Waiting on the World to Change

Nelson Mandela is one of the most famous political activists of all time. He has transcended the role of politician and is admired worldwide for his belief in doing what is right. He was imprisoned because he refused to lie complacent while South African, the country he loved, was torn apart by injustice. He was willing to be jailed for his convictions and spent 25 years because he was unwilling to compromise on those convictions. His dedication and sacrifice paid off eventually. Four years after his release from a South African prison, he became the country’s first Black president. The following Aha moments come from his inaugural speech in 1994.

AHA #1: We have triumphed in the effort to implant hope in the breasts of the millions of our people.

I feel there is a sense of hopelessness raging through the next generation. This is why I chose to teach. Whether they are poor, minority, or growing up in a desolate environment (many of my students fulfill the trifecta), this generation has had little guidance. Logically, a lack of guidance would make one think there is nothing to which they should look forward. There is no vision. There is a profound lack of hope. As discouraging as this is, these kids aren’t irrational for being hopeless. Why would one need hope if they feel they have no future? Hope can only be appreciated by those who value their future, and can measure it with substantial goals and dreams. Hopelessness is why students like mine choose lifestyles that lead them on a path to self-destruction. My overarching goal as a teacher is to improve kids’ academic achievement in order to positively redirect the trajectory of their lives. I plan to do this by showing students that they have a future, and therefore, a reason to be hopeful. I have yet to triumph; however, the good things is, I do have “yet.”

Aha #2: Our daily deeds as ordinary South Africans must produce an actual South African reality that will reinforce humanity's belief in justice, strengthen its confidence in the nobility of the human soul and sustain all our hopes for a glorious life for all.

Being a teacher is not just a day job. As a teacher, I’m careful to note how my actions affect my students. In the same vein, I pay more attention to how I interact with people who aren’t my students. Excellence, compassion, patience are all habits that need to be practiced even when I’m not in the classroom. If I am habitually excellent, compassionate, and patient, I’m on my way to being a true reflection of Christ. I’m rooted in Him. Because of that, I have a purpose and passion to instill hope. Teaching is the best vessel for this because it allows me to impact students on many levels. I can guide them academically. I can nurture them by listening to them. I show them I care. I can help build their confidence by showing them I won’t give up. I tell them I believe in them. MTR works with the whole person in order to make a better teacher, and I see why. My everyday actions help show the world that these children are worth it. My willingness to sacrifice, my desire to be a better person for at least their benefit, meekly validates their right to a better life.

Aha #3: The time for the healing of the wounds has come. The moment to bridge the chasms that divide us has come. The time to build is upon us.

The saying goes, “Idiocy is doing the same repeatedly and expecting different results.” I’m not out to call anyone an idiot; I know there have been ardent strides in education reform. I realize that there are good teachers who really want to see their efforts make a difference. I’m inspired by the fact that education reform has the spotlight, but I find no ease in it. People in poverty, minorities, and those without access to good teachers have been enslaved in hopelessness for too long. The playing field has not been leveled. I am convinced that education is an equalizer. It used to be that one’s skin color or some other type of discrimination was a viable barrier to success, and people would have to be realistic when setting goals, even dreaming. Everything’s not perfect, but the excuse that one’s race will hold them back is no longer substantial. If I can get the message across to my students that the world is theirs, and that a good education is just the start of seizing it… Well, I’m exactly sure what will happen when they realize this, but the results will be phenomenal… So phenomenal, I have no words to describe my anticipation of it.

John Mayer’s song “Waiting on the World to Change” was playing as I typed this paper:

Now we see everything that's going wrong
With the world and those who lead it
We just feel like we don't have the means
To rise above and beat it
It's hard to beat the system
When we're standing at a distance
So we keep waiting
Waiting on the world to change

I used to relate to this song, but I don’t any more. We can’t wait. The time has come. Nothing will change as long as we do nothing. MTR is filled with people who desire to be the change they wish to see. Mandela said it: “We understand it still that there is no easy road to freedom. We know it well that none of us acting alone can achieve success. We must therefore act together as a united people.” We all know there is no reason to be frustrated or to feel as though it can be done. As Reverend Kyles said, “Because God is who He is, as long as we don’t give up, we will win.”

All I Need

I didn't get much hands on interaction with the students today. They were at their desks with laptops in front of them, doing career assessment tests. I did have a riveting moment during bell work, though. The students were prompted to write about their first day at their ideal jobs. One student, the brilliant girl who won't be able to attend college here because she is illegal, blew me away. She described her first day as a kindergarten teacher. She literally painted a picture for the class, with phrases like, "cries of excitement and tears of fear," "jumbo crayons made for tiny hands," "assuring parents and children alike that everything will be okay." When she was done, the entire class applauded her. One classmate said, "Now THAT was hard!" 'Hard' means she really really liked it, and so did the huge grin she had on her face. The future kindergarten teacher also turned in her outline for her college essay. She's going to discuss the strength she has knowing that she is illegal, that she lives in a country that doesn't owe her anything, and will receive no benefits, no matter how hard she works. And she works so hard. I admire her so much!

