because those that can’t do, teach….or, conversations with my baby cousin and her hoodbooger friend that make me want to die.

Keegan:  Remember when you said I can call you for anything? Like if I needed anything or wanted to talk.

Me: It was a month ago, Keeg. Of course I remember.

Keegan:  Are you busy now?

Me:  Just doing some work I should have taken care of earlier. What’s up?

Keegan:  You’re working on the weekend?

Me:  Wow. You really are 18. What do you want, Kid?

Keegan:  Have you ever been in love?

Me:  Beg your pardon?

Keegan:  Love. Have you ever been in it?

Me:  Uhh. Sure. A time or two, I suppose. What’s this about? Where’s this going?

Keegan:  I need to ask someone about love.

Me:  Keegan, I have a lot of work to do.  I thought you had some sort of 8:30 lab.

Keegan:  You SAID I could call for anything. That if I needed ANYTHING–

Me:  Yeah. But I MEANT “money.” I CLEARLY meant “money.” You know. For books, or going out, or those little ugly ass cheap ass clothes you like to wear. Not intrusive, silly questions.

Keegan:  Please? Look at our family. You know I can’t ask anyone else.

Me:  If you knew anything about me, you’d know I’m hardly the go-to person.

Keegan:  So tell me about you so I know not to ask again. I need an old person’s opinion.

Me:  I’m not OLD, Keegan.

Keegan:  Old-er.

Me: Keegan, I’m nuts about you, but your timing is so unbelievably off on this shit, right now.

Keegan:  Please. Fifteen minutes, tops.

Me:  *sigh* Ten minutes.

Keegan:  Yay! I love you! Okay. Have you ever been in love?

Me:  Sure.

Keegan:  How many times?

Me:  Idunno. More times than I’ve wanted. Less times than I should have, I suppose.

Keegan:  I don’t know what that means.  I need a number.

Me:  Somewhere between two and four, Keeg.

Keegan:  How can you not know?

Me:  Because shit looks different in retrospect.  Things that looked like love might have just been an unwillingness to let go out of habit. On the other hand, situations that I’ve let go thinking they were nothing, could have been more than they appeared while I was in them. Feelings look different when you deconstruct them.

Keegan:  So you’ve thought you’ve been in love, but really haven’t?

Me:  Yeah, that’s the jist of it. Although, I don’t know how fair it is to assess these things in the abstract. Could be that how you’re feeling in the moment is the only thing that matters. Idunno.  Like I said, I’m not the best person to ask.

Keegan:  You’re doing fine. How old were you the first time you think you were in love?

Me:  Mmm. Your age. 18.

Keegan:  Did he love you back?

Me:  He loved everybody back.

Keegan:  Oh. So that didn’t really work out?

Me:  I went a little crazy, cut off all my hair, stopped eating meat, and wrote some epically shitty poetry.  On the plus side, I still keep my hair short, am still a vegetarian, and realized I should never attempt poetry. So it wasn’t all bad.

Keegan:  Mmm. What about the next one.

Me:  Keegan, I ain’t fixin’ to sit up here with you and go through the roster of my love life. This is bullshit.

Keegan:  Okay, okay. How do you know when you’re in love?

Me:  You know, I’ve maybe answered my phone three times in the last 4 days. And I picked up for you. Will NEVER make that mistake again.

Keegan:  Hey, I COULD have been asking you for money.

Me:  Somehow, I think it would have been less expensive than this call.

Keegan:  Answer.

Me:  *sigh* It’s different for everyone, Keegan. And honestly, I don’t always buy into it, myself, so, I don’t know.

Keegan:  What do you mean “don’t always buy into it?”

Me:  I’m not going into that with you. I’m not prolonging this discussion any more than necessary.

Keegan:  Fine. Then just tell me what it feels like when YOU’RE in love.

Me:  Ummm. Well—

Keegan:  Hold up, hold up. That’s Jakeema. Lemme conference her in.

Me:  Ja-what?

Keegan:  Jakeema. You met her. We went to high school together, member?

Me:  That fastass girl with the big ole swole up donkey booty? THAT’S a friend you took with you to fuckin’ college?

Keegan:  Shut up! Be nice. Hold up. Lemme get her.

Keegan:  ‘Keema, you there? She’s getting to the good part.

Jakeema:  Hey, Fooler!

Me:  Hi, Jakeema.  I guess you don’t have any homework either?

Jakeema:  I finished it.

Me:  Mmm hmm.

Keegan:  Go ‘head, Fooler. How do you know when you’re in love? You, personally.

Jakeema:  I think you just know.  Like that moment you look into his eyes and you just know.  Like y’all was meant to be together.  Like y’all are gonna be together forever.  That’s how it was with me and Eric.

Me:  Wow.

Keegan:  “Wow” what? “Wow,” it’s true?

Me:  Wow, it’s incredibly stupid.

Jakeema:  What?

Me:  Just dumb.

Jakeema:  I’m saying. That’s just how it was for us. Might not be the same for you. Errebody different. Me and Eric been together for nine months.

Me:  Is he at school with y’all?

Jakeema:  Nah. He at Norfolk State.

Me:  Wow.

Keegan: “Wow,” what?

Me:  Just dumb.

Keegan:  Anyway, come onnnnnnnnn. Answer.

Me:  You don’t wanna wait and see if Jakeema’s gonna fell us with some more of her 18 year old, long distance, we both go to large HBCUs, nine month old first relationship ever wisdom?

Jakeema:  Do you even have a boyfriend?

Me:  Nope.

Jakeema:  Mmm hmm. Keegan, she don’t even have a man.

Me:  You won’t either by the time this semester’s through.

Jakeema:  KEEGAN.

Keegan:  Fooler.

Me:  Hey, y’all called me.

Keegan:  Are you gonna answer?

Me: I don’t remember the question.

Keegan and Jakeema:  How do you know when YOU’RE in love?!

Me:  *sigh* It happens slowly, for me. A series of revelations. Wow, this person isn’t stupid. Wow, this person is kind. Wow, this person puts up with my moods.  Wow, this person makes me laugh. I want to spend more time with you. I want to tell you more about myself. I feel different when I’m around you. Less guarded. Idunno. I let you touch me more. I wanna write you shitty poems.

Keegan:  What then? Do you tell him?

Me:  Level with me. Did you call to find out what *I* do, or what you *should* do?

Jakeema:  Her.  She don’t know what to tell Shawn.

Me:  Mmmm… “Shawn,” Cousin? I thought you told me there wasn’t anybody.

Keegan:  I don’t know how I feel. I just don’t want to look stupid, you know. That’s what you always say, right? Don’t let anybody make me look stupid.

Me:  Jesus. Is that what I told you?

Keegan:  Yes! A hundred times.

Me:  Kiddo. There is a fail-safe way to not get pregnant.  There is a fail-safe way to not catch VD.  There is, however, no fail-safe way to keep your heart from being broken.  Not any way I’d recommend, anyhow. To the extent that you are able, avoid whores, and smooth-talkers, and men who are careless with other people’s feelings. But don’t adopt tough at 18.

Keegan:  So now you’re telling me it’s okay to look stupid.

Me:  I’m telling you there’s no way to avoid it. Jakeema seems happy enough.

Jakeema:  Least I got a man.

Me:  Hold on to that, Princess.

Keegan:  So I’m gonna look stupid, no matter what? Is that what you’re saying?

Me:  I’m saying you don’t look any less stupid sitting home alone because you choose to regard every person that crosses your path as a liability. Be smart. But be reasonable.

Jakeema:  How come you’re by yourself, then?

Me:  I’m unreasonable.

Keegan:  I bet you don’t look stupid, though.

Me:  It’s a good thing you’re in college, then, with no real money to wager.

Keegan:  *sigh* So I should tell Shawn I love him?

Me:  How the hell should I know? I don’t know your life.

Keegan:  FOOLER!

Me:  Look. I can think of a million reasons not to tell him. Namely that you’re 18, just got to school, and wouldn’t know a proper emotion if it tea-bagged you in the face. All I’m saying is, don’t NOT tell him because you’re afraid to look dumb.

Keegan: Okay.

Me:  Now I have to go. Y’all have taxed my nerves.

Keegan: K. I love you.

Me:  Yeah, yeah.  You apparently love everybody. But, I love you, too. Congratulations on that strong black love, Jakeema.

Jakeema:  Whatever.

because occasionally, there’s a win inside your loss…or, “Happiness Weekend 2011…”

Editor’s Note: So, I had to leave out 2-3 big details in telling this story, lest I distract y’all. I just thought I should mention that for the sake of almost-full disclosure….so…you know…

**A PROLOGUE**

A casual observer would have described my reaction to his leaving as “indifferent.”

In truth, he had been leaving for some time, slowly taking himself out of the picture, his own defense mechanism to my unyielding emotional resistance.

I’d felt it. I’d had ample time and sufficient opportunity to right it, to say just one encouraging word to indicate that I, too, had felt the shift in what was to be our casual time passing.

But I hadn’t.

I’d let the silence between us take over because it was comfortable for me; familiar. I played it cool better than any other, and this was my go-to zone.

This time was different, however. I was literally “playing” it cool. I was acting the unaffected. But I was affected. And I hated it.

His last attempt to reason with my stubbornness came in the form of an email.

