deeper than my thoughts. More descriptive than my words. Well...you are...you are..."different." And you made me see I'm not.

But here's the kicker. My pride lies in my ordinary behavior. I think. I write. I live. I love deeply. I appreciate the beauty in the faults of the commoners. I'm flawed in the best way because I recognize it. I'm selfish. Opinionated. Quick-tempered, at times. I'm competitive. Talkative. Moody. I've seen the height of my anger and the depth of my sadness.  My baggage isn't Dooney & Bourke. The path I travel isn't always tread in Nikes. I'm a mess in a manageable pile. But I'm enough to understand that I don't and never will have all the answers. Nothing special...except I'm me. And that's what I've been waiting for others to notice. I'm not different, as I once thought I wanted to be. I'm ordinary people. Just me.

Leave me lost; don't save me. Let me write my own epic. File me among the ranks of nobodies who came before me, for even they had epiphanies. That's a luxury the special...the different...will never be afforded. They are far too occupied with their "special-ness."

Read My Book!

"She may not be pretty to look at...in this kingdom of the blind." (James Baldwin)

The old addage, "Don't judge a book by it's cover," is more than just an insightful, wise saying that should be applied to more than books. It's an act of courage that forces us to look at ourselves first.

Dust jackets are for those who read  books but need to be attracted by the provocative. That's their purpose - to persuade us to dig deeper because we are, obviously, in need of motivation to go forward without ease of  an"all clear" warning, especially when it comes to reading. Dust jackets are supposed to provoke a certain feeling in a potential reader. Attractive, colorful, and splashed with titles that promise a different side of life, subconsciously enciting excitement. Beneath the cover, however, there's one thing quite clear about all books - they're all books. MOST require effort.

We are visual beings, aren't we? Anything that looks good, from food to the opposite sex, we make up our minds to pursue. Different things are attractive to different people. Variety is, after all, the best part of life, but what about really varied outliers? If we are honest, we'd admit that it's okay for people to be different as long as "different" fits into available categories. Whatever we misunderstand we classify into categories we understand...but don't want to understand.

The emotionally illiterate read seedy titles with sexy pictures, believing all female protagonists want to be the damsel in distress or need their attractiveness or sexiness validated through typical comments like, "Hey, Sexy," "You gotta boyfriend?" and my favorite, "Can I be your friend?" (while committing eye-rape). Most women handle this with social grace - they don't like it, but they brush it off with a smile or kind look. Any outliers earn hasty, negative titles and are dismissed with no further thought. I'm an outlier.

I have accepted that, to the emotionally illiterate, I'm "scary."  "Scary" is a judgement call on my dust jacket, which I honestly don't put much thought into. I'm far too busy writing the book. My title is, "Me...Uncensored." I claim no pseudonyms. I'm no artist, so I don't paint my face or nails. I guess the cover art suffers even further because I don't concentrate on showing my teeth to every person who crosses my path (or showing them just in case someone crosses my path). I think a lot. Perhaps, I think too much, but I have accepted my story for what it is...a damn good piece of literature that isn't for those who don't like a challenging read.

You can't buy me; I'm not for sale. You can't bid on me; I'm not on e-bay item. I'm not cheap; Amazon didn't farm me out to discount sellers. In fact, I'm out of print and only available in hard back.

I guess all this is to say we sometimes put our feelings about ourselves and what makes us comfortable on others, placing a value judgement on the covers of others because we don't really understand what we're looking at. If she doesn't smile, she may be pensive instead of mean. If' he's tatted up, he may be a man of conviction and commitment, inking whatever he holds dearly in his skin to connect him to it. Open the book. Flip through the pages.

Reading is still fundamental. It teaches us about ourselves. It makes us examine the writer. It feeds us. Eat heartily...

Started as a Tweet...Evolved into a Movement

(This entry is based on actual tweets...)