Another great moment I had was when one student chose a topic I had suggested to him: "My Life in Africa." I'd told him he'd write a powerful essay with that topic, and he fought me on it at first. He said, in his beautiful French accent, "I can't write bout that, Mih Weavah. It touch my heart, too much." I told him that struggle really stands out to college admissions panels, and that his unique story, no matter how painful, wouldn't be like the other thousands of people applying to college.

I came back from two days of professional development and MTR activities, and I saw he had completed a wonderful essay while I was away. This was the same student I talked to about whether he should go straight to college, or try to make it playing professional soccer overseas in order to help out his mother. I feel like the time I took to talk to him about his goals helped give him a little more strength to pour out the pain that echoes in the essay he wrote. I'm starting to experience the power of relational capacity very intensely. Like Flip Flippen (yes, that's his real name, google him,) says, "If you have a child's heart, you have his mind." This kid is no child, he's 19, actually. But he would have written another "I love soccer" essay that would have gotten tossed to the side if I hadn't been adamant about letting him know his story was meaningful. It took strength and courage for him to share what he did in those 500 words.

This is what I've been looking forward to. Being an inspiration is one thing, but to be inspired by my students gives me so much... *snaps finger repeatedly* I can't figure out the word. I guess fuel is the best way to describe it. People look at Memphis City Schools' kids and don't think about how much they can do, and they really don't think about how much these kids want out of life. Maybe that's why these students are pushed to the side... I'm going to make sure they're not overlooked anymore. Even the ones that don't yet realize how potent their dreams can be deserve this attention; if I can do anything to help them get closer to their almost palpable dreams, I am more than willing.

Many more of them turned in their rough drafts for their college essays. I had to keep myself from reading them during my planning period. I want to really devote some time when editing their papers, and make sure I really read them before I start making corrections. I was saving them for after dinner, kind of like dessert!

I've really found my passion. I want to do any and everything I need to so that I am the best servant to Christ and these children. With that said, I know there are serious changes I need to make. I need to plan better so that they get the best lessons possible. I need to stop procrastinating so that my mind is as clear as it can be. I need to make myself more available in general; this means getting rid of clutter and distractions so that I'm always ready to perform at my optimal level. I'll use the word my KK teacher 6 years from now used to describe the most recent part of her life in her outline: enlightened.

I'm still excited.

Heart of the City...

xReverend Billy Kyles came to speak to us at MTR today. He told us the story of his grandson Quinn. Quinn needed a heart transplant before he was even born; his heart needed to be completely replaced because it couldn't be fixed. The insurance company refused to pay for the procedure. At the time, it was considered "experimental." There was only a 40-day window to perform the surgery, and the monumental cost loomed over Quinn's family.

Word spread about Quinn's heart, and people poured money in. There was going to be enough to start paying for the surgery. But, all the money was useless until a heart was found.

Then, a couple was losing their little child. Like I said, Quinn's story had spread, and this couple knew about his situation. They contacted the Kyles, and told them they wanted Quinn to have their baby's heart.

Quinn was delivered and rushed to another hospital in the same city. The operation was performed, successful and everything seemed like it would be okay. Just when it seemed like it was all over, the doctors needed to tell the Kyles family something....

They didn't want a dime for the procedure. At this point, Rev. Kyles said, "And those doctors.. had teachers!"

Reverend Kyles says he didn't see his grandson's face until Quinn was about a year old. They kept it covered so he wouldn't catch anything.

The mother who gave her dying child's heart to Quinn kept in touch with the family. When Quinn was about three, he would play with the mother, as happy and active as any other three year old. At this point in the story, Rev. Kyles paused and said, "She would put her ear to Quinn's chest.. and listen to the heart of her little baby."

I cried like one right then. I wasn't embarrassed at all either. Just when I thought I didn't have a heart, it took a child who almost died because he needed one to show me I did.

LA Times, 1991: Full article about Quinn. He's 18 now, in his first year of college.

On to the Next One

...Sounds so harsh. I don't mean for it to, but it's the best title for this blog considering the theme.