My glacial reply was the stuff of legend. Fingers knew no compassion as my relationship antipathy took hold, pouring over my keyboard in a rush of abrupt, clipped tones.

And that was that.

I had known he wouldn’t reply, and he didn’t.

And I hadn’t wanted him to.

Only part of me had.

Tucked away in the furthest recesses of my heart, that part of me had wanted some forceful showing. For him to make a mad dash to my door in the rain. For him to shove his way inside my home. For him to shout at me words of frustration until I relented; relented and just once, in my small life, surrendered the steely guard that had kept so many others out, and me too long in.

But I wasn’t relationship ready. Or relationship stable. And I’d thought the same of him.

Until I signed on to Facebook.

“_____________ is in a relationship.”

I’d known he’d been nursing a situation with someone else, biding his time, attempting to make odds and ends of my own volatile behavior.

But the cold reality of his new union on bold display for all the internet to see was jarring. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. Repeatedly. By Wendy Williams’ Louboutins. With Wendy Williams’ big assed feet still in them.
My eyes returned again and again to the one sentence that would be my dignity’s undoing.

I downed the scotch that had long sat idle by my laptop.

I exed out the Facebook window, and opened my gmail account.

“THIS motherfucker right here, though……” I said to myself aloud through clenched teeth.

***********************************************************************************

**DOROTHY PARKER AND THE VICIOUS CIRCLE……………..OF ADOLESCENT AGED GIRLS MASQUERADING AS ADULTS……**

“Dear friends,
I will not waste your time re-hashing what I think we will all agree are my somewhat complicated, and indeed, well-documented relationship struggles.
The sad fact remains that I’ve continued on in my pattern of destructive interpersonal behavior, and have, once again, due to my emotional retardation and sensitivity failings, managed to make yet another romantic interest hate my guts forever.
Bygones.
As we all know, the person who appears the least affected by a break up wins.
I don’t need anyone to point out the juvenile tenor of my argument.
I know it’s childish.
We ALL know it’s true.
As such, my continued dignity requires that I have Facebook pictures documenting me having a great time without this motherfucker.
I would like to call this project “Happiness Weekend 2011.”
This weekend, I would like us all to commit to making sure lots of pictures are taken of me having the best time of my life. Even if they’re entirely manufactured. Actually, the more perfect
the production, the better.
Naturally, I will serve as Creative Director on this project, and as such, humbly request that my approval be sought for any and all depictions of me intended for public consumption.
I also need there to be looooooots of pictures of me smiling and laughing, preferably with my head cocked back in raucous delight, but most especially of me in the intimate company of men. Think me having shared whispers with men, me sitting on men’s laps, me with my hand affectionately placed on a man’s cheek, me receiving a delicate butterfly frontal lobe kiss from a man, and lastly, Linesister’s suggestion of me tucking my hand in a man’s back pocket.
They need not even be men with whom I’m acquainted. I welcome stranger motherfuckers into the fold.
Now, I realize that this is something of an unusual request, made even more so by the fact that it’s coming from me.
I’m generally above all of this shit, and can seldom muster up enough energy to care.
I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve actually been sad at a path-parting….
Whatever.
We need to make this happen, ladies.
As always, I appreciate your help in the resolution of these matters……

Xoxo,
F”

We hit Tabaq with fastidious determination.

If any of my friends thought my plan ridiculously stupid, they had the grace not to say so.

Except Linesister. Her oath of loyalty and pledge to hold my literal and metaphorical brick obligated her to do my bidding. But she wasn’t happy about it. Linesister is a first rate hater.

I’d known that the girls were surprised by my behavior. My airtight code of privacy allowed for little investigation into my personal life. I also was not prone to emotional attachments or displays of regret. But one by one, they appeared lock-step at my side, prepared to support me in all of my fuckery. I was grateful.

I was also grateful for the fact that the Howard-Morehouse Classic made the U Street Corridor the perfect backdrop for my photo shoot. Tabaq was wall to wall with available men, and I’d arrived in Kelly Green silk and complicated eye makeup with a crew of beautiful, smiling girls.

Emboldened by the spirits raging through all of our systems we got to work. It was almost sad how easy it was.

Asia: “Excuse me. Hi, are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Can you take a picture with my friend?”

Bewildered man: “Uh? What?”

Me: “Hi. I’m so sorry. I know it’s weird. But I’ve just had an awful breakup, and I know it seems pathetic and crazy and psycho, but I assure you that I’m not. I just need a couple of pictures with men who look like they adore me so my get-back is sufficient. Do you mind? I’m really sad.” (I had to embellish a bit. Men love to feel like they’re rescuing a bitch.)

Bewildered man: “Uh. Sure. What do you need me to do?”

Me: “I just need you to look really interested in what I’m saying.”

*Asia starts snapping pictures*

Me: “I’m also going to need to touch you a little bit. You can touch me too.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Don’t be alarmed. I’m just going to rest my hand on your cheek real quick.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “That’s right. Just inch a little bit closer. A littttle bit closer. Niiiiiice.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Bewildered man: “What should I say to you?”

*I grip his face, cock my head back, kick up my heel, and roar with fake raucous laughter*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. What’s your name?”

Bewildered man: “Paul.”

Me: “You’re really cute Paul. So you don’t have a girlfriend, huh?”

Time and time again, me and my faux paparazzi accosted lingering men, my tale of woe becoming larger and more grandiose with each new male subject.

The more I complimented them on how good looking, or tall, or sexy they were, the more willing and active of a participant each man became.

I had to pinch myself to keep from laughing.

Me: “Michael, you have the most beautiful mouth. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Karen, with her camera phone ever at the ready, began a quick succession of snaps.

Michael: “Um, well…I mean…I don’t—“

Me: “Honestly. Your lips are seriously sexy. I can’t even focus right now. I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable.”

*Rests hand comfortably on Michael’s chest.*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Michael: “Um, no. Not really. No.”

Me: “Where do you live, Michael?” (Note how often I’m saying his name. Dudes love bitches who say their names.)

Michael: “Manassas.”

Me: “Word? That’s quite a drive to DC.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Michael: “You know it?”

*Leans in to whisper to Michael.*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Sure. I’m in Prince William County all of the time for court. I’m a lawyer.” (Men love bitches who are lawyers.)

Michael: “Really?”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Really. I wish I had a card with me to give you.”

Michael: “I could just take your number.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Swag.

By night’s end my ego was on one hundred thousand trillion, and I had a portfolio to rival anything Wilhemina could put out.

I soberly looked to my friends, who were all smiles and laughter at our embarrassment of photographic riches.

And my heart was decidedly less heavy. They’d backed me up without question or (visible)scorn, and made all of the night’s achievements possible.

Especially considering the fact that I didn’t own a working camera.

I promised myself, then and there that, irrespective of my communicative failings in the romantic department, I’d never stop letting these women know how much I appreciate them, or how entirely awesome they are (starting with this entry. I really love you guys. Thank you so much).

Gathering our things, and preparing for our next venue, a goofy smile plastered across my face, I looked at Asia. “Yo….why the FUCK haven’t we ever done this shit before?”

for old times sake……

Should
auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and days of auld lang syne* ?

For auld lang syne, my jo,

for auld lang syne,

we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

Robert Burns

******

One of life’s greatest untold ironies, and indeed, most significant
disappointments, is the truism that we all end up in the same place.

Most of us, anyhow.

Certainly, we’re taught, from a very early age that, should
we put forth our best efforts, and keep our noses clean, a wealth of
opportunities and riches await us in our futures.

Some years later, myself now fully grown, I’ve began to take
stock of this much-fabled do-better-in-the-long-run theorem of childhood
development.

And it’s crap.

Absolute crap.

The real truth is that with a few minor exceptions, the kids
who stole from Spencer’s will end up in lives nearly identical to the kids who
placed first at science fairs.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

There I was, three weeks ago, at the corner of Wilson and
Courthouse. The day was bitter cold, and the wind was whipping at my
extremities with a brute force that made my knuckles weep.

Though overburdened with a laptop satchel, purse, and
bookbag, the heels of my pumps etching life from the Arlington pavement with my
every slew-footed step, I could tolerate the frost at my fingertips no further,
and stopped, suddenly. I wasn’t going to move another inch until I’d donned a
pair of gloves.

I furtively rustled through my purse, shifting receipts here
and there, fumbling over pens, glasses, business cards, but nothing, nothing with
the familiarity of kid leather.

I scrunched my nose as it started to run, sniffing
fervently, willing myself not to focus on the cold, or my growing frustration, when
my hand snagged at something smooth. I recognized, immediately, that whatever I
was grasping wasn’t a glove, but curiosity demanded I withdraw it from my bag’s
hollows.

One lone pair of hot pink boycut boxer briefs.

I had stuck my hand in my purse, and pulled out a pair of
drawes on the corner of Courthouse and Wilson.

I rushed to put my findings back where they’d been
discovered, only to have my hand caught, again, by a smooth fabric-y something
or other. Removing my hand, once more, I looked to my palm.

“Son-of-a-BITCH!” I exclaimed. Black, satin panties.

Jamming the underwear back in my bag, I assembled my things about
my person, and proceeded to the parking deck, hands freezing, nose running, and
several curses ever-present on my lips.

It is not often that I reflect upon the manner of woman I’ve
become, but, on this day in particular, the expensive lining of my bag being
kept warm by my unmentionables, I paused.

