The C in D.C: Blame It on the College

For a while now, I suppose you could say I have been in denial. Somewhat not ready to admit it. Daily this truth stares me in the face but I have been keen on just…dismissing the facts. However, at this point, one semester officially behind me and a healthy dose of others ahead, I should be sensible about the situation. Come to comfortable terms with things because as they say, it is what it is, right?

Admittedly, I am between a rock and a hard place. One might say stuck between a life and a college place. What I mean by that is at 23 years old (going on 24 cough cough) I am not your traditional student. A modern, perhaps progressive ideal of what students in 2011 look like, but certainly not suffering from fresh-out-of-high-school-free-from-mommy-and-daddy syndrome. Look it up – at this point I am convinced something of the sort actually exists. Yet I am surrounded by just the type: excited, crazy, no thinking gulp drinking scared albeit willing 18-22 year olds; the traditional college bracket. What can I say: I took some time off. And while it isn’t all about age, that all too identifiable number posted on our foreheads for others to determine our worth and maturity (not to be confused with our credit scores which act as a similar discriminator), it is about experience, mindset and continual development. I have always been told I am not a typical ___ year old (whatever age I may be at the time), but instead am more mature and adult-like (whatever that means). Someone even confused me with a grad student the other day. You see where I am going with this?

So while I am fully enjoying all that college has afforded me, be it the curiosity, the education, my peers and our collective community of ambition, I can’t help but grasp that I am in a different lane in life than my fellow Bison. Not necessarily a better or more advanced lane – after all, isn’t life all about perspective? – but a separate lane nonetheless. Case and point: a few weeks ago I found myself invited to hang out at a dorm. Since this is my first semester at Howard, I have a few orientation classes and whatnot in which I have made friends with freshman and sophomores. Drinking at a dorm is something I did when I was 18 and 19 at UCLA and USC, ironically not being in college myself. I digress… now that I am an academic, I fancy myself taking part in all aspects of college life. I had a great time: the 19 year old me drank, laughed, joked, dared and for a few hours completely submerged myself in my friends. Then the 23 year old me came out to play: halted the drinking pre-limit (and proudly sans a hangover), kept an eye on the time to avoid commuting home at an unsafe hour, and watched we gore as 2 particularly robust  freshman boys drank like that bottle of Crown (yes! Crown Royal) was the absolute last bottle that they may ever see in life. My body ached for their inexperienced yet ripened kidneys and I, unlike them, knew their tomorrow would be a painful one.

When I relayed the night to a friend from back home, already out of the college club and in a similar life lane as I, she laughed; partially unsure if I was serious, somewhat confused as to why I would be drinking with illegals (I mean when you put it that way…). She understood my desire to partake in what ‘college kids do’ but was quick to point out that unlike them, I can go to a bar and just socialize with folks in my lane, who also have a legal ID and can guzzle outside of an RA-guarded dorm. Touché.  I do that I assured her, but I suppose in my eagerness to do what I thought college kids did I ignored that I am simply beyond that sneak-a-toke stage. Beyond smuggling Smirnoff into my room under the guise that I’m almost an adult so it’s ok. Beyond calling home for extra money this week because I couldn’t balance my big kid account and now needed a real grown up to bail me out. Beyond not knowing better because I have been there and done that. But it was her phrase “hey, that’s college life” that really stuck with me. What’s college life mean for me? If Jaime Foxx can blame his indiscretions and recklessness on alcohol, can’t I blame my slight whimsy for the next few semesters on the college?

I’ve decided that yes, I can. And then again no, I can’t.

I’m young – 23 and some change – and allotted a pi-esque number of crazy, fun, illogical, last-night-was-insane moments in which I can look back and beyond these priceless college years and onto my youth in general, all whilst smiling. I don’t want to be so stifled in this self-inflicted age genre that I don't explore outside my box. Still, I do know better than to reek havoc simply because I'm in college and that may or may not be what college kids do. I came onto this campus with a personal objective and a unique fire lit under me to continue this journey and finally cross the finish line - regardless of my lane and any other paths I cross doing so. I may not be fresh from high school or under the legal drinking age, but I'm open to this college life and all the madness that comes with it. My college life, that is...

The C in D.C: How to Not Have Sex on the Metro

My first wheels on the open road were epic in every way. It was 2006 and I somehow fanagled my friends dad to sell me their family's 'training' car instead of sending it to a dreary junkyard death. For $200 I became the proud owner of a green 1994 Ford Taurus, with charming engravings on the roofs interior and loads of character dented, peeling and scratched throughout the car. Didn't matter. With my personal CD player connected to the car's cassette opening, I would whip through Orange County - any and everywhere my wheels would take me. Until...the transmission fell through the bottom piece by piece down Santa Margarita Parkway. From there, I've owned a 1988 BMW, a 2008 Scion XB and lastly my 2009 Camry LE. Alas, my auto saga has come to an end for now...

Getting around town in the District can be an efficient, but exhausting task. Sans the need for a car, my transportation options have multiplied: train, bus, taxi, biking or walking. Depending on where you need to go and what you need to do dictates what mode you take. Personally, I'm a metro girl.