I heard Break Even by the Script as it came on my John Mayer Pandora station. I've heard the song a million times before, but this time, I really listened:

I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing

Just praying to a god that I don't believe in

Cause I got time while she got freedom

Cause when a heart breaks no it don't break even

Her best days will be some of my worst

She finally met a man that's gonna put her 1st

While I'm wide awake she's no trouble sleeping

Cause when a heart breaks no it don't breakeven

What am I suppose to do when the best part of me was always you

What am I suppose to say when I'm all choked up and you're ok

I'm falling to pieces

I'm falling to pieces

They say bad things happen for a reason

But not wise words gonna stop the bleeding

Cause she's moved on while I'm still grieving

Cause when a heart breaks no it don't breakeven

I really felt for him for the first time.

I had no regrets, but I just felt bad. I've never really been dumped. Rejected? Definitely. I've not ever been dropped from a relationship in which I was invested.

I do have a heart. I honestly didn't think I did. (see here) One of my exes called me a RoboCop. I can take that. I don't experience any emotion deeply. Sympathy is the most difficult. I hate for people to feel sorry for me, so I struggle with pity.

One thing that scares me about myself is my skill at instant detachment. I don't get my feelings hurt because I've usually committed an emotional retreat before a guy I like has the ability to hurt my feelings. Notice I didn't say hurt me. My feelings and my "me" are two separate entities.

I feel for the guy. However, I know I made the right decision. As my girl Duffy would say: "I know it's wrong/hanging on too long."

I'm fine with a clean break, but I'm not ready to be anyone else's girlfriend. Problem is, that's all I know how to be. The malignancy of this causes a painful pull on my heart, and I try to self-medicate. The prescription? Flirting, random dates, and clubbing. When deep down...

...I just want to make out, with cuddling as a segue into the best.... sleep I know.

I've got to learn how to date myself. I like me pretty well, so this should be interesting.

Cheers to upcoming nights spent with self, being wooed with wine, and becoming a somebody somebody can love.

Dumb It Down

Lately, I've been doing too much "not listening."

A couple weeks ago, I prepared the first test for my seniors. It was over vocabulary. Here's the objective/lesson plan (all in one sentence. Impressed? You should be.)

"Today we are going to abolish cacophonous vernacular and become autonomous logophiles."

Of course the kids didn't get it at first, but after some practice and homework, they were well on their way to becoming word aficionados. They used the words and stems of the words very well, and understood that the words were all built out of stems.

So it came time to test them. I made a relatively hard test. It seemed like most of my colleagues screwed up their faces when they looked at the test. The test was built like this:

• "Tell me what this stem means" (Simple memorization)
• "What do you think this [new word] means based on your knowledge of the stems" (Is analysis too much to ask?)
• "Translate this sentence using your own words" (Heaven forbid I ask them to use their new knowledge practically).

A few teachers looked at it, and said you may want to change *cue red marks on my test draft.* They were simplifying my test. If I were my student, I'd be insulted with a rudimentary test. It doesn't tell me that they've learned more than just the words. I want them to be flexible readers, and attack unfamiliar words knowing these stems. Not simply recall words they memorize.

I gave them the test with no corrections.

98% got A's.

'They told me I should 'come down, cousin!' But I flatly refused, I ain't dumb down nothin'."

I got my teacher desk yesterday. It's old and wooden, so I decided to dress it up with some yellow butcher paper.

It became the most beautiful surface I've ever laid hands on.

Then, I sat at it.

Maybe it was the fact that the chair was too low, or the fact that my mentor teacher was across from me, but an odd feeling swept over me.

I felt like a kid sitting in the teacher's desk.

I didn't think: Wow, this is my desk. This is my class.

It sounded more like: Wow, this is a cool desk for someone who teaches.

I'm starting to realize I have no idea what I'm doing... Well, I have LOTS of ideas. However, that's all I have. No experience. Little confidence. Lots of tension and anxiety.

I'm not good at expressing it... I've mastered faking confidence when I know I'll need it soon. I'm not afraid of the kids, of being disrespected in any way. I'm afraid I'll be that teacher that made me decide to teach.. the kind I whined about in earlier posts.

I don't care if the kids like me.. I'm a like-able person, that'll come naturally. I just want to help them see the world differently.. In creeps the panic. Thoughts cross my mind, thoughts like, If I just want them to see the world better, maybe I should I have been an optometrist. I want to help them discover literature, new ways of analyzing information. I want them to understand the value of presentation; of oneself and one's work. If anything, I want my students to leave with the same attitude that I had at my high school graduation: "I can do anything I want."

The problem I'm struggling with is.. nobody had to tell me that. My mother gave me what I needed to do well in school, and that attitude was watered by my achievement. It was reinforced by others' confidence in me.

What am I going to do with these students whose parents haven't equipped them with the books they need to engage them with reading? What if no one has ever told them they can be anything they want?

