I am feeling you right
now.
With your tenements
reaching up to touch
an endless sky.
Your multiple tongues
spilling mellifluous from
mouths of speakers, native.
I am feeling you.
Right?
Now
you have me
where you want
me.
Pushed up between
the waiting strangers
on the train,
hungry for that
connection.
Continue reading
Prof. John Ernest with me and Kristin at our college graduation
I went to college with a mission: I wanted to learn more about Being Black. Problem was, $10,000 of my scholarship money for New York University had fallen through on the day of my high school graduation. I wouldn’t be attending school in the diverse Mecca-lekka-hiney-bro Melting Pot known as NYC.
Nope. The University of New Hampshire would be hosting my education in Being Black. It was as unlikely a place as one could find for increasing cultural awareness. There were 78 Black students out of 13,000. If you were counting me, there were only 77.5 Black students. We do what we can with what we have, though, and what I had was a course catalogue listing a 500-level course for Introduction to African-American Literature.
Any time I’ve ever wanted to understand anything, I’ve turned to books. From cooking to interior design to tarot card reading, if there was anything I’ve wanted to understand, I just buried myself in every chapter and verse I could get my hands on. I thought if I could read about other Black people, their history, what they had been through . . . maybe I would understand a little bit more about myself. Continue reading
I’ve been holding off on posting a new blog because I knew the next one would be my 50th post. I also wanted to hold off because I thought it’d be nice to mark the occasion by thanking the woman who gave me a reason to blog.
If you don’t know her (and at least half of my subscriber list does), this is Nina.
Today is Nina’s birthday. I love her.
I joined MySpace at the end of January 2006 to stay in touch with old friends. I had never really considered blogging as an outlet for my personal writing (as opposed to the type I get paid to do). One day in February or March, out of curiousity, I clicked the “Blog” button at the top of the homepage and the list of top blogs popped up. Nina’s was on there and whatever her post was, I thought it was hilarious. Continue reading
This post was originally Published April 3, 2006
I wrote this story in an e-mail for a co-worker back in December 2003.
Background on the story: During the summer of 2003, I was biding time waiting for a job in my field to open up and not wanting to get a “real” job only to have to leave it when my dream position opened.
I painted houses. Exterior. 34-foot ladders. 85 degree weather. Often by myself. One time, I was working by myself on the second story of a house in Merrimack. I’ll wrap up this preface by saying that the ladder came down on the wooden deck with me on it. The corner of a garden style window basically impaled my abdomen on the way down and I had to get 13 stitches. I now have a pretty scar on my belly. (But at least I got a friend out of the deal. Thanks, JD.) Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled to be getting back onto ladders for the rest of the summer. The story below took place a couple weeks after the accident. Continue reading
I was in the salon after work last night, sipping a glass of wine and perusing a magazine. I came across this excerpt from an Erica Jong novel, and I think Ms. Jong wrote this particular chapter specifically for me.
First of all, Ms. Jong included one of my favorite Dante quotes. We’ll get to that. Secondly, she lit a fire under my Muse’s ass, and sent him speed-racing back into my life. [Yes, I know Muses are female, mythologically speaking, but mine is a man, so take a hike, hero.] I’ve felt Mr. Muse’s eyes on the back of my neck since January, and he has finally and ineluctably revealed himself. Thank you, Ms. Jong. Thirdly, her editor has her pegged. I’m having that conversation with my future editor. I guarantee it.
Ms. Jong gave me some pertinent advice for the writing conflict I’ve been dealing with as of late. Here’s what she told me: Continue reading
Dangerously Enthusiastic 