Lately I have been forced to commute via metro during peak hours; 6-9 am & 5-7 pm. What that means is that upon entry onto the train I am instantly butt-to-balls with half of D.C. There is nowhere to sit, nowhere to stand. Inevitably you end up on top of some stranger, squished between two poles and a pair of taken seats, with your toes mangled in your shoes griping its soles to stay afloat between jerking stops and shifting passengers. All in all, it can be a trying journey.Last week a women in a twead business suit, knees buckled holding her chic briefcase and worn red bottom Loubutons in tow made a comment that "riding the metro can be like having sex with a train full of strangers". Word. Not to mention the array of colorful characters that are bound to greet you on and off the track. After a few unpleasant and awkward rides it didn't take me long to realize there are rules to the road...er the rail...well, rules of the metro.

1. Always wear your sunglasses - rain or shine, your stunnas aren't for the weather. Au contraire metro rider, you need sunglasses to shield you from the nonsense that is bound to occur on each and every journey.
2. Small talk - it's helpful to have a universal quip or two tucked in your back pocket. People, like the twead woman, will spout out seemingly clever things and anything that can avoid more awkwardness is welcome.
3. But, dont talk too much - unless you are right next to the person you are talking to, do not, by any means, atempt to carry on a conversation worth value across the train. It's tacky, loud, obnoxious...you get it.
4. Ear phones - come without them and you might as well just stick your fingers in your ears. Be it the deafining silence of co-existing strangers, the pulsating beats of the tracks on rails, the faint thump of Jay Z oozing out of some teens Beats by Dre headphones or the interesting yet personal conversation you should so happen to overhear in the booth ahead of you. Sidenote: discussing last night's escapades is quite entertaining to hear and imagine.
5. Keep your bag close & your phone closer - theivery. helllooooo?
6. Water, gum or the like - I have developed a huge fear (thanks D.C) of being stuck, trapped or somehow involuntrily on the train for a long amount of time. Imagine: me, a car full of randoms, hunger, annoyance & desperation...yikes! Bring it with - you'll thank me later.
7. Be ready to act quickly - with everyone wedged on a moving closet, it's important that you are able to shift quickly and respond aptly to open space or ushering in & out of the train. Not doing so is justifiable cause for trampling.  

Hmmm...am I missing anything?

The C in D.C: See no AIDS, Hear no AIDS, Speak no AIDS

In the District, I am incredibly outnumbered. Gratefully so, but the facts still daunt me. PSA's sprawled across the city consistently remind me of the stats and in fact, it's overwhelming: 25,000 to 1 in my case. Daily, those odds are growing. In a niche of approximately 600,000 and counting, 25,000 is a number to reckon with. So as a one amongst a many, I'd like to share what I have dubbed my real world awakening.
DC is the countries top metropolitan affected by the ongoing HIV/AIDS epidemic. Yes.

Epidemic.

Though it is our nations Capitol, many don't realize the facades of the District that make it so dynamic and equally so, dichotomic. While the prestige of the White House and the Supreme Court gleam in the background, the forefront of urban DC looms with drugs, disease and hidden alternative lifestyles. The homeless and displaced are rampant; a cough suddenly feels like the bubonic plague reincarnated and panhandlers make more than the employed. The culture of DC, likewise, is extreme: the yuppies and the hoodrats; the politicians and the change-the-worlds; the educated and the blissfully ignorant; Blacks and whites. And the men you see as one sexual orientation during the day, may easily affiliate with another at night. With this, comes the unusual acceptance yet denial (if that makes any sense) of the homosexual population. People know they are here - in fact, 'they' are a decent amount of Washingtonians - yet for some, 'their' own orientation is never to be put on display.

This is especially apparent in the Black community, where the trend of secret alternative lifestyles is controversially accredited for the lack open awareness and testing regarding the topic. Dubbed as being on the down low, or DL, Black men not readily accepting or honest about their lifestyles is not a new phenomenon either here or in other Black meccas like Atlanta. Men on the 'DL' see themselves as heterosexual men, often having families, wife's and straight friends and affiliations. They do not identify with being gay because of the feminine stigma that can accompany that orientation, as well as the flamboyancy and obvious activity. Within the Black culture, a feminine man is seen as a weakness. However, in actuality, these men are gay, if at the very least bisexual and neglect to honestly inform their partners - men and women - of their true lifestyle.

People often passingly snark about the indecisive lifestyles of these men and their inevitable contribution to the problem. Older women warn the younger girls on the supposed signs of a "suspect" man, calling his secretive dabble into both homo & hetero lifestyles "rachett" and "tacky". I have actually been told to look at a man's wrist; if it's strong and assertive he is straight, but if it's weak and dangles, he's obviously gay. The science behind determining who's who is a potent mix of fear, ignorance and stereotyping, but it is nonetheless shared as though it is a prized secret to saving yourself. Are gay men the reason HIV/AIDS is growing within the Black community. No. A factor? Likely. 7% of Black men in DC are infected with HIV. Then again, the lack of communication between partners, the naive assumptions about people and their status, and the avoidance of regular testing are also prime culprits. Regardless, the trend is becoming very apparent in the ever increasing HIV/AIDS cases, with over 45% of new HIV diagnosis in 2009 given to Black Americans. In D.C, often deemed the Capital of AIDS, statistics place the small city at higher rates than those of West Africa - 3% of the total population, with no signs of slowing.