Is it too late to switch schools? How much is tuition at the Southern College of Optometry?

Panic.. Optimistic (Not optometristic) panic.

Heart of the City

Does Memphis have a heart? What is it? Where is it? Does it pump love or hate?

Sometimes, I wonder if what I’m trying to do is even worth it.

How can I be an agent of change in a city so resistant to to it?

I’ve been mulling over this for a while, but never had a good reason to express my recurring thoughts. Then, I had an epiphany:

There is complacency in redundancy. People are okay with being miserable.

That doensn’t make sense, I know.

Here’s my theory: one must be content with being miserable if one does nothing to change their situation.

For example, many students stay in school in Memphis, not because they genuinely want to, but because, for whatever reason, it’s convenient. Family may be here; they may have gotten a good scholarship to college; they may just not feel ready to leave yet.

People accidentally start families here, and save up to get away from the city. They have a decent job, in a safe neighborhood, with healthy children.

Others buy weed from the neighborhood dope boys, then whine thattheir neighborhood isn’t “safe.”

That doesn’t stop them from complaining about Memphis.

“Memphis is so boring. I can’t do anything here. I’m fed up with it, I’ve seen enough and I’m ready to go.”

Memphis is 200 years old. You’re 20 years old. You’ve really seen enough?

It’s as if people want to use this city to their advantage, while contributing to the lack of pride that drives the corruption and crime they’re running from.

They always say they’ll represent for Memphis though. “No matter what.”

What are they going to say? I sure hope not what they’ve been saying, or what they’re saying now.

To the aspiring escapees, I pose the following question: Why degrade your city now, just to embrace it when you become successful? I really should say if you become successful.

I say that, because success is rooted in an optimistic, positive-seeking mentality. If you’re debasing the city you’re from while you’re still here, you’ve not positive. You’ve allowed frustration to guide your heart. Where will you allow that blinding frustration to lead (or mislead) you?

More than likely, you’ll wind up in a new city that will temporarily enthrall you with its bright lights and beautiful people. There may be new job with that big ole salary you’ve always wanted. Everything’s going to go fine until…

…you run into the same problems in this new city that made you leave Memphis. What are you going to do then? If you leave, the cycle will repeat itself. If you stay to cope with it, why couldn’t you have that same attitude in Memphis, making a difference in the process? Changing the scene won’t change the plot of the play.

Maybe we should focus on our purpose more. Maybe that’ll make location less of a factor. Focus on what you can give your city, and maybe you’ll get everything you’re waiting on.

Don’t get so hung up on what Memphis is or isn’t. What would Memphis say about you if she had a voice?

Side note: I’m going to focus on teaching kids debate skills, at some point this school year.

"I Felt So Inspired By What My Teacher Said...

..said I'd either be dead or be a reefer head..

I'm not sure if that's how adults should speak to kids..

Specially when the only thing I did was speak in class..

I'll teach his a_ _"

I can't be the only person who has had a teacher utter the following sentiment:

"Whatever YOU do, I'm still going to get paid, so I don't care!"

Maybe I am the only one.

Even if I am, I'm one too many.

Why do people teach? What is it about this particular vocation that attracts such stellar people, and also such loathsome human beings?

If you've navigated through however many levels of education you have under your belt, and not encountered a teacher that made you question the value of learning, lucky you.

This was not the case in my formative years. I met a couple of educators who.. well.. let's just say, didn't fit into the mold of what I thought a teacher was supposed to be.

I'll start with junior high. The elementary school I went to was perfect. No child could ask for a better community to learn in. This is why matriculating in an inner city junior high felt like such a fall from grace. I was excited about learning, and amped to meet people of different cultures and races. This excitement was soon replaced by frustration.

This frustration was not fed by my first heartbreak, or questionable food in the cafeteria. It had nothing to do with getting bullied my last two years. The anxiety I felt was a function of incapable instruction by one teacher in particular.

I took biology in the ninth grade, and wanted to

learn everything I could. We didn't get to dissect anything, so to this day, I still feel robbed. This picture also reflects the impression she left me of the sorority she had joined, and the jacket she wore daily with her letters.

Everything we learned about biology came straight from the textbook, and our only output was expressed on worksheets. Even worse than what the class lacked was what it did have: a very young instructor. I'm not against anyone young in education; my peers and I are mostly in our early twenties and we will be teaching. This one biology teacher's immaturity was on par with the students she was supposed to be developing. She felt she was the authority on biology, and did not like to be questioned. I asked challenging questions that came from a thirst for clarity, not arrogance. I actually got into an argument with her in front of the class, putting me into the

mind of trying to convince my nephew to take a bath. I only had her for one hour a day, but the thought of going made my bowels shift suddenly. I got into many conflicts with her and the couple students who rallied behind her. Eventually, I shrunk into silence in the back of the class with my fellow nerds. I stopped caring about my work. I got the first and only unsatisfactory conduct grades of my four high school years. This attitude spilled over into other classes, so I had a pretty sucky ninth grade year.