Like……..how was I living? Was my life so crazy? Were my nights so wild
that I couldn’t deign to sleep at my own house, everything in its proper place,
panties on poon, not in purse?

At that moment, all became clear to me.

My great revelation.

The unexpected synchronicity of life’s experiences between
myself and a teenaged slut I once knew.

And an auld acquaintance I’d
long forgotten sprang to mind once more….

*******

Okay, so, truth be told, I never personally smelled Meka.

Like, I’d never, you know, experienced her rumored wet-assy odor, first hand.

But, she looked like she stank, or was, at the very least,
musty-as-a-motherfucker-seeming to my 13 year old eyes, so I didn’t really fool
with her too much.

Besides, she was new to school (in so much as she hadn’t
attended any of the 3 elementary schools whose graduates now teemed the halls
of Brandon Middle) and had every appearance of trouble about her.

That she’d consented to being the doormat in Remonica
Jenkins’ motley assortment of derelict girls didn’t bode well for her either.

I kept my distance, and merely watched from afar, seldom
offering up opinion on her presence at our school, even when asked directly.
But her every move captured my attention. Something about this girl fascinated
me.

Meka was of above average height and dark brown in color. I
suspect her hair was originally fashioned in the style of a bob, but had
somehow lost its way when she’d elected to deprioritize consistent relaxers.

She had a rather nice set of teeth, I always thought. I was
keenly aware of this fact, as Meka had the misfortune of being something of a
mouth-breather.

While she was nothing to really look at, all in all, she
fared no better or worse than any of us, but for one distinguishing set-apart:
Meka’s face was covered in a veritable sea of blackheads; blackheads that she,
by all appearances, was rather fond of
picking at.

When I say that Meka was a doormat in Remonica’s crew, I do
so without the slightest touch of hyperbole.

On Monday, they’d be nice to her, inviting her to lunch, and
joking with her. By Wednesday she’d be “stinky, ugly” Meka, on whose desk they’d
deposit a wash cloth and soap before class. True story.

It didn’t help that she was a little on the fast side. Boys
lined up to get at her, as her virtue was said to be free for the taking.

And that was how things were at Brandon Middle, on and on ad infinitum until the unthinkable
happened…Meka got a steady boyfriend.

None other than Justin Dart, brother to Monique Dart, best
friend of Remonica Jenkins.

A brief word on Monique Dart.

They say she went crazy.

I don’t know if that’s true or not.

What I do know is, that back then, Monique was a bully of
the first water. She was tall and slight of frame, but scary as all hell,
repeatedly in trouble, and awash with enthusiasm at the prospect of fucking up
anyone who dared step in her path.

She had less hair than you could snap your fingers at, but miraculously
defied known science day after day, and managed to put it in a ponytail (think
of one of those ittybitty dwarf ponies that only come to your knees, and make
you kinda sad to look at).

But what was most fascinating, and indeed, spectacular,
about Monique, was the ever-present layer of dry, crusty, chappy, rashy ash
that circled her full lips in a perfect oval.

Why spectacular?

Because she insisted upon concealing said oval of dry,
crusty, chappy, rashy ash at all costs.

And she didn’t employ a traditional method of concealment,
like, say, oh….idunno…CONCEALER….

Oh no.

Monique covered her mouth………

With her fucking hand.

Like…..

All the time.

She talked THROUGH her hand.

Like a horrible puppeteer, or that black beat-boxing dude
from Police Academy.

Let’s say we were in class and Monique had to use the
restroom. She’d raise her left hand, whilst covering her mouth with her right.
When called upon, she’d mumble her request THROUGH her fingers.

And her hand was ALWAYS there. I bet it was balmy as FUCK
under there, and I’m certain that mushrooms thrived in the webbed cartilage between
her fingers.

Whatever the case, I’m sure her being mean as the devil was
directly related to the chronic slow burn plaguing her forearm that never
deviated from its 45° angle.

But I digress.

Meka, a sucker for a bad decision, had taken up with Justin
Dart, and by all accounts, was giving up the bads to him on a fairly regular
basis.

She continued to abide the constant demoralization of
Remonica and her crew, trying desperately to win their affections—some days she
was the bird, but most days she was the statue.

Then, one day, it all changed.

I’d left my classroom a little late, staying behind to speak
with a teacher, and by the time I hit the halls for a quick run to my locker
the corridor was thick with a crush of seventh graders.

Everyone seemed really excited, and loud for some reason.

Moreso than usual. The crowd of kids was jeering and a thicket of boys were at
the very center, hands outstretched above their heads, fingertips avidly reaching
for something. I saw something being passed from person to person, and I couldn’t
make it out, but the mystery object was driving my schoolmates into a frenzy.

“What’s up?” I asked Melanie, a friend of mine, who had
appeared by my side, giggling and grinning.

“Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirlllllllllllllllllllll…”
she drawled before firing out the next sentence with a rush of information, “MekaputherdrawesinanenvelopeandtriedtogivethemtoJustinbutRemonicaandthemgotemandnowtheypassinthemaroundeverywhere!!!”

I looked up, again, and now, fully apprised of the
happenings, noted that the object did
appear to be a pair of women’s underwear—black, satin panties.

Meka, in a last ditch attempt at sexy, had put her rank,
rancid drawes (I’m taking some license,
here) in an envelope, brought them to
school, and tried to give them to
Justin.

Setting aside the fact that drawes in an envelope don’t so
much give off “sexy” as they do “evidence collected from a crime scene,” they
were now being passed around from person to person, her humiliation more
profound now, than ever before.

I saw her then, in the midst of the chaos, standing there
looking dumbfounded. She wasn’t even trying to get them back as much as steel
herself from the noise all about her. She looked a bit bewildered; as though
she couldn’t comprehend how things had gotten to this point.  And I remember, for the first time, feeling
truly sorry for her.

*********

My unexpected encounter with my own unmentionables made me
think of Meka, that cold day in December.

I mean…our dissimilarities are many.

She was a child of 13, and I am a woman of 30.

She was a social pariah, and I’ve always enjoyed the warmth
of good friends.

She was hot and loose with the ass, and I am……..less hot and
loose with the ass.

But somehow, someway…

Despite passage of time and difference of circumstance……

We both own the
same pair of black, satin drawes.

And neither she, nor I, had the good sense, presence of
mind, or common damned decency to leave those sonsofbitches at home.

On a cold, windy day in December, I was Meka. And by Jove,
Meka was me.

So, to Burns’ query, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot and
never brought to mind?” I say, “Shit, no!”

And tonight—

Tonight,  I’ll raise
my cup o’ kindness to the tarnished memory of Meka, the slut that Time may have
forgot, but not I…..

Not I.

because the greatest lesson a child will ever learn is the value of just shutting the hell up sometimes…

Before I tell this story about this thing I did, only this morning; a thing some of you will surely hate me for, let me begin with the most basic of revelations: I love kids.

 Really.

 I do.

 My views on marriage and cohabitation change with the wind, these days, but on one, lone domestic thing am I steadfast—I love kids. I want children of my own one day.

 Thing is, I hate bad kids.

 Hhhhhhhhhhhate.

 And really, bless those of you who are of the belief that there are no bad children. Honestly. Your reward is in Heaven.

 But, I happen to know there are some rotten little sonsofbitches out there.

 Anyhow,  I digress.

 You should know that I own a condo in a highrise, where I’ve lived almost five years. The composite of tenants in the building is the most diverse I’ve ever personally experienced, but certainly nothing special in terms of the Greater DC Metropolitan Area.

 The vast majority of the owners are older people (who come with a very unique set of melodramas, I might add). There is, however, a significant younger contingent of persons and families who rent out units. Subsequently, there are a hundred thousand million point six children in residence.

 But not a problem, right? Cause I love kids.

 Now, behind my building, there is an older neighborhood that has seen some wear and tear over the years. Its inhabitants are slightly more hood in makeup, and it is also overrun with children.

 Still not a problem, right? Why? Cause I love kids.

 Now, the children of the not so hot neighborhood, and the kids in my building all go to the same school. And while a separate bus comes for the children in the not so hot neighborhood,  it arrives earlier than the one that comes directly to my building.

 That earlier arrival time, combined with the ass of kids already living in my building are enough to make the kids from the not so hot neighborhood forego their own bus, morning after morning, opting, instead, to sleep in, and play with their friends in my building, while catching the later bus.

 With me so far?

 Good.

 I was up with the sun, this morning, determined to get as much as possible done before my 9:30 docket.

 So, I was more than pleased when I managed to shower, and get fully dressed and ready to go before 7.

I gathered my dogs for their morning walk, and was absently playing with my phone, standing on my building’s main sidewalk, as I waited for Topher and Cooper to fertilize the Earth.

 Out of nowhere, a boy and a girl, both about age 11, came running and screaming around the corner, laughing loudly and not watching where they were going, nearly tripping over both of my dogs.

 Topher, almost trampled, and taken completely unaware, growled at the kids, with Cooper quickly following suit.

 Startled, and not wanting the kids to be frightened of the dogs, I quickly squatted to grab at their harnesses, assuring the dogs it was okay.

 “Your dogs are mean,” said the little girl¸ jumping in front of Topher, and then jumping back, in quick, repeated steps, taunting her.