I'm not sure if this is appropriate or not, but I just saw someone shout out AAliyah in a trending topic named for her.  My first thought was news flash...she can't hear you... But then I started to to wonder why Black people do strange things like "shout out" dead entertainers on Twitter or make obscure statements about dead entertainers with no explanation (someone on my timeline retweeted, "Aaliyah was to young girls what Tupac was to young men. RIP Aaliyah.") What was Tupac to young men? He was in his early 20s when he died; he was a young man himself, so all he could be to them was what Wayne is to them now (and I'm not sure what that is either). Tupac was just trying to find his way through. At times he was profound; at others, he was volitile. In other words, he was human, so let's not canonize him (The Book of ThugLife).

I've got a point here, and it isn't to mock the questionable words of people on social networking sites (although that's fun too). I guess I just wish if we were going to "shout out the dead," we would shout out the dead who really weren't even "shouted out" (I don't think it's "shout outted") when they were alive.

Here's my installment:

Shout out to MLK for all the marching! I appreciate it man! I'm a dreamer too!

And while I'm at it...shout out to James Baldwin for contributing to the academia of American culture that all the "Wayne-iacs" ignore.

Can't forget my girl, Zora. When Janie watched God, so did I.

And Ralph E. - You're still invisible to the masses, but no one could ever mass produce you. Can't say that for a lot of "novelists" these days.

Sojourner - you really are the truth.

L. Hughey - I'm what happens to a dream deferred. Thanks for the motivation.

Oh, and I can't forget Mark Twain - the Eminem of the game. I heard what you were saying to us, even if you used their words and rules to say it.

That's all for now GOOD PEOPLE. BE EASY...

Echocardiogram (A story in 89 words)

“…Hyper trophy…”

“Which means?” I know I sounded rude, but I was afraid.

“The muscles are enlarged,” she said casually. I understood she was used to this process of delivery results, but I wasn’t receiving. I didn’t take her nonchalance personally.

“Okay…have you ever seen this before?”

“Honestly, no. I have never seen the left side of the heart enlarged in anyone your age. Are you stressed? Are you worried about something?”

“No. No stress. No worries,” I lied.

The left side of my heart must have been yours.

Hollywood (A story in 94 words)

From all the muffled expressions of excitement I’d heard for months, I expected bright lights and celebrity – life. I was ready for it all. Out of nowhere…

I was duped, however. I got darkness and a smack on the bottom. That’s when an overwhelming wave of clarity washed over me. And, out of nowhere, I wasn’t ready for it all. I screamed.

If this is the “epitome of it all,” there’s no place to go but down.

“It’s a girl,” he said.

But not a leading lady, I thought. There’s always another star waiting to be born.

The Tweet Life of Ghostwriteme

So...against my better judgement, and at the prompting of an avid "tweeter," I opened a Twitter account. After the account-setup rigmarole, I looked at my "timeline" and tried to figure out  how it all worked. It was explained to me that I needed "followers" and to "follow" others if I wanted to make the most of my Twitter experience. Now, of course those are my words, but that was the gist of the tutorial, and there was emphasis placed on the process of following and being followed. The goal was to be interesting enough to stalk and be stalked. I have a sarcastic tone (most times), so I really like to dialogue with people to see if I'm not the only weirdo on the planet who allows sarcasm to steer her social ships. On to the Twitter frontier!

My 1st tweet: "You probably think this tweet is about you...don't you?" I thought it was a pretty good start...but I received no response. I figured if I keep the natural me rolling, I should have no problems being a virtual social butterfly. People will follow me. I will follow others. Smashing fun!

My 15th tweet: "Why would Usher make a song called 'Daddy's Home' when most Black women have 'Daddy issues'? Trust me...u don't want me 2 call u that dude!" I thought this was ingenious, but once again, cyber-silence.  Capricorns are stubborn goats, however, so I wasn't giving up.