I didn't get another sub-par teacher until I was in high school. One of my English teachers gave me the eeriest feeling of deja vu. I immediately got the same know-it-all vibe I had gotten from that immature biology teacher. I too had developed into a know-it-all, but I had childish ignorance on my side. I don't know what this grown woman's excuse was. She violently bucked if I pointed out an error, and constantly reminded me who the teacher in the room was. I can admit: this time around part of my correction was an attempt to discredit her. Her responses only fueled my desire to undo her. I didn't feel as though I knew more than her, but I did feel as though she could teach me nothing I needed to learn. She spent the entire year preparing us for a writing test, and had us strictly adhere to the model she outlined. If we strayed from the "introduction, point 1, point 2, point 3, conclusion" structure, we were graded much lower, despite the content of the essay. Heaven forbid we didn't accompany the bland essays with a brainstorming web. When the state-required writing assessments came around,

I was the only student in the eleventh grade to get a 6, the highest score possible. When the principal asked me how I did it, I boldly said, "I wrote how I wanted to, and not how Mrs. Lane told us."

I'm not trying to paint the picture of a trouble making smart Alec, although that was me throughout high school. I've since been humbled from my arrogance, but I sincerely feel it developed as a defense mechanism. I felt like I deserved great teachers who could help me learn. I didn't need someone to resent me for being a kid who simply wanted to learn more.

My point in all of this is complaining about teachers I've had is to express that I want to teach. Usually people have a wonderful teacher who inspires them to educate. This was not the case with me. My great teachers made me think,"Wow, kids will be really lucky to get teachers like them." These teachers were doing a great job, so I saw no need to take on the same task. Then, I encountered the aforementioned teachers. I started to wonder how many kids felt like they were being held back because of the teachers they were getting.

Teaching is hard. I know this. I will be overworked and underpaid. I know this as well. That means I need to prepare for it, because there is nothing else I can do better. There may be things I want to do: I still want to go into business with my cousin and open a boutique. I still want to open a home for stray dogs. That can come later, or earlier if I'm a good enough at multitasking. But for the next major chunk of my life, I need to be the change I wish to see. Word to Ghandi.

Leap of Faith

I've been having a great week so far. Therefore, the fucked up beginning to this Saturday should come as no surprise.

Makes no sense, right? Well, it does to me. I suffer from an irrational fear of success. It only pulls at my stomach when things are going well. Every positive event that occurs has a correlating feeling of doom. It's actually not as irrational as it sounds; the gripping feeling is from experience. This past week alone is example enough:

I found out I passed my Praxis (like the LSAT for teachers. Just as hard). Then my admissions counselor called and told me I didn't get the roommate I wanted. And I had to pay to get my fingerprints taken.

I got back with my ex, and it was like we never broke up! Then he had a bombshell to drop on me. (No details, you nosy mf'ers.)

I proclaimed yesterday, May 21^st, as one of the best social networking days ever, solely because I (along with @akreatif and #HOVquote )had people tweeting Jay-Z lyrics on Biggie's birthday (insert EVL).

I logged into twitter today, and saw people tweeting about someone named Keith, and what happened to him. I didn't pay it any attention because I was so impressed by the omelet and orange juice that magically appeared in the bed with me, and needed to tweet my good fortune.

I logged into Facebook, and saw the following post in my news feed:

Cornell Gaulmon > Keith Polo It's hard to believe that you're gone. RIP man. May God bless and keep you and your family. We will miss you.

My head shook from side to side, as if the wall post would change, or if Cornell's recipient wouldn't be Keith anymore.

My mom called me soon after, and I noticed I had a voicemail from my cousin Chris. I had to believe my eyes.

If you read my last post, you'll understand why I didn't want a phone to tell me someone else I knew had died.

My dad texted me about my grandma, and Zoelina.

Darrah texted me about Cameron.

And now, Facebook told me about Keith.

Keith and I weren't always cousins (it'll make sense later, I promise). I first met him in class at Doubletree Elementary. We were cool, because I was friends with all the guys, plus he had asthma like I did. J Our teacher had all of our names on her desk, written on little apples. My mom came to the class one day, and saw Keith's name on one of the apples. She said his name, and asked me to show her who he was. I did, and she said, "That's your cousin. Chris' nephew."