 I was still struggling to calm the dogs when Topher growled again, in response to the little girl’s hand that had jutted in her face, and then jutted back.

 The little girl let out an ear piercing scream, but continued to taunt the dogs.

 “Sweetheart, don’t yell at them,” I said, softly. “And don’t put your hand in front of her face like that. She’s scared. She doesn’t bite, but you’re scaring her. That’s why she’s growling.”

 It was only then, when speaking to her, that I actually had an opportunity to assess her. She was taller and darker than her counterpart, and round all over. Her hair was braided into a series of cornrows on either side of her head, that all came together to form one French braid virtually glued to her scalp.

 I could tell she hadn’t expected me to say anything to her by the way she began to size me up in equal measure.

 She ran toward my building with the little boy, and I released the harnesses and began to make my way up the sidewalk in the same direction, when I heard her say, “She can’t tell me how to use my voice! It’s my voice. I do what I want to do with it. Who is she?! Who is she?! I do what I want!”

 Now, I’m a grown woman, so I pride myself on my ability to be honest with myself and my limited spectrum of emotions.

 And I was hot.

 Like, HEATED.

 I couldn’t believe she was trying to break bad to her little friend.

 Like, seriously, what a little shit.

 I was just trying to look out for her monkey ass.

 “Let it go, girl. She’s a child,” I said, to myself. “Who cares? She’s a fuckin kid.”

 I held tighter to the dogs’ leashes, and determined to just go about my business…

 But not a minute later, her friends—the ones who let her in my locked building—came outside, and she repeated the refrain to them, “It’s my voice! Who is she?!!? I do what I wanna do with my voice! I do what I want with it! I do what I want!”

 The children were now very near the entryway, outside in the parking lot, playing and kicking around something or other. I could see her in my periphery pointing and indicating in my direction, and I could certainly hear her loud, sassy mouth.

 And, juvenile as it sounds, I just became angrier and angrier.

 She just kept saying it, seemingly louder and louder each time. “I do what I want! I do what I want!”

 And something about her—she was entirely reminiscent of the hoodrat, pushy girls of my youth. The ones who’d chastised me for my proper speech and “goody goody”ness.

 And all at once, I was back in the same conflicted position as I’d been in as a child. Offended, incensed, and unable to do anything about it. I would spend my whole life, it seemed, confronted with these arrogant, mouthy, hoodrat children–only to be suspended in a constant state of inaction.

 I let out a pathetic, resigned sigh, confident in my inability to snatch her up by her meaty forearm and give her a piece of my mind, and proceeded up the stairs.

 By this time, the little girl’s friends had assembled in the lobby. She had initially been inside with them, but appeared to have forgotten or lost something in the parking lot where she’d been playing.

 I was just inside of the glass door with the dogs when I saw that she had found what she was looking for, or abandoned it as a lost cause, and was headed up the stairs in my direction.

 And, God forgive me, I waited.

 I had been willing to let it go, but her virtual CAMPAIGN of shit talking had set something off inside of me.

 Because damnit, I’m not the person I was in sixth grade.

 I am a grown woman. I have a profession. I make an income. I pay a fucking mortgage. I deserve respect.

 So, I waited.

 I waited behind that locked, glass door.

 Her eyes got big when she saw me, too.

 She knocked softly, politely even. I was close enough to hear her “Can you let me in?” through the glass.

 I looked at her, then; square in her almond-shaped eyes.

 Shaking my head from left to right, I said, slowly, annunciating each word, “It’s.My.Building. IIIIIIII.Do.What.IIIIIII.Want.”

 I could see panic set in and she started to shout, frantically, “I’ma miss my bus! I’ma miss my bus!”

 I turned to see the crowd of children in the lobby progressing out the front doors, toward the curb, and then returned my unwavering gaze to her.

 “Then you’d better hurry, and run around then, huh?”

 Picking up Topher and planting a kiss on her forehead, I turned my back to the little girl, and proceeded through the second set of glass doors to the elevator.

 As I continued to walk Cooper, still holding Topher, I leaned down, my lips just brushing her ear, and murmured, “Who am I? I’m the bitch with a ride.”

and while i’m on the topic, “shit i never got over, volume iii: sometimes i still hate my friends, or the 2nd time i didn’t lose my virginity…”

I wanna talk about the second time I didn’t lose my virginity.

When historians are charged with the task of assessing the most poignant developments of the new millennium’s initial years, a significant contingent of my generation will find it owes a rather large sexual debt to the creators of AIM.

Not me.

I will belong to that other segment of the “Thank you, AIM,” populous: The 70 typed words per minute group.

Be that as it may, the fact remains, AIM was responsible for a solid 83% percent of the sex happening on my college campus.

It was technology’s most marvelous gift.

I’ll never forget the moment I realized that this thing—this mythical mechanized contraption of social wonderment—would hold the key to my sexual revolution.

There I was, but a young girl of 18, sitting in my bedroom in my all girls dormitory, when I heard its glorious ring from my Thinkpad in the middle of the night:

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “What are you doing?”

Me: *squeal into pillow* “Nothing. Watching TV.”

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “Come dance with me.”

Me: *squeal into pillow, uncontrollably, roll off bed, squeal into pillow some more and scissor kick the air with my sock-clad feet*: “Now?”

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “Now.”

So, as you can see, it was entirely reasonable that I should vest my rather high hopes for sexual advancement, and by that same token, hymen-al demolition, in the tech-savvy grasp of AIM.

But……….a year rolled by.

And then another.

NOTHING.

I was saddled on either side by men who were way into my virginity—perverts—or men who wanted no parts of it—whores.

My junior year in college brought several new romantic developments in my life. An off campus interest that had great potential, and an on campus interest, “Tate,” who didn’t give a damn whether I lived or died.

Tate was everything I’d ever dreamed of in a crush. He was smart, funny, all muscle-y brawn and sinew, and completely and totally disinterested in me. He’d made it clear that his type of woman was more quiet than brassy, more athletic than soft, and little concerned with the superficial trappings of this world. The anti-me.

Yet, somehow, I’d managed to hold some measure of his attention. AIM was slowly redeeming itself in my eyes as it took me higher and higher in Tate’s estimation. I was still little more than an afterthought—of this I was certain—but I was a thought, nonetheless. I wasn’t at all practiced in the art of girl-boy wooing, but I was artful enough to know that a bitch needed to at least get her foot in the door. My quippy, snarky chat-titude was a doorstop on my journey to the Kingdom of Fuck.

Now, around this point in time I was living in a house on the north side of campus, and I had 9 roommates. I had a rather large single in the westernmost corner of the house, and the other inhabitants were all my closest friends.

We were a rowdy group of women to say the least. The majority of us made good on every tangible college experience, both legal and illegal, alike, and frankly, thought ourselves the better for it.

There I was, on a random Thursday night, all ready to partake in our normal seasoned fuckery when the familiar singsong of AIM beckoned from my Thinkpad. Looking at my watch I noted that it was 9:45 pm. Awfully close to the witching(read as dicking) hour.

And it was him.

Tate.

At long last, asking the question that I’d so desperately been waiting for after dishing out weeks of my best late-nite chat schtick:

Tate: “Wassup?” (He was a man of few words.)

Me: “Nothing. ‘Sup?”

Tate: “Not shit. What’s poppin’ off at the (house where I lived)House, tonight?”

Me: *I looked around my room at the gaggle of girls under the influence of one or more illicit substances laughing heartily at some thing or other* “Nothing. I think everyone’s about gone to bed.”

Tate: “Kinda early, isn’t it? I’m gonna come through.”

Me: “All right. See you in a bit.”

I looked at my friends merrily chatting away. “Y’all bitches gotta get out.”

Their alcohol-addled minds seemed to not process my words quick enough for my rapid fire movements. I began to usher them out. “Y’all bitches gotta go. Go! I’m going to bed.”

The lot of them seemed confused, but they obliged me, running off into the furthest recesses of the house.

And I started getting ready.

I would only have about 20 minutes before Tate arrived so I’d have to work fast. At long last, tonight was going to be the night. And what a fucking catch! I was gonna lose my v-card to the sexiest dude I could think of. I straightened up my room, shoving dirty clothes in closets. I ran to the bathroom and showered, affecting the most thorough cleansing of my nether regions ever. And I slipped on a silk nightie and matching robe.

I like to think that, despite my most attentive of ministrations, I still managed to look nonchalant. In retrospect, I looked like a jackass.

When 10:15 rolled around and Tate cruised into my room, it was all I could do not to straddle him. He sat down in a chair near my bed, and virtually overflowed from it on account of his body mass. I sat on my bed, still unsure of what to do.

He looked at me intensely, half smirk playing at his lips. “You going to bed, huh?”

Be cool, bitch. Be cool. You can do this. “It is late. Sleep is what one does when it gets late.”

He wasn’t budging. “Right. And that’s what you usually sleep in? A……..robe?”

FUCK. He’s on to me. I knew this silk didn’t look casual. “What do you sleep in, Tate?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes shorts. Sometimes nothing.” Though the phrasing wasn’t available to me at the time, had this same scenario happened to me, today, and these same words been said to me, today, I’m fairly certain the expression I’d mentally reach for would be “FOR THE MOTHERFUCKING WIN!!!!!”