My 20th tweet, which was in response to a "trending topic": "#idontappreciate People soaking up my sunshine!" I thought that would surely get some conversation going...or at the very least a stereotypical "sister-girl" snap in the air. Nothing. Then I got frustrated and started searching for people with interesting thoughts. Maybe they would want to follow me...or I would want to follow them.

And then I had a religious experience; I found someone with the Twitter name "Jesus," and this person was hilarious. His version of tweeting was to offer the side of "Jesus" that most people refuse to believe really ever existed - the human side. Though most people would have found this sacrilegious, I found it an interesting commentary or the classic question, "What Would Jesus Do?" or more specifically, "What Would Jesus Do with a Twitter Account?" The answer - "be followed." He or she has over 100,000 followers, yet followed no one. Okay. Now I get it.

A lot of people just want someone to pay attention to the (often mundane) details of their existence. It's understandable. It's human nature to want each individual experience to be interesting and unique, but relevant. But what does it take for me, an aspiring writer, to help draw attention to my words? Who will talk or listen to me if I just want to be funny, profound, or start intellectual dialogue? Sure, someone like "Jesus" can get people to follow him/her and enjoy and anticipate the next utterances that leave his/her lips, but I'm no Jesus. Hell, I'm not even Twitter Jesus.

So...I've realized that the Tweet life ain't so sweet for someone like me. I'd love someone to take enough interest in my thoughts to follow my links and dive deeply into the things in my head. But maybe I can't peak any one's interest because the observations I make about life are far more important to me than all my twitter fame coming from telling cyberspace about my day without purpose or prompting. Not judging anyone. Just trying to get some understanding for people like me...and I'm going to keep trying.

My 114th tweet: "Most teenagers I've encountered in class would rather take a stab at making it through the Middle Passage than to read a text of merit."

*crickets chirping - tumbleweed rolling - awkward looks all around*

Falling...

God sat atop a cliff, surveying creation, watching Adam perform his daily routine below, and playing with Adam’s rib. The decision to take it during the previous night was a quick one, and because God never makes mistakes, improvements are also part of the plan. God found Adam a bore, and something needed to be done about it. He obeyed, and that pleased God. Adam relied on God for everything, and God loved that as well. And when they walked Eden’s grounds together, naming creation and spending quality time, the world was at its best because God loved Adam like all creators love their first creations. Adam was the prototype of God’s true ingenuity. Man had the capability of higher order thinking, procreation, invention, problem-solving, love, compassion, charity, and intellectual wonder, among many other things. Therefore, God loved him simply for the possibilities Adam had within, but GOD BEING GOD didn’t expect Adam to actualize any of these possibilities. Expectations aren’t for those who know; they’re for those who hope and believe in the potential they see in others. Those who have the patience to deal with the time necessary for growth. God is growth and knowing, so nothing was expected from Adam. It was clear...Adam had reached his limit.

That’s where the rib came in. Adam had been given everything rendering him a complacent creature, the biggest threat to God’s glory. And God couldn’t allow that. Complacent creatures don’t reach for anything; they strive only to keep their comfort, and God has no majesty in mediocrity, so being omniscient God took from Adam what he’d surely miss…eventually.

God rubbed the curve of Adam’s rib, admiring the smoothness and strength. This bone was both delicate and robust, a true testament to intelligent design. "Protect the heart. Stand at his side. Be attractive and attracted to him. Hmm…be both fragile and strong.”

After thinking it over, God found a quiet place in Eden to work. There the rib was fashioned into a mate for Adam. And she was fine. God knew Adam wasn’t going to listen to just anyone; he was a visual creature.

“Hey, Woman.”

“Hey, God.”

“So you know who I am.”

“Of course I do, God. I was inside Adam. I paid attention.”

God smiled. “Of course you did. You got any questions?”

Woman looked down at her body, and after careful examination, she cupped her breasts and asked, “What are these?”

God laughed. “They’re breasts. You’ll find out their many purposes in due time.”

“Well, what do you use yours for?” she asked, pointing to God’s chest beneath the white cloth draped over what appeared to be breasts.