We didn't become cousins until then! (Now you get it.) I won't pretend we were best friends or glorify some newfound connection I had with him. But we did talk on Facebook. I'd get a "happy birthday Cuzzo" wall post every April, and return the favor in August. I saw him out and chatted with him about whatever. Just because we weren't close cousins doesn't mean his loss doesn't hurt. Add the fact that I've lost Zoe and Cameron, 23 and 22 respectively, and Keith's 22 years just don't seem long enough.

With my post about Zoe, I said all I had to say about having people taken from your life. That's all I would have wanted to say about Keith. But may I please add one more comment, for future reference, in case someone else I know/love in their early 20s is murdered?

Down with the interwebs, and fuck text messaging.

Forever Young

By now, you’ve noticed, I’m a Jay-Z fan. If you have not noticed, I have no words for you.

Everyone knows I’m a Jay-Z fan. Not everybody knows I have a half sister.
Well, not really a half sister….. She’s my dad’s ex-girlfriend’s daughter. I consider her my “real” sister even though our link (my father) was never really around me. She lived in California our whole lives, so I only saw her during the summers after my mom and I moved to Memphis.

As a kid, my California family was either too cool to hang with me, or too into prunes and Ensure to tolerate my childish babble. Zoelina, that’s her name, by the way, was the only somebody I had to kick it with in those days of blown bubbles and failed fishing excursions (another blog ALTOGETHER). Oh! Zoe LOVED olives. I used to make sure I got extra on my salad just so I could give them to her, even though I thought it was super weird to love olives. She was somewhat mentally behind other kids her age, so it didn’t seem like she was a year older than me. I didn’t even notice her handicap until I was about 16. Zoe wasn’t slow, just childlike, and stayed that way as an adult. Naïve to a fault. It made no difference to me though. I thought she was a genius for coming up with the idea of stashing our gross, unwanted dinner (courtesy of my dad) in our napkins and pretending we ate it.

Eventually, I became one of those teenagers, and fell victim to insatiable boredom. Oakland didn’t have anything for me; I was either too old or too young for everything out there. Therefore, the summer after I turned 15, I decided to stay in Memphis instead of going to Oakland. That was the beginning of the end of my yearly trips to California.
Zoe and I still talked even though I had stopped visiting. She would call me every now and then. The phone would ring, and I knew that besides my grandma, the only somebody calling me with a 510 area code was her. I’d answer to a “Hay sister!” and we’d catch up. Calls devolved into texts, and she always asked when I was coming back. I never told her, but I didn’t intend on coming back any time soon.

I turned 20, and discarded the title of teenager. I also got word that my grandma had bladder cancer, and that I should come see her as soon as possible. They gave her six months, but it took three spring breaks after her diagnosis before I had to tell her goodbye. Seeing my tough, lively grandma turn into a victim of cancer hurt me. Deeply. I had lost people before, but not anyone as close as my grandma. Plus, she was my last grandparent. Seeing my grandma weakened was a major blow, but was only a warm up for God’s next play.

Spring of 2008 rolled around, I was about to turn 21, and Zoe had just had a baby! Everyone else wasn’t as happy as I was (envision Brenda’s Got a Baby.) She named him Jayshon. She’d only been pregnant on my last trip the year before, so THIS time I got to meet my nephew. I walked around the corner to her house, and when I got there, he was asleep. I talked with my sister like we hadn’t missed a day together. She showed me videos from parties at her friends’ houses, pictures from Jay’s birth, etc., etc . I couldn’t wait to see him, so I snuck into his room, and to my surprise he rolled right over with wide open eyes. Green eyes. The sun shined on his dusty blond hair.

This was my face. ------> o_O Your face would look like that too if your (mostly) Black sister had a baby with blond hair and grey eyes.

I went to pick him up, and he let me. I brought him back into the living room, and bounced him on my lap. He was about six months old. I thought he was the most adorable baby I’d ever seen. I still had to ask Zoe where he got those blue/grey/green eyes and blonde hair from.

“Girl, I don’t know. Genetics I guess.” She shrugged. I stared at him and he looked at me very knowingly, despite the fact that he was sucking on a pacifier. I took several pictures of him as he nonchalantly looked out the window while his mom and I talked.

I couldn’t stop gushing over him. “Zoe, he is going to be a HEARTbreakER.”
Fast forward to Summer 2009. I took my last trip to California to bury my grandmother. I cried like I had never cried before. My dad, being the only one tall enough to, held me up. He’d never been there when I cried before, but I was glad to have him then. I felt like he was the only one who understood my profound sadness. Before I left, I got to see Zoelina, but not my nephew- he was at his dad’s house. Zoe seemed to be so much more mature. She didn’t want to go out with me because she knew she had to save money. I treated us both to manis/pedis ($22 for both services in Oakland. I was amazed at such a bargain.) We ran our mouths the entire time, and although I had been worried about her ability to take care of herself and a baby, I felt relief after seeing how well she was handling things.