Fuck it. I’m goin’ in. I exhaled then, arching my back, casually, so that my shoulders were touching the wall behind me, the beginnings of my robe parted slightly. “So, what’s—“

*the door of my room burst open*

My two friends, one of whom would, shortly thereafter, become my linesister, “Tee,” and one of whom would, a year later still, become my neophyte, “Emm,” came barging into my room, drunk as the proverbial skunks.

“What chu doin’ what chu doin’?!?!!?” shouted Tee.

“FOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEERRRRR!!!!!” shouted Emm.

As I live and breathe these bitches came rushing in and proceeded to laugh and giggle, indiscriminately, at NOTHING, uninterrupted for a solid two minutes before even noticing I had company.

“OH!” cried Emm.

“TATE!!!” cried Tee.

Tee arched an eyebrow at me. “What cha’ll doin in here?” she slurred.

“Girl, they got the door closed,” chimed Emm.”

“Door closed!!! Ayooooooo!!!” shouted Tee.

And the two of them went tumbling to the floor.

Where they languished.

And giggled.

I sat there, horrified, not knowing what to do.

Emm and Tee were too preoccupied in their own drunkenness to notice. They talked to each other in intermittent loud spells, broken up only by more remote, hushed whispers of seeming baby talk.

After another two minutes had passed, with neither one of them seeming to realize the gravity of their cockblockage, I said, firmly, “Y’all?!”

Both of them, almost in perfect harmony, sat upright, just then. But neither made an attempt to move. Rather, Tee folded her legs Indian-style, and Emm followed suit. Looking  up at me in earnest, with her almond-shaped eyes, Emm tried her damnedest to affect sobriety. “So, what do ya’ll wanna do?”

Tate had had enough.

He stood up and inched past the girls parked in the middle of my floor. “I’m gonna go ahead and go. I’ll get at you guys later.”

Tee, was the first to sound. “Awww…Tate’s leaving. Awww….”

Followed by Emm. “Awww…Tate’s leaving. Awww. Bye, Tate.”

“Bye, Tate,” echoed Tee in a singsong voice.

As I watched his 6’1 frame depart my doorway I swore I could feel my hymen cementing itself permanently between my thighs.

After I was certain Tate had cleared the front door, I looked at the drunken haters sprawled on my floor.

“Foolerrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!” cried Tee. “ So what do you wanna do now?”

*****

AIM ended up not being the gateway to my ultimate chastity ceasefire.

But, like I said.

I sure can type fast.

shit i never got over volume ii: an essay on my most unforgettable kiss, and the first time i didn’t lose my virginity.

I want to tell you about the second boy I ever kissed on the mouth.

I’d tell you about the first, but, in retrospect—there may or may not have been a slight inference of Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor involved with that one, in that I was a mere 16, and he was, you know—27. Bygones.

Now, perhaps you’re thinking, “Wow, 16. That’s awfully old to have a first mouth kiss.” You’re right. It is. The reason for this is two-fold:

1. I was freakishly scared to kiss a boy. I know, I know. Strange. But, I was terrified that I’d try it and be horrible at it. In my ridiculously paranoid juvenile mind,  a kissing disaster would prompt a rapid spread of news  that I was, in fact, the world’s worst kisser, and no one would ever, EVER want to kiss me again. Please bear in mind, I was an only child whose parents placed absolutely zero parameters on my television-watching privileges. You try watching Mickey Rourke slather bitches down with his tongue and then peep a couple of soft core Emmanuelle-style delicate, baby kisses at age 13, and see if you aren’t intimidated to inaction until assured of your own ability to perfect the deed.

So, right.  I was scared. But also, and perhaps, more importantly:

             2. Nobody wanted to kiss me on the mouth.

Now, perhaps you’re wondering why I’m placing such emphasis on “on the mouth.” There is the small matter of that one time in the mall when “Rob” was trying to give me an awkward goodbye kiss, and I inclined my head too much, and my lips brushed his Adam’s apple. It was too mortifying an event to regroup and make a second attempt for the actual targeted lips, so I just let the embarrassing sleeping dog lie on his neck where it was. (I was so easily humiliated back then. Years later I’d go to the wedding of my friends “Art” and “Carly,” effectuate too brisk a pivot in my spaghetti strapped Max Azria dress, and bare one full, dusky-nippled b-cup breast to an entire row of Art’s Trinidadian cousins, hardly breaking a sweat.)

But I digress.  I want to tell you about the second boy I ever kissed on the mouth.

He was, coincidentally, the finest man with whom I have ever shared even the slightest intimacy. As I live and breathe let me assure you that should I roam this earth another eighty years, he will continue to be the finest man with whom I’ve ever shared any intimacy.

Let’s call him “Lee.”

So right, there I was, 16 years of age, confident that the world was my oyster, and quite assured that I knew all there was to know about anything that was even remotely important. I was Junior Class President. I was in the top ten percent of my class. I had a brand new car. I had never terminated a pregnancy. By all accounts, things were comin’ up roses.

Now, being a brainiac goody-goody had its downsides. I’d never had a boyfriend. None of the boys I’d had crushes on were particularly feeling me. And, truth be told, I’d made peace with this. I was content to like the boys that I liked from afar.

And granted, I’d noticed the new boy like everyone else. Tall, fairskinned, head full of the most beautiful locks I’d ever seen. He had an accent that betrayed a background so entirely different than any of ours. He was rough around the edges, and had rasp in his voice to prove it. Better still, he’d perfected that i-don’t-give-a-fuck-one-leg-propped-behind-him-lean-back-against-the-wall-stance that left your mouth dry, your thoughts hazy, and your panties square around your ankles if you weren’t paying attention.

But I was paying attention. I’d barely spared the interloper a second glance, save to admire those resplendent locks he’d absently whisked from his face with a flicker of his neck.

I’d known his name was “Lee.” We’d all known that. But boys like that—quiet, sexy as hell boys—they weren’t checking for me, and I was all crushed out.

Until the day that changed everything.

My girl, “Amber,” had mentioned that Lee had asked about me. When I’d inquired as to what, she’d smiled coyly, and said that he’d thought I was cute; that he’d wanted to know if I had a boyfriend.

I was so confused by this. What would this dude want with me? Boys with creamy smooth skin like that, with hair like that, didn’t want me. I’d thought that Amber was surely mistaken.

But, as it happened, she wasn’t.

Lee was actually feeling me.

We began this phone interlude that largely consisted of him calling, and me talking. I’d go on and on about some this or that, and he’d laugh, occasionally, but mainly just listen. I wasn’t certain whether this was a function of my talkativeness, or his retardation and inability to understand what I was saying. But I didn’t care. I was on Cloud Nine. My ascent into oblivion was complete. At long last, Fooler had made good. Fooler was gonna get the guy. And damnit, Fooler was gonna kiss this motherfucker SQUARE on the mouth!

And a few weeks later, when Lee asked me to come over to his house after school, I was ready.

Granted, it was on a side of town that my mother had preferred I not frequent, but, my mother had never known fineness like this. Seriously, this man’s hair was so thick, and so lustrous, and so beautifully maintained. These were not the locks of a 17 year old boy. Oh no. These were grown man, well tended locks. These were locks that had seen love, and affection, and nurturing. These were spiritual locks.

And Lee was so spiritual.

He was a man of few words, but, he was Muslim—and by “Muslim” I mean, he called himself a Muslim and said “Allah” as opposed to “God”—that had been the extent of our religious discourse.

But he wanted to be on a higher level with me (I should note, at this point, that he was the first in a long line of men who wanted to be on a “higher level” with me. As an adult, I now know this to mean “fuck you without calling you my girlfriend”).

We’d gone to the mall, once, and he’d bought some sneakers, and as we were walking around a department store he’d asked, “Do you want anything? I’ll get you anything you want.” I’d never been the kind of girl to take anything from a man (this was hypothetical, of course, because no one had ever offered…but I’d assumed that should the occasion ever arise where a man would make such an offer, I’d be exactly the kind of girl to politely decline.  I’ll note here, that this was an awfully progressive line of thought for an adolescent black girl at the time, coming up in an era when a boy was expected to show his affection for you via purchase of herringbone necklace). I’d shook my head, “no,” and smiled. He’d returned the smile and kissed me on my forehead, saying softly, “I really like you. You’re different.” It was all I could do not to strip naked then and there in Greenbrier Mall, demanding that he make nonexistent the irksome virginity that so intrudingly stood between my legs, and by proxy—us.

So, you see, it was a non-issue when my beloved had requested my presence at his familial homestead, on the not so pleasant side of town in complete defiance of my parents, when his guardians were conspicuously absent.

No one could understand our bond.

His fineness.

His spirituality.

His seemingly non-committal, but fuck it, what did I care Muslimness.

His locks.

When I got to his house, he showed me around. I noticed the furnishings, some pictures here and there.  We talked, briefly, about his family, about school. There was little to say as we had absolutely nothing in common, but I was so drawn to him. He excused himself to the adjoining room and told me to make myself comfortable.

I was trippin.

Girl, what are you gonna do? This dude is fine as hell.  You’re sittin up in this motherfucker’s house like you fittin’ to do somethin’. Okay, okay, relax. You can kiss him. You can kiss him and go home, but that’s it. That.is.it.