“It’s complicated. I don’t really have breasts, or a body for that matter. I appear in the manner that best appeals to the person looking. So to you I look like you, so you can see how truly beautiful you are, and to Adam…well…I look like you…because he’s been waiting for you.” Woman looked confused. “I know you don’t understand, and I know you want to, but in order for that to happen, I’m really going to need a lot from you.”

“Sure, God. Anything for you,” Woman said, still closely examining her new body.

“Stop looking at yourself,” God said with a smile.

“But this body is so interesting, God. I mean…WOW! Will Adam like this?”

“Oh, yeah,” God said. “He’s been walking around creation looking at animals and trees and birds and he’s been pretty happy doing what I tell him to do, but he has no home of his own. No one to walk the earth with him. He didn’t say it, but I know he will appreciate you.”

“So he didn’t ask for me?”

“Woman…he didn’t ask for anything. He doesn’t know to ask for anything. Why do you think I had to put him to sleep to remove you? He would never have given you up willingly. He would have only seen the loss of a body part. I need you to open his eyes.”

“Okay, God. Where do you want me to go?”

“Well, I will present you to Adam. He will accept you as his mate, but he won’t understand the concept of partnership until you make him disobey me.”

“What?”

“Trust me, Woman. The world…you…man…everything will be better when he disobeys me. This will force him to look at what he’s been given, look at what he’s lost, and push this whole life I’ve given him to a new level of achievement.”

“I don’t understand, God.”

“But you will.”

“But if I separate you from Adam, he’ll blame me for everything else that comes afterwards.”

“True.”

“But he’ll be upset with me.”

“Also true, but only temporarily.”

“God, I don’t want to do this…”

“I know you don’t, but I don’t see any other way of pushing life forward. You are strong enough to handle every reward and consequence for this. And I promise you…you will understand it all…just not right now.”

Woman stood there in the middle of Eden’s beauty perplexed. She had not even had a day of simplicity in Eden before God told her she would have to be the cause of losing it all. God read her thoughts.

“No, you’re not cursed, Woman. You and I actually have a closer bond than Adam and I do. You’ll feel life growing inside you; Adam never will. You’ll understand what it means to be truly connected to Adam in a way he’ll need to be taught because I’ve spoiled him so much. As a matter of fact, man is going to name you, like he did all my other creations, but he won’t know the real reason behind the name he’ll choose.

“My name isn’t ‘Woman’?”

“Well of course not. How can Adam have a name without you having one? Your name is Eve because Eden Veils Everything, so man needs you to open his eyes to reality. Everything isn’t perfect. I never meant it to be.”

“Because a perfect world doesn’t need a God…”

God smiled. “I think you’re ready.”

Elsewhere in Eden, Adam woke up feeling a little “strange.” He didn’t exactly have a word for this feeling because he only had one emotion – happy – and he didn’t even know that word. God gave him charge over all things, he had a great body, and everything he needed was at his fingertips. Who wouldn’t be “happy”? That day, however, he woke up feeling (what he would later call) aimless, so he called on God.

“Excuse me, God,” he called, “you have a minute?” No answer. “God?” Silence. So he began his daily routine, hoping the new feeling would go away. He admired his body, found a quiet spot to urinate, tended to all the animals, and fed himself once all his work was done. “This is usually enough for me,” he said to himself. And with that, he fell asleep beneath an apple tree.

The next time he woke up, there was woman, walking among the trees in Adam’s favorite orchard. In all her long-legged wonder she strolled from tree to tree, examining the fruit with the expected curiosity of new creature.

“Thank…you…God," was all Adam could muster at the sight of Woman. He thoroughly examined every inch of her. For first time, he didn’t notice God enter the area.

“You’re welcome, Adam.”

“Oh, God! What did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothing. Adam, this is "Woman," your mate. Your equal and opposite in every way. I want you to…”

“What are those?” Adam interrupted.

God laughed. “They’re breasts.”

