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 8th 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!!!!”


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.


8 Responses to “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….”

  1. 1 sourpatchkid
    May 11, 2010 at 1:04 pm

    l.m.a.o. this was amazing. your “best rapper-dismissive-slight-of-hand, ‘Man, whatever. You’re not even worth it'” gesture literally had me choking on my morning oatmeal. i feel like every “smart/nerd girl from a good home” has encountered something like this before…and we all want to go back and slap the silly outta someone who tried to play us back in our middle school (and, uh, sometimes high school) days.

    thank you for starting my day off with this. and if you ever find Remonica…throw in a kick to the shin for me. 😉

  2. 2 Carrot2000
    May 11, 2010 at 3:37 pm

    We ALL have a “Remonica Jenkins” in our past. I recently reconnected with one of mine Facebook. I’ve often dreamt of putting a few rolls of quarters in a tube sock (a trick learned from a transvestite prostitute)and beating the shit out of that bitch , looking at the profile picture of her posing in front of her wrinkled champagne-colored satin bedspread from Fingerhut, artfully tacked to the wall as a backdrop in her dirty-ass bedroom, is revenge enough.

    If you find Remonica, call me. We gon’ run up on her ass.

    • May 14, 2010 at 10:23 pm

      i meant to mention that this comment made me LAUGH OUT LOUD in court, the other day. do they sell wrinkled, champagne-colored satin bedspreads in fingerhut? is fingerhut still in business?

  3. 4 bean214
    May 11, 2010 at 5:54 pm

    Had me and my girls straight DYING!!!!! “Remonica, I’m comin for that ass”. *DEAD!

  4. 5 HDC
    May 13, 2010 at 10:54 pm

    Had you not dismissed Ramonica with your Whatver comment, I imagine your brawl could have looked something like this:


  5. May 23, 2010 at 3:57 am

    I remember that “talking” phase…I never had any run-ins like this one though, but I had my haters.


  6. 8 Donn
    November 5, 2010 at 6:16 pm

    “quickly separate any gray areas into definitive palates of black and white.”

    Been through this, this is TWICE NOW….

    “Palate.” Ya taste place.

    “Palette.” Artistpainterthang. Like that thang up there.


    Two can be bitch about stuff.

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a history of my meanderings….


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