Unless it’s good.  If it’s good, he can feel your titties, but that’s it. Titties is all. Don’t take your shirt off. If you take your shirt off, he’s gonna take his shirt off, and then y’all are gonna be almost naked, and then you gotta do it. You can’t do it with this dude. You’re not ready to do it.

Damn, he’s sexy. Fuck it. I’ma do it.

No. No. No. I can’t do it. I can’t. I don’t even know him. Titties. JUST. TITTIES. 

(Sadly, this would not be the last time I ever had to have this conversation with myself while waiting on the return of a suitor.)

“Lee, you all right in there?” I called out, when he didn’t return, immediately.

“Yeah, just a sec,” he’d replied.

I heard it before he re-entered the room.

Lee had turned on “mood” music.

Only it was K-Ci and Jo Jo’s “All My Life.”

I fucking hated this song.

Lee stood there in all of his spectacular, winsome glory, smiling broadly. “I love this song.”

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

Standing before me, extending his hands to mine to help me from my seat  and draw me nearer, he asked, “Do you like this song?”

We were standing so close that our noses were touching. My heart was pounding so firmly in my chest I thought my passion for him was going to burst forth, all blood and guts, straight from my rib cage.

“I love this song,” I answered, in barely a whisper.

And then it happened.

My second on the mouth kiss.

We were all wild and wet tangled tongues, his mouth swallowing mine in a fit of ill-tempered, frenzied youth.  His fingers interlocked at the small of my back, and I stood on my tippy toes, eyes closed, nails gripping at his shoulders trying to show him how good at this I was; how completely and totally not amateur I was.

Only…

It was bad.

Like, awkwardly, suffocatingly, excessively liquid-y bad.

I couldn’t focus.

Gremlin K-Ci and fatassed Jo Jo were winding their monster-faced grooves into my mojo, their shrill cries metastasizing on my lust like some dark, sickly, two-most-fucked-up-members-of-Jodeci-sized cancer.

Lee broke away from our kiss.

Could this be? Could he feel it too? Did our connection run so deep that he knew when the beat was off? Was his super spiritual Muslimmy nature attune to the fact that this would be so much better and less manufactured if he’d simply slip in the Tony Rich Project “Like a Woman” like he’d done so many times in my fantasies?

He whispered then—

And  my world came crumbling to an embarrassing halt.

“Pull my hair,” he said.

* insert mental scratched record sound *

“What?” I’d asked.

“Pull my hair,” he repeated.

I knew this was God’s way of punishing me for my wanton streak of harlotry. I didn’t want to disappoint Lee. I mean, maybe this was what people did when they made out.

I reached my hands upwards to the mane that I’d coveted so desperately in my heart, and when I was but a breath away from it, I hesitated.

“Go ‘head. Pull it. Pull my hair.”

He kissed me hard, then, and I gripped the coarse tendrils firmly in my hands as he moaned in my mouth.

This wasn’t sweet at all.

Or sexy.

This was porn-y.

And fucking weird.

It went on for another full cycle of the song (the bastard had put that horrible shit on repeat) before I pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s just getting late. I have to go.”

I rushed out of there like there was fire to my ankles. 

I would later give a more civil explanation to my friends when they inquired about the cool down between me and Lee.

In reality, the depth of his ardor was too much for me at the time.

I was class president for fuck’s sake. What the hell did I look like acquiescing to dudes’ fetishes at 3:00 on a Thursday afternoon to R&B power ballads?

In hindsight, Lee was fine as shit, and leaving was a weak bitch prude move.

I didn’t know I’d one day be 30, with the most mild of sexual requests being the shoving of inanimate objects up a companion’s backpipe.

Lee, to this day, I can’t listen to K-Ci and Jo Jo without thoughts of your nappy ass hair making ashy the skin between my fingers, running through my head.

If you’re out there, if you’re reading—I’m sorry.

Call me.

I’ll yank the scalp out that shit.

“teach me how to dougie,” or, my upwardly mobile very important black person thoughts on what’s bringing down the black community….cause something’s always bringing down the black community.

An upwardly mobile black person has but few responsibilities in this world.

This declarative, of course, necessarily excludes those obligations that make possible the continued existence of afore-referenced upward mobility—i.e. fiscal accountability, willingness to stay on the right side of the law, pro-activity in educational advancement—you get the point.

Outside of these things, however, our requirements are relatively clear-cut. Simple, even.

We are implicitly duty-bound by our Community to affect the following:

-have good, wholesome, upwardly mobile black families, and produce similarly good, wholesome, potentially upwardly mobile little black babies (for the sake of efficiency, you may abbreviate “upwardly mobile little black babies” to “Barack Obamas”);

-remain gainfully employed by jobs that our mothers and grandmothers can boast about, under the guise of giving a “testimony” at 10:15 service;

-and publicly behave in such a manner that facilitates a peaceful and calm environment for Whites, that they might be assured of our comparable intellect and therefore be compelled to eradicate all traces of Flavor Flav, O.J. Simpson, and any other negative-stereotype affirming members of our population from their  collective consciousness (even though they ultimately won’t).

There is, however, one remaining tenet of black upward mobility that supercedes all of the foregoing;  among the chieftains of superblackdom, it is, indeed, the single most practiced and perfected tenet:

At least once a month, at either a casual or formal convening of similarly situated superblacks, the upwardly mobile black must espouse his/her thoughts on what factors are contributing to the demise/devastation/downfall of the black community.

THAT IS OUR SHIT, RIGHT THERE.

You ain’t SHIT in the superblack world unless you have a readily accessible, and comprehensive opinion  about what’s ruining the black community—the community you dominate on the regular on account of your awesomely awesome upward mobility.

Now, this opinion doesn’t have to be housed in a particularly relevant or accurate body of facts. Whatever one reads in “Sister 2 Sister” whilst patiently awaiting the Red Line will do.

In past, many superblacks have relied on the tried and true villains of our race. A reasonably articulated discussion on the usual suspects of absentee fathers, teenage pregnancy, spread of venereal disease, systemic racism, and persistent poverty are more than enough to merit the Tavis Smiley stamp of superblack approval at your successfulblackpeoplemeetup happy hour or emo/blipster/revolutionary/enlightenedblackpeople-post-spoken-word-performance-late-night-coffee- gathering at Busboys.

Make mention of any of those topics, and they’ll easily get you through the front door of these conversations with your superblack peers.

Now, me, myself—

I’ve never been particularly big on the tried and true.

I’m a renegade.

I’m a firestarter.

But I want to be an upwardly mobile black, too!

I wanna drive an import, wear soft beaten leather driving moccasins sans socks, and concern myself with golf and what fancy leafy green is featured in my summer salad.

So, I’ve taken the liberty of comprising a list, to be shared at my next successfulblackpeoplemeetup happy hour or emo/blipster/revolutionary/enlightenedblackpeople-post-spoken-word-performance-late-night-coffee- gathering at Busboys.

Feel free to utilize any of the following in your similar superblack pursuits.

 Fooler’s Thoughts on What Factors are Contributing to the Demise/Devastation/Downfall of the Black Community:

1. Ugly names.

Black people—what is this death-like vice grip that the propounding of ugly names has on our community? I need to know.

Note how I said “propounding of.”

As in: We just make shit up.

We.just.make.shit.up.

Like, we can’t even content ourselves with the whole HOST of already-established ugly names that abound throughout the universe (see Beulah or Melvin).

We want our shit to be unique in its ugliness.

And you know what ugly names breed, don’t you?

Criminals.

That’s right.

Criminals.

You think anyone wants to kick a soccer ball around with Ya’Majesty? You think anyone wants to eat the cupcakes Oranjello’s mama brings to school for his birthday?

Hell no.

So Ya’Majesty and Oranjello have to go hard from the start. They have to establish reputations for being nothing to fuck with early on, just so they can make it through the day without ridicule. They rough up a classmate here, steal some lunch money there, and before you know it, batta boom, batta bing—slangin’ yay with La’Creteriareisha and Lamontelldre, the ugly-name-havin’ cake bosses.

Permit me an A Time to Kill exercise, if you will.

Everyone close your eyes for a moment. Imagine a little boy at home playing with a chemistry set. Now, think about that little boy smiling brightly, raising his hand in class and participating freely. Imagine him as a star baseball player on the varsity team in high school. Picture him whizzing through his SATs, and dutifully filling out college applications. Think of him now, aged 30, as a nuclear physicist, wearing a lab coat and protective-eye spectacles, with a mechanical pencil tucked squarely behind his left ear. Look at the name plate outside of his office door that reads, “Dr. John Washington.”

Now scratch out “John” and put in “Ya’ Majesty.”

1. Menacing dogs.

Okay, black people. I’m going to say a few words, and after you read them I want you to pause, and take a moment to see if any of them register; if any of them seem even remotely familiar.

Ready? Okay.

Schnauzer. SCHNAU-ZER.

Bichon Frise. BI-CHON FRI-SE.

Sharpei. SHAR-PEI.

Labrador Retriever. LA-BRA-DOR RE-TRIEV-ER.

Beagle. BEA-GLE.

Black people, the aforementioned aren’t simply words. They’re names of dogs. Dogs. While I’ve only named five, I have it on good authority that there are a few hundred different breeds out there.

Does everyone know what that means?

YOU.DON’T.HAVE.TO.GO.GIT.CHU.A.PIT.

I repeat:  YOU.DON’T.HAVE.TO.GO.GIT.CHU.A.PIT.