“What are they for?”

Seeing that the plan was working (not that there was a doubt), God abandoned the formal introduction and said, “You’ll find out in due time…get to know each other. Oh and Adam, remember what I said. Show her the grounds, and teach her the rules.”

“Okay, God,” Adam replied, not taking his eyes off "Woman."

God turned and watched "Woman" until their eyes met and winked at her. She was doing an excellent job functioning as an object – looked at, talked about, but not included in the conversation. That was the first consequence of this mission she was learning to accept. "Woman" took a deep breath and walked toward God and Adam.

“Hey, Adam, why don’t you show me around? What have you named all this?”

“I’ll leave you to it,” were the last words in a kind tone they ever heard from God. Adam, of course, thought that comment was for him; "Woman" knew it was really for her.

“What’s the rush? We’ve got plenty of time for that, “Adam said. “Let’s get to know each other…”

“Sure,” she agreed. “I really want to try one of these…these…these?

“Apples,” Adam offered. “God called these Chinese apples. This whole place is full of apples and other fruits.”

“How do they taste?”

“They’re pretty good. I’ve tasted them all, except for this one tree over in the corner that God told me not to touch,” Adam said, still checking out his mate's frame.

“Really? Show it to me…” she said, innocently. “I really want to make sure I know all God wants us to do here.” And with that, "Woman" went forth on her mission, hoping it would - one day - all be worthwhile.



Ms. Bruce - The Radical

I'm tired of accepting the general idea that eduacation is meant to fail, so I wrote the following letter to the Superintendent of Prince George's County Public Schools:

March 19, 2010

Dear Dr. Hite:

I was educated in the era of summer reading; that has made a significant difference in the choices I’ve made in life. As corny as it sounds, summer reading offered me the opportunity to think for myself by opening a book with no direction and making it important to me. My analytical skills were tested; I began to understand that I wasn’t just any student. Anything I took away from a book was my own and that presented me with a rare gift – control over my education. I learned the extent of my intellect; it has been the one thing that no one has been able to take away from me and has taken me places that my individual circumstances could never dictate. I became a teacher to empower students in this direction; I wanted them all to understand their role in their own education and, in turn, the outcome of their lives.

Times have changed since I was an eleventh grader reading Baldwin for the first time. In this technologically-driven world, innovation trumps imagination. The easier and quicker gadgets make life for us, the less we feel obligated to do for ourselves. In every other area of our children’s lives, innovation could be considered a fantastic thing, but in education, it only eliminates the need for hard work. We’ve become enamored with the technology of SMARTboards and lost the quest for smart students. Too afraid to compete with the technology of Facebook, we’ve given up on the art of class discussion and bringing everyday life into the classroom. Most secondary schools are no longer training grounds for the imagination. They have become protocol factories where teachers are held accountable for two grades per week (whether or not the students have actually learned anything) and schools celebrate AYP, although adequate seems as dangerous an adjective as mediocre.

Although it’s a long shot, perhaps all of this is a result of the death of summer reading. We’ve taken an important challenge away from our children and replaced it with a sense of entitlement. Presently, many parents and officials in Prince George’s County believe it’s too much work to ask a child to pick up a book of literary merit, read it, and figure out why someone would bother to write it and what relevance it has in the world while on their summer vacations. However, they expect students to return from vacation and perform. I understand many people do not share my views, and there is nothing I can do to convince parents to encourage guided analysis instead of giving their children ipods and expensive cell phones. In spite of this, I try my best every day to re-ignite the brains of my students. More than anything, I want them to be lifelong learners with more options than obligations in life.

I teach Research/Term Paper, a class that helps fulfill the SAT Prep credit at Laurel High School. Students have the option to take this class for the first time in 11th grade, the most important level in high school. It’s the first grade in the county where they are not preparing for the HSA and when their post secondary options are moving into their everyday lives. When I first started teaching the class in the 2006-2007 school year, I had no idea it would become such an important part of my students’ lives. It became a route to merge English, writing, and constructive analysis into each school day; I’m proud to say most students enjoy my class.