Skipping ahead a few months brings us back to Jay-Z. He went on tour that fall. Tickets went on sale at 3:00 PM one day in September; I checked out of Ticketmaster at 3:03 PM. At 22, this would only be my second concert. I was going with two friends (that’s Sam and Princess below).
I couldn’t have been more excited. The concert was scheduled for Friday, November 13th.


I’ve never been superstitious, but I do remember noticing that and raising an eyebrow. That funny feeling was more intuitive than I knew.

After a five. Hour. Trip. To. Nashville. From Memphis, we finally got to Vanderbilt for the concert. Thanks to some fire on I40-East, we had missed the first 30 minutes or so. Hov said he wasn't ordinary, and to my surprise, he wasn’t! He actually started on time! Shocker. As we walked in, “Already Home” was playing. I dashed away from my two compadres, as this was my SONG and I was NOT about to miss his performance of it. I ran as fast as my little (they were only 4 inches) stilettos would carry me.

Dirt off Your Shoulder. Big Pimpin. A bunch of other classics I can’t recall. Plus the Blueprint 3. The concert was in full swing, and I was in a sublime state of ecstasy. I knew every lyric, and had no problem shouting them. Between an un-activated iPhone, my actual phone, and digital camera, I got every second of video and still shot I could.

The concert was almost over, so the speed of the music slowed down. If my memory serves me correctly, Young Forever was the last song he performed. If you’re not familiar with the lyrics, here they are. (As I hear them, anyway. Imagine an angelic British voice singing these words.):

Let’s dance in style, let’s dance for a while
Heaven can wait, we’re only watching the skies
Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst,
Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?

Let us die young or let us live forever,
We don’t have the power, but we never say never
Sitting in the sand pit, life is a sure trip
The music’s for the sadman

Forever young, I want to be, forever young
Do you really want to live forever…forever…and ever?

I had my iPhone lighter app, swinging side to side. I was INTO this. My REAL phone was about to die, so I switched to using my camera to record the performance. As Mr. Hudson’s ethereal voice flowed in and out of my ears, I felt my phone vibrate. It was a text, and I only checked it because I knew my phone was about to clock out. I opened the text, and saw it was from my dad.

“Im really [messed] up now. Zoe was killed tonight.”

I looked at the phone. I saw the words on the screen-that is, I read the message. However, I wasn’t processing anything. I just stared at the screen. The brightness of the display took a fatal toll on the battery, and the text went away as the phone faded to black and died. Mr. Hudson’s voice seemed to fade, too. I heard nothing. I saw nothing. I felt nothing. No sadness. No confusion.

After what felt like an eon, those senses finally returned. Jay was on the last verse of the song, so I apparently hadn’t zoned out very long. I continued to film the performance, sang along, and even waved my lighter iPhone app. I chose not to believe the text. For the rest of the night, I ignored that text, and I ignored what it meant.

We went home the next day. I texted my dad back and asked if he were okay. I didn’t call him until I got back to Memphis, in my own car. Out of nowhere, tears welled in my eyes, and I lost it. Again, my dad was there when I cried. Again, he was the only one who could feel my sadness, who was hurting just like I was. I didn’t want him to be. I had always had so much anger for not having been anywhere in sight when I cried before. But for just then, I put my anger aside and let his voice comfort me.

Some guy that Zoe was dating had taken Jayshon and lured her to the San Francisco Marina. He killed her there, and they found her body some time after. He had just been released from prison. After my dad told me this, all I could think about was Jayshon. He didn’t have a mom anymore; he’d never remember Zoe. I wondered who would take care of him, what it would be like for him. I remembered calling him a heartbreaker the one time I met him, and wondered what he would grow up to be now, without her.

I didn’t have to wonder very long. The police found Jay’s little body floating in the San Francisco Bay the next day.

My heartbreaker prediction came true. I didn’t think it would be my heart he’d break.

Even though some psychopath stole my sister and my nephew, I never asked God why. Life in Oakland is rough enough for a boy, and even harder without a mother. I won’t say I was relieved that God took them together. However, I did feel a certain serenity to know they were with Him, and had each other. Their loss taught me a very important lesson: it is nothing less than selfish to miss someone when they die. This world is a void compared to Heaven. To want someone back is to want to pull them from paradise. We shouldn’t question why things happen, or linger over the hurt they leave us with. So, to everyone who’s lost someone, you should cry, be hurt, angry, or whatever you need to be or do. But don’t let the tears get in the way of receiving the peace that passes understanding. When you’re done grieving, you may not still understand, but you will accept it, and eventually, be okay with it. I have, and I do.