I don’t give a fuck about your pit’s periwinkle blue eyes. I don’t give a damn about his fancy tiger coloring. I’m not impressed by the fact that you refer to him as a “Staffordshire Terrier.”

STOP TRYING TO PLAY MY INTELLIGENCE BY ESPOUSING THE GENTILITY OF THE FUCKING DOG. I’M NOT AN IDIOT.

If you go out and buy five feet of chain link to be secured via padlock around your dog’s neck, you’re not trying to own a family pet. You’re trying to show the world at large how big your balls are.

STOP IT.

IT’S NOT IMPRESSIVE.

IT LOOKS DUMB.

AND NO ONE CARES.

Our love affair with pit bulls has given birth to DMX and Michael Vick. Haven’t our people had enough?

Come on, y’all. Free yourselves. Say it with me: “Weimaraner.“

1. Wigs.

Oh.my.damn.

I need someone to tell me exactly when wigs stopped being the exclusive province of headlining celebrity R&B and Country Western singers, your old ass bald ass grandmothers, and chemotherapy patients.

I need someone to tell me when this changed. I demand to know when the edict on wig liberty was signed so that every black bitch in America could go cash her check on the second and fourth Friday of each month and find a new scalp carpet.

When I was a child it was humiliating if your perfectly healthy, full head of hair having mother even suggested she purchase a wig.

But now, little fifteen year old girls are waking up and wasting a solid twenty to thirty minutes each morning trying to determine whether an elevated bob or Farrah waves better compliment her skinny jeans and knockoff bag.

What.the.fuck?

And some of you bitches are forgetting that they’re wigs. Some of you bitches are living in an elaborate wig fantasy involving the Joe Dirt-style fusion of wig lacing to actual scalp. You bitches are sleeping in your wigs, running track in your wigs, fucking in your wigs, whipping your wigs around as your equally wiggy-coiffed friends teach you how to Dougie at the food court in the mall—

And you know what? It shows.

On top of looking simply ridiculous, y’all bitches now have grit in your wigs.

You’ve got wig grit.

I’m seeing q-tips and pine cones and shards of broken glass and chewing gum and every manner of evil all stuck up in your wig on account of your elaborate I’m-starting-to-feel-like-this-shit-is-my-real-hair wiggy fantasy.

STOP IT.

*************

Now, if none of these work for you, feel free to pull out one of my go-to Factors that are Contributing to the Demise/Devastation/Downfall of the Black Community honorable mention standbys:

-Skinny jeans that somehow still sag

-Purchasing lottery tickets

-Cashing your whole check on payday

-and last, but not least:

                -Saying “Nigga” outside where White people can hear you.

Shoot for the moon, my people!!!

Letting color go….for alh, and damn……..that leona lewis bitch, too…

“I call this one, ‘Miss Celie’s Blues’….cuz she scratched my head when I’s was ailin’…”

Dark skinned broads of the universe; failers of paper bag tests worldwide—

We owe our redboned counterparts an apology.

For hating.

You heard me.

Fine, fine.

I can sense your reticence.

I’ll kick it off.

Good Afternoon. My name is Fooler. And I owe a gang of lightskinned bitches, and bitches with baby hair, thick, long, luxurious hair, and crazy, funky, wild spirally hair an apology.

Alla y’all.

Now, take heart. This apology comes years upon years after the discovery of my hater-antics. But, I never issued a formal apology, and—well, now seems as good a time as any.

Lightskinned bitches, and bitches with baby hair, thick, long, luxurious hair, and crazy, funky, wild spirally hair—you all are not the enemy. You never have been. Some of you all are dimes, some of you all are treasure trolls. The exact genetic predeterminates of your beauty or fugliness is frankly, none of my business.

I bore you all so much animus for so many years, adjusting my ire and contempt only  when the inclusion of a new lightskinned, baby haired/thick,long,luxurious haired, crazy,funky,wild spirally-haired bitch in my friendship circle necessitated an exception.

And, for the longest time, it entirely escaped my attention that your numbers in my friendship ranks were beginning to swell; that I had surrounded myself in a veritable sea of amazing women who defied every loosely-constructed stereotype my own ignorance wouldn’t allow me to view as false.

Similarly escaping my attention was the fact that I am, in fact, cute as a motherfucker. Seriously. I’m on some cute shit. I have some true cuteness going on all up in my face space.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me take you back.

My mother—my amazing, can do everything in this world mother–grew up dirt poor in  a town with an unrecognizable name in Nowheresville, North Carolina. Her particular melanin composite never garnered her any popularity contests in those days, and when she married my father, a man whose hue was identical to hers, she suspected any children of theirs’ wouldn’t fare much different.

According to my mother, the people of her town, her peers, and virtually everyone with whom she had any significant contact, was “color struck.” Most Blacks, grappling with our own identities, replete with the psycho-socio far-reaching implications of second class citizenry, had turned our attentions inward, and set about creating hierarchies within our own ranks; where education and affluence wouldn’t suffice to separate us, fairness of skin would suit just fine.

The lighter (and by proxy, more White-looking) the better.

When I came around, my mother took proactive steps in making certain that I never felt the dejection that she’d experienced as a child.

Lightskinned girls were no better than me. Girls with hair that brushed their hips had to come home at night and wash their little stankin asses just like I did. If a boy preferred another girl to me, he only liked her because she was lightskinned. If the boy I liked didn’t like me back, who was he, oh, that lightskinned boy? *insert eye roll*.

My mother was trying to prepare me for the “color struck” world at large.

But, all the while, she was making me “color struck.” Stuck hating on lightskinned bitches who had a gang of hair, and absolutely nothing the fuck to do with me.

I love my mother, and all that she tried to do for me. She inspired confidence where there otherwise would have been none. And maybe sometimes a boy I liked had a preference for lightskinned girls. But you know what? Maybe sometimes a boy I liked didn’t have a particular fondness for chunky bitches with a lotta mouth and a sad, sad proclivity for Karl Kani jeans.

The truth of the matter is, whether the world at large thinks that fairer skinned women are more attractive has little bearing on my own reception.

The truth of the matter is, I should only be focusing on me. On whether my toenails are painted; whether my elbows are ashy; whether my upper lip is a replica of Tom Selleck’s.

My crew of girls, dark and light, alike, aren’t divided among color lines with respect to heartache; they’ve all known it in equal measure.

My crew of girls, dark and light, alike, aren’t divided among color lines with respect to their loyalty to me and nourishment of our friendship; they’ve all born my monkey idiosyncrasies with casually amused dismissal.

And men—the truth about them is, if they’re with you, they’re with you. If a man likes you, he likes you for you. The end.

Sure, maybe he wishes he could skim a few pounds off of your carb-indulgent, though steadfastly determined to rock a two piece ass, but– if he likes you, he likes you.

Granted, maybe he wishes you’d given a bit more forethought to that upper arm or upper titty tat you were so insistent on getting at 18, and now your ridiculous ass is 30 and relegated to a life of long sleeves and turtlenecks, but—if he likes you, he likes you.

He doesn’t wish he had a lightskinned, long-haired bitch in your stead. He likes you.

(Now, don’t be a dumb bitch. Please bear in mind that he will fuck her, too. If he isn’t shit, he probably won’t shy too far away from fucking her in addition to you. But that’s not the point. The point is, that for whatever fraction of attention space he has designated to you, your black, monkey ass is what he wants.)

And me—my own personal truth—is that I can’t think of one instance when a lightskinned, baby haired/thick,long,luxurious haired, crazy,funky,wild spirally-haired bitch maligned me. Not one. Remonica Jenkins—black as coal. Any collegiate issues I had with women—all my complexion or darker (except that one time, and really, she wasn’t at fault at all. Oh no, wait. There was one. Damn. I STILL hate that bitch. Okay, so that’s one. Really though. One).

But I can think of a hundred times when my 5 re-assured me;  a thousand when my girl, “Law School Logan” held my crazy ass down; a million when a particularly new trio of beauties amped up my blog and encouraged me to keep writing; and an infinite number still when the woman who inspired this post (not Leona Lewis, geniuses) listened to my troubled meanderings, withholding judgment in favor of support.

The point is that I, for one, am done. I am long done.

My matriculation to adulthood has seen Halle Berry get beat by two men and made a black fool of by one, Vanessa Williams get married twice and left with a hundred children to raise all by her lonesome, Stacey Dash take an asswhooping her damned self, Rhianna get stomped unconscious in a Lamborghini (a feat I didn’t even know possible), and Leona Lewis get slapped the shit out of in public by a complete stranger.

My mocha-colored juvenile angst put so many bad vibes into the Universe, I’m starting to feel halfway responsible for some of that shit.

So, for all of the unnecessary hating—

For the animus rooted in my own insecurities, and reinforced by societal standards of beauty that I so enthusiastically took to heart–

And damn, for Leona Lewis, who I gotta believe didn’t deserve that open fist to the mouth—

I apologize.

Come on, brown broads—

I know someone else has some “I’m sorrys” to go around, too.

p.s.

(not to mention every lightskinned broad that is dominating my universe now, but….lol…lessssssssst y’all get at me….i’ve reserved mad love for a freckled nigerian, a fashion savvy cropped coiffed beauty who Baltimore has stolen from me, and, as always…….the timeless……”natalie.” [note which name i put in quotes...cause your real name is sometimes your fake name])

A rather lengthy dose of nostalgia or, if you see this broad in the street, tell her i’m looking for her, or, shit i’ve never gotten over volume 1….