This letter is not about my work, however. There are many teachers in this county who do great work in educating students. This letter is about the children who benefit from a class that attempts to open their minds, challenge pre-conceived notions, and promote goal-setting (which helps them discover what they enjoy and what they want to pursue after high school). If Prince George’s County really desires to promote lifelong learning, it must put effort into developing a sound writing curriculum that begins in the 10th grade and is implemented in its own class. Writing deserves its own space; expecting fluent writing and analysis within the content level English curriculum is absurd. Literary conventions take so much precedence in content level English classes that writing strategies fall by the wayside. Teachers of 9th and 10th grade English have prescribed pacing guides and objectives, and writing is not at the forefront of either curriculum. If Prince George’s County expects most of its students to graduate and be successful in college, writing must transcend the occasional descriptive or comparison essay.

As proof of the effectiveness of this idea, I am enclosing letters from members of my first semester research class. I asked them to write down their thoughts about what Research class has done for them. I think you will find that most students were positively affected and truly embraced the space and opportunity to shape their opinions, organize them, and present them to their peers in written form. If you should find grammatical/spelling errors, I ask that you view them as a reason to invest more time and energy into a writing curriculum instead of using them as proof of the Research class’s ineffectiveness. I have not read or edited any of these letters, as I found it time my students were allowed to speak for themselves.

If you would like to discuss this matter, feel free to contact me. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

Tyauna A. Bruce

College Summit/Research Teacher

Sometimes...you've got to say what you feel, no matter the consequences. What's life without the limb?

The Villain

Awake. He got up to pee and his 6’3 frame let go of my bed. Good. I don’t usually fall asleep around him; if I get that comfortable I’m afraid he’ll get that comfortable and we’ll fall into a lover’s pattern. One of us waking up, seeing the other sleeping, and beginning to think all the bullshit only love allows. Never. Never again. I reached for my shirt, felt around beneath the sheets for my underwear, couldn’t find them, and got mad. I hate losing my underwear.

The toilet flushed; water in the sink ran. Him…suddenly in the doorframe, trying to decipher in the dark whether or not I was actually up and looking at him.

“You ready to go?” Mystery solved.

“You ready for me to go? You usually wanna go a couple more rounds, Contender.”

That was his nickname for me. I didn’t have one for him…seemed trite and irresponsible. We weren’t in love; why act like it?

“Yeah. Need to get to work soon. My material is dryin' up. Need to do some thinkin'.”

“I can’t stay while you think?” He wasn’t usually this clingy.

“I’m sure your wife misses you.” I said what I never did. The elephant in the room had been dismissed. So had he.

I must explain. I didn’t used to be this way. I used to have this thriving hope in people. Believe in their humanity. But all it took was one really raw experience for me to see the error of my ways.

I’m taking full responsibility; I’m not finger-pointing. I know we must all learn from the past and use it as a platform from which to speak instead of an obstacle with which to trip ourselves. I’m up on all the new and old-aged philosophy. The Golden Rule. Karma. The Law of Attraction. “The Secret.” But I didn’t say I had one really bad experience; hell, I’ve had many of those. Bad experiences are my birthrights. If I didn’t have any, I surely wouldn’t be this damn interesting. (Sarcasm? You decide...). What I failed to realize is my hasty resilience was not healthy. I am a natural brooder. Pensive as all hell. Never a ball of sunshine. Naturally hard to love. And I don’t really mind it so much. It was my grandma’s pressure to constantly recognize my blessings (not a problem) and not talk about my issues (there’s the kicker) that left all this residue around.