But More Important Is Lawyer Fees

New career path: twitter repairmanmanman. Woman.

It's really an addiction when I'm over here on Blogger expressing my fear of twitter being down. Seriously, I used to not know what to do when I got that dreaded error message. I took a nap once. Another time, I studied. But throughout both instances, I had a storm of tweets just burning inside me.

I hit send. I get rejected. It's unrequited love.. like someone just won't listen to me! Frustrated isn't the word for it. Incensed. Enraged. Insulted. How DARE you not let me speak my mind.

I plot that whale's death and wonder how the hell those lil blue birds manag to carry him. How the hell. His fat ass has no business on twitter anyway..it's already raggly. Deleted tweets. Vanishing followers. Force-fed friendships (WHY WONT'T YOU LET ME UNFOLLOW HIM still????)

So once it finally revives itself, I, of course go fish (my version of going ham. Should I say I go whale....?) Then a new fear settles in *dramatic music plays*

Twitterjail.

And as it would be if I landed at 201 Poplar (google it if you're not from Memphis), nobody ever bails me out. So I'm stuck, in a sea of tears, knowing these pent up tweets will have consciously disappeared before I am freed...



My name is Kela, and I am a twitter addict.

99 problems..bein a bitch may be one

I've fully convinced myself that if I don't do something soon, I'm going to roll into full-fledged bitch mode. I've romanced the thought that maybe I'm a psychopath (thanks to a riveting episode of House), but I'm not completely devoid of emotion yet. Figured that out when I cried over Cameron getting killed. (Another blog, another day.)

I have, however, established that something is wrong. I no longer get angry at anyone. I don't get excited about or fear anything anything I used to. I've started to simply mimic the emotions of the people around me. If they're pissed off, I'm pissed off. They're in a goofy mood? So am I. It's like I'm walking around on autopilot.. but the people closest to me are captain.

My emotional state isn't my only malleable facet. I'm also starting to shape shift into whatever I think people see me as. I'm being myself; the problem is, I have a lot of selves. If someone sees me as innocent and naive, that's the kk I play. If I think they see me as assertive, I go toe to toe with them on whatever. I'm an asshole to the assholes, and a sweetheart to the ones who send smiley faces after all of their phrases. I AM an asshole and I AM a sweetheart. Problem is I don't know how to be more than just either, to any given person, at any given time.

This is where the bitch thing comes in at. Since I become whatever I'm seen as, there's a manipulative property involved. I'm playing the role into which I'm cast. I may "ad lib" shit into my "lines" that may or may not make the "play" better. I've realized this and been telling myself it's cool because ad libs or no, it's nobody out there like me. I'm interesting. It's not like it takes work to pull off this manipulation. It's glib. (That, plus the emotional imitation, is the definition of psychopathy.) At the expense of being an individual, I've sacrificed doing and saying the things my naturally lame self would. I'm not "trying" to be "cool." A handful of people decided I was, so, thats's the niche I tripped into.

I find manipulation to be fun at first. Making a dude fall for you because you have all the right answers, know the right lyrics, and read the right books is cool. Especially since I just happen to do/have all that. I've never faked anything, just started to hide too much of who I am, deep down.

What I miss is the nerdy Kela. The one who got stank face looks when she was tacky (and really thought it matched.) The one who knew random facts (a golf ball is 1.2 inches in diameter, did you know that?). The Kela who wore glasses and didn't HAVE to have her eyebrows arched. The Kela who didn't like the assholy cute guys with the nice bodies, but rather the geeky,smart guy with a bright future. She didn't curse, and woulda thrown up at one shot of gin. She's still there, under the surface, and even visits when I'm with my family. I want to reintroduce her to the world. The smart mouthed sexy bitch has been sitting in her seat long enough.

lyrical exercise

because that's what talking on the internet i.e. twitter, here, facebook, feel like to me. exercise. bear with me, i cant make fancy grammatical symbols like apostrophes and parentheses. cant make paragraphs either. or capitalize. its not that i dont know how..blogger mobile just wont let me. nazis. anyway, im starting t recognize i have,, thats supposed to be to recognize,, a problem with talking, i mean typing, too much on twitter. im starting to judge peoples worth based on the tweets they fcuk up. callin women sluts because of twitter after dark. needin an attitude adjustment because someone else on there is ranting about haters. the problem is im following mostly memphians, and they all have one vice or another. some are endearing. others are irritating. still others are just plain juvenile and they enrage me. im tryna fix my vice by spilling out my worthless ramble all at once, instead of 140 characters or less at a time (i just figured out how to get the symbols on here. progress already.)