I don’t believe in regret.

In keeping with this disbelief, I generally do whatever the hell I damn well please.

Further, I’m almost recklessly liberal with respect to my own self governance, and for the last five years I’ve oft erred on the side of adventure as opposed to caution.

As a matter of fact, whenever called to task on account of my established and frequently-articulated disbelief in aforementioned concept, I can only call to mind lamentation over that which I didn’t do, rather than that which I did.

And while there are, sadly, several events to consider (my meanderings seem to suggest that I pussied out a good bit during my formative years), my mind always goes back to one day in particular.

Third semester of my 8^th grade year in middle school.

Of all the days of my life, if I could have back but one isolated moment in time, it would have been that early spring afternoon, just outside the cafeteria, in the hallway of Brandon Middle School.

Walk with me down memory lane, for a spell…

You see, when I was a young woman of 13, I wasn’t exactly the tightest kid on the block. I was a little on the chubby side, clad in the latest baggy, androgynous fashions, and was a “brain” in the most pejorative sense of the word.

I’d recently liberated my hair from the domination of my Southern, black mother, and an excess of black beauty products leaking from my greasy scalp had made my forehead a hotbed of dermatological malfeasance.

Now, back then, the process before officially “going out with” or “going with” a boy was called “talking.” It was the infant phase of early 90’s pre-pubescent courtship. You were “talking” to someone if you carried on constant phone conversations with him, or passed him notes, and it was generally agreed that you liked him and he liked you, but he hadn’t “officially” asked you “out” yet.

While I can’t remember all of the details that orchestrated the events I’m about to set forth, it is significant to note that my two best friends and I had all began “talking” to a group of boys who didn’t go to our school at all. In fact, these boys were 16 (right, not at all winners by any stretch of the imagination), and happened to live 25 minutes away. Now, while my two friends had met the boys they were “talking” to, for some reason (perhaps the fact that I was 13 fucking years old with vigilant parents), the boy I was affiliated with (we’ll call him “Rob”) had never actually met or seen me. He simply liked my personality. Rob had asked me what I’d looked like, and I’d told him, and that was it. It was never really a big deal.

Now, there was, on the periphery, this girl, who also knew these boys. We’ll call her “Remonica Jenkins.” While my friends and I knew that Remonica and her crew of friends had contact with the guys, we never bothered ourselves with the extent. And I was so smitten with Rob and his cleverness that I couldn’t be caught up in details.

Here’s what you should know about Remonica.

That bitch was a hoodrat. Through and through. And she wasn’t tight, either. Her hair was always super thick at the root, but tightly curled at the ends. She was loud, both in volume as well as dress. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t cute at all.

Back then, the word “hater” hadn’t come into existence, but looking back, that’s exactly what the fuck that bitch was. A hater.

And, for whatever reason, my presence on this planet seemed to offend her more than anyone else.

************

One night Rob and I were discussing our upcoming plan to meet at the mall, when he said to me, “You know, I think you’re really cool. I can’t wait to finally see you.” My heart beats began to rumble together, and I responded with some sheepish, girlish, “Me too.” I was doing pirouettes on Cloud Nine when he countered with, “And I just want you to know, I don’t care what you look like. I’m not worried about it.”

Everything came suddenly to a halt. “Why would you worry about it?” I asked, the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to rise. Rob then let out a deep exhale. “Well, you know Remonica? She kinda said that you were busted. She said you were ugly, but, I want you to know that I don’t care.”

Now, at nearly 30, I can still remember that night so clear. I can hear the raspy tenor of Rob’s voice, and his miscalculated and boyishly feeble attempts to reassure me. But the damage was done. I could hear blood pumping in my ears. I was embarrassed and hurt and any number of emotions that the most confident of girls would have felt at that precise moment.

But more than anything, I was angry.

Now, my Southern, black mother had always warned me that, should I ever get into a fight at school, I was going to get into a whole other one when I got home.

I shoved all of her admonitions, as well as my good girl persona aside the remainder of that night, and the entire morning of the next day. I had been dishonored in the most significant court of public opinion in our fragilely strewn together world—boy court.

I could barely concentrate all day. Hour after hour passed by, my determination growing with each stroke of the minute hand. I had discussed my plan thoroughly with my two best friends and we’d all agreed that something had to be done. Remonica had to be confronted.

The only problem, of course, was that– as previously indicated—Remonica was a hoodrat.

Now, I don’t know what all everyone knows about hoodrats and their comings and goings, but, among their manifold attributes, to include: gratuitous and conspicuous consumption and spitting out of sunflower seeds, talking really loud indoors, chewing gum as if it were barbecue flavored, splitting infinitives and dangling participles, and gesticulating wildly so that their well-tended acrylic nails are on open display—

Hoodrats can fight.

Usually pretty well.

And Remonica had been in numerous fights.

And I had never been in one.

But there I stood, at 12:30, outside of the cafeteria waiting for her to come out in all of my Doc-Holiday-I’ll-be-your-huckleberry glory.

And when she casually strolled through the doors, talking to her friends, barely pausing to acknowledge me, I called out after her, “REMONICA!!!!”

Nothing.

So, I, again, called out, “REMONICA!!!”

She turned to me, then, scrawny and wiry, but nevertheless menacing, and approached me, without a care in the world.

“Wassup?” she lazily inquired.

I cautioned my voice not to quiver and said in bold intonations, “You told Rob I was ugly?” Though my speech was posed as an interrogatory, the declarative certainty was clear.

Her brow furrowed. “Nah. I ain’t tell him you was ugly.”

I could feel my ears getting hot, and I took note of the crowd of peers beginning to form around us. This was it. I got louder. “Well, I talked to him last night and he told me that you told him that I was busted and ugly.”

Her campaign of denials continued, “I ain’t tell him you was ugly.”

Faint “Ooooos” were starting to sound in the background.

I was relentless. Who in the fuck did this gremlin bitch think she was? This ragtag bitch had the nerve, the sheer audacity to call someone else ugly? “Yes.You.Did. YOU TOLD ROB I WAS UGLY.”

Here’s another little known fact about hoodrats. They have the remarkable ability to go from zero to “fuck it” in a split second.

I literally saw the change in Remonica’s eyes. I saw her flick that “fuck it” switch. Assuming an aggressive stance, she bucked up, and countered, “FINE THEN. WHATEVER. I DID SAY YOU WAS UGLY. ANNNNNNNNNNND WHAT?  (that was how you showed you were “’bout it” back then—a wild and elongated cry of “annnnnnnnnnd what?”). ANNNNNNNNND WHAT? YOU GON’ DO SOMETHIN’? YOU GON’ DO SOMETHIN’? YOU WANNA FIGHT???”

At this point I began to panic. OH SHIT. This bitch is trying to fight me. Awww damn. I thought she was gonna back down. Now everybody’s lookin’. She looks crazy as shit in the eyes. This bitch is fittin’ to whoop my ass. She fights allllllllllllla the time. I heard she put a padlock in a sock and hit NeNe with it last week. Damn. My mama’s gonna beat my ass, too. What if I get suspended? I can’t get suspended. I’m a straight A student. This bitch ain’t got nothing to lose. I don’t even know if this bitch can read. DAMN. She’s REALLY trying to fight me. FUCK. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I felt all eyes on me as Remonica continued to stand there at the ready. I had to turn it around so that I didn’t look like a punk, but I couldn’t fight this bitch. It was too much of a gamble.

I called to mind every hip hop video I’d ever seen in my life, and doing my best rapper-dismissive-slight-of-hand, said, “Man, whatever. You’re not even worth it. Whatever.”

She continued to shit talk as I walked away, and I continued to counter with “Yeah, yeah, whatever, whatever *interject rapper-dismissive-slight-of-hand* whatever.”

*****************

I made it out alive.

No harm to my physical well being, no smear to my reputation, academic or social, and no unrest in my home life. And ultimately Rob and I connected, and were able to touch and agree on my unugliness.

But whenever I’m pressed to remember the tragedy of inaction, this story comes to mind, and I relive it, again, as if it were yesterday.

I don’t know what ultimately became of Remonica Jenkins. I don’t know if she made somebody of herself or if the sins and misgivings of her youth were redeemed in adulthood like so many of mine.

But I know what became of me. I know that I have attended some of the nation’s top schools. I know that I sat through one of the country’s hardest Bars and passed it on the first go round. I have managed to surround myself with loving family and friends. I have a career and make a better than average living when the economy hovers on the brink of a recession. Sexy men always want to see the inside of my undergarments.  Frankly, at the moment, it’s pretty fucking awesome being me.

But, in a moment’s time, all of that could be taken away. We are often felled by circumstance when we least expect it.

Which is why, I sincerely and truly wish that I had fucked that bitch up when I had the chance.

I wish I had whooped her narrow black ass and then walked around her defeated frame, taunting her with cries of “Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd what?”

To this day, I hate that broad. I hate that broad so desperately and so truly.

And to that end—

I don’t know where…

And I don’t know how….

And I don’t know when…

But, “Remonica” I’m comin’ for that ass.

I got an asswhoopin’ in my back pocket with your name on it, bitch.