Enter the raw experience. By definition, a raw experience feels one million times as horrible as the worst bad experience because it disturbs every aspect of one’s being simultaneously; it’s a bad experience made worse by the residue left over from all the other bad experiences; it comes at the wrong time for a person, but the right time in life to become a raw experience. It is elegant in the way the most deadly cancers are – show up from an inexplicable origin, grow with every life breath, evade all medicines but drastic ones that slowly kill the host in the process of healing, and if they aren’t fatal, they make a person unrecognizable (replete with hair and weight loss, flaws in beauty, and a gloomy disposition).

I turned into a monster. I figured it’s better to be the perpetrator than the victim. Don’t care about anyone but myself anymore. Not even the 6’3 fun time standing in the doorway like a wounded puppy because I’m sending him home to his soul mate.

That’s the thing; dudes who do things like this dude does to his wife go unpunished. She’s still at home diligent and waiting. Probably praying for her marriage because she knows in her heart what he’s doing. And when I send him home to her tonight, and he decides that my body was never worth compromising his love with her in the first place, he can wake up in the morning and start again. No penalty. Perfect family. Plenty of penance to do in the form of gifts and date nights. He gets to absolve himself from the indiscretion I’ve become. He’s the public hero and private martyr…and I’m the slut that made it all happen. And do I get a thank you?

Whatever. This whole thing is set up for them to be the heroes anyway. So if I’m going to be the villain, I’m going to be the best damn villain out there because I learned too late that if I’m not the damsel in distress, if I can’t be saved, duty calls from more deserving causes. And I’m not just any old run-of-the mill Saturday morning villain; I’m no Gargamel. I’m The Joker all the way – lying about the origin of my scars and breaking all the rules that would otherwise make me Batman.

“Listen. On your way out, if you happen to see my panties on that side of the bed, toss them in the hamper for me, please.”

Out the bed, in the bathroom, and soon in the shower. When I heard the front door close, I reached out and turned on the radio. I needed inspiration for my next blog.

“Hmm…the villain. That might be a start…”

When Karma is Too Kind

"'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue."

It frustrates the hell out of me when someone reaps what they sow and reap a bad crop...but not as bad as what they have sown. (Stay with me; I'm going somewhere with this.) I know it makes me seem cruel and unusual, but so is destroying someone's life and barely losing sleep at night.

I try to remember to be human when I find out that people who have damn-near destroyed my insides aren't doing as well as they thought they would be without me. I've always been encouraged to be the bigger person, so the mommy inside is always there to chastise my arrogance. Lately, however, there's been an inner a-hole, raging and protesting against my humanity, shouting, "That's it? After all the pain you've caused me and all the crap you said to me, that's it? I must be missing something."

In one sense, I understand the "fairness" behind it all. Hell, if most of us received exactly what we gave others, or were made to feel the way we made others feel (even unintentionally), none of us would be living a great life. We've all destroyed some one's faith in one thing or another with our willful selfishness and self-centered ways. That still doesn't mean that some people's Karma isn't just a little too kind. Well...at least from the outside.

For example, even if the last man I dealt with has a crappy marriage, he's still married with a pregnant wife. A baby is too kind for that situation. Something to hide behind. A cute little piece of the both of them by which to be distracted. Nowhere near as painful as the last two years of my life...perhaps Karma confused itself with Kismet. Perhaps he wasn't judged to be strong enough to handle septic situation I had to endure in order to grow. I don't see that as a compliment to me, however. His cowardice should not determine his consequences, especially when he didn't consider any. I must be honest; I'm still quite pissed.

And then I found the Thomas Campbell quote above. It's one thing to view a situation from afar. The view is always better (and I mean that more than in the "greener grass" sense). When one is looking for something that someone else has found virtually effortlessly, the view from afar is a work of art. A mountain veiled in an azure hue. It's only when you get close that you notice the sharp rocks and the steep climb to the top. But that's if you can get close. I never have and never will...which sucks because I don't know if I will ever truly feel vindicated.

I realize I'm not really a victim, however. I've been hurt a lot in my life, but I've always tried to offer support to others to soften the blows life deals them. This doesn't necessarily make me a great person, but I'm reaping some good now in the form of a good friend who shatters my delusions and helps me understand that most things I see and feel are temporal. They are transient and must be so to promote the force and "fairness" of Karma. In other words, "Stay tuned...there's still more to see before the sick season finale of their awful reality show." And though it shouldn't that's the only thought that gives me some comfort.

Besides, if we really want to dive deeper into this cosmic "what-I-deserve-vs.-what-I-actually-get" fest, perhaps my having to witness it all is due to some Karma I'm owed...it's the humble thought that keeps me sane. And by sane I mean NOT taking my 15-pound bowling ball and bashing in his skull...;-)

~~~ Thanks, M.D.D.C.~~~

Pretty for No Reason

Her face looked different at 2 am. Peaceful. Beautiful. And I wanted her most then when she was vulnerable. That face she learned to put on when she woke up was nowhere in sight and I was free to enjoy her face the way it was meant to be – easy. Pretty for no reason. I loved her, and I could only admit that to myself when she wasn’t looking for it…or looking at me.

I often rolled over in the middle of the night and saw her sleeping on her stomach. Her mouth always slightly opened; she drooled a lot, but took a lot of effort to try to hide it from me when she woke up in the morning, which I thought was cute. And I was always happy to see her there beside me. When we met I was sure she wouldn’t stick around, so every night I woke up and found her drooling right next to me, I was so glad she didn’t wake up realizing I was the lucky one.

Most of the time, my late-night watching ended in sex. At some point she would go roll over on her side, and I was right there, ready to pull her close. The control of it all was a high; the surprise in her eyes when my breath hit her neck was an experience I’d do anything to get back.

One night she beat me to the punch. I rolled over, and she was staring at me with this smirk on her face. I thought I was dreamin’ or somethin’. I rarely saw her eyes that time of night in our bed…her bed. She reached over and touched my face like she knew I thought I was goin’ crazy.

“Could you see us doing this forever?” she asked. Her voice raspy from night. Her breath smelling like pillow and mint tea.

“Doin’ what?” I responded. Like I hadn’t thought of askin’ that question myself.

“This…looking at each other like this in the middle of the night. Knowin’ we ‘bout to tear each other up.” She laughed that laugh that made my heart jump.

“Go back to sleep,” was my response before I turned my back to her. I still don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why I couldn’t just say what I was thinking…tell her I wanted her forever but was too messed up to see forever right then.

As usual she tried to compensate for my insensitivity. Rubbed my back, probably hopin’ I would turn ‘round smilin’ like I was jokin’, but I pulled away without another word. I couldn’t go back to sleep, but I didn’t move, and she didn’t either, for a while. I knew she was cryin’, silent like a soldier. And I went to sleep.

When I woke up, things were different; she kicked me out her house. That’s my favorite memory of her. Even through screaming tears, I was so attracted…wanted to comfort her and say somethin’, but I had no words and my pride wouldn’t allow me to just hold her. I left without argument. I knew it would hurt her.

I started to make a back-up plan for companionship. Gettin’ phone numbers and settin’ up dates. I felt like I was wit her so long that it felt good to notice other women noticin’ me. Impressed with my appearance and flirtin’ back when I smiled at ‘em. Eventually we got things back together but they were never the same. I wouldn’t allow myself to stare at her anymore, and anytime I felt myself gettin’ too close I called another girl, or made plans wit my friends, or started another fight so I could leave and blame it all on her. I was in too deep before; I told myself I would never put myself in that position again. I worked to keep my word to myself, even if it meant breakin’ promises to her.

When I wake up now, there’s a face next to me, and I’ve never been one to pass up middle-of-the-night sex, but there are some things that can’t be re-created. That feelin’ of appreciation I had for her just bein’ there. The excitement I felt knowing she would be waitin’ when I got home. The thick love she poured on me belongs only to her...

But that’s life…switch things up, keep it movin’, and regret nothin’. After all, there’s always someone who’ll want you.