 In an effort to make the masses more aware of their sexual M.O, the government and private institutions alike have turned to PSA's. At any given moment, one can walk into the metro, onto the bus, pass signs on the street, see TV or hear radio ads clamoring to alert the masses: wrap it up. Get tested. Be safe. Tell your partner. The language is gentle but the message is urgent - some ads even prescribe a twice a year regimen of testing "in the sun and in the snow". With a ratio of 3 out of 10 condom users in what we call a first world or industrialized country, that is far below enough. A friend recently confided in me that she herself was unsure of her standing among the have it's and have nots due to a roaming husband and a shaky marriage. As her support system, and an ode to adapting to my new surroundings of urban living and a testament to my own soap box advice, she and I got tested for HIV/AIDS.

Like most campuses, Howard University has a health care center. Fortunate for us, the health care provided fitted the epidemic it sought to contain - they provided instant HIV testing and results within 15 minutes, sexual health counseling and an abundance of contraceptive freebies. All free. In fact, in the District of Columbia, HIV testing is almost always free with clinics gracing every other street in many neighborhoods. If diagnosed, HIV/AIDS medication is free to any and all who need it. Luckily, my friend and I simply walked away with a bag full of condoms and a renewed sense of sexual responsibility.

Wrap it up. Know your partner. Get tested. It's you against an epidemic - need I say much more...?

. 

Equal At Last: Equality

A guest post from my younger sister, Sydni Bond.

What is still needed to advance towards Gender Equality?

A David Copperfield kind of sunlit path.

Strengthen women’s economic security and rights!

Ten bucks for women. Fifteen bucks for men.

Advance the gender equality perspective, NOW.

Inferiority complex. Crippled by the inadequate amount of Gender Equality.

That kills me!

But now, women’s empowerment is increasing.

I’m glad as hell.

Gender

Slaves had withering injustice. That’s against my principles

The Negro still is not free. Human rights! Crippled by the chains of discrimination.

Racial Justice. By a snob that won’t talk to you.

This situation can and will be changed. Let us be happy and bawling.

An oasis of freedom and Racial Justice. Reduce and end judgement by color.

Judge by the content of their character. He’s a terrific snob.

Racial.
You think they don’t give a damn, but they do.

Inferiority complex.

I sort of miss everybody.

Equality

We will be equal at last.

The C in D.C: Time Won't Give Me Time

Among the many things the city has so diligently taught me these past several weeks, one of them is that time is truly of the essence.

In almost every aspect of life, there is never enough time to do everything one sets out to do. We all complain and quip about it daily, and the cliche thing to say during any idle conversation is that you are tired, busy, sick of being tired or too busy to talk. I feel like that inherent quandary is only confounded when in the city and hustling through each and everyday.

According to the calendar, it is almost the end of October - alas, I am in denial. Four weeks feels like a whirlwind of here and there, do this and that, back and forth; my head is dazed with the reality that in the blink of an eye, a month has passed by and soon, I'll be on to the next one.

Between the load of classes, the daily rigamaru and the steady and sure traversing of the D.C social scene, the extras that have popped up during the last month have been amazing, exhausting, and fantastic all at the same time. Here's what I mean:

Despite all my attempts at planting, watering, hoeing and waiting - money has yet to grow on a single tree for me. Leaving my failed green thumb behind, I was able to find a job doing what I used to do back in the day before I got on the corporate hamster wheel - babysitting. Anyone who knows me knows I adore kids, especially babies, so this is perfect for me, my schedule and I can still make mullah. Since I came to D.C to not only finish school, but also get my hands dirty with my career in Public Relations, babysitting will keep me fed while I chase my true goals. Speaking of...

Last week Howard had a massive Career Fair featuring some of the countries best PR/Marketing/Advertising companies (Read: Publics and Waggner Edstrom), as well as TV & Film bigwigs (Read: MTV, BET & HBO). With my newly tweaked resume highlighting all my awesomeness and my best 'interview' smile, I did the networking rounds to several booths and even had a few on-the-spot interviews. Survey says? Success! I received a lot of great feedback and HR cards for spring and summer internships. And so, the applying and waiting game begins.

In the meantime, I have officially become a member of the Howard PRSSA National chapter; HUPRSSA. In short, it is an established collegiate organization for students majoring in fields such as Public Relations, Advertising and the like. Howard happens to be the oldest (and best!) HBCU chapter of the association. It's a great venue to discover internships geared for Communication majors and will specifically aid me in gaining the skills I'll need to be a kick-ass PR talent.

I am now writing for a national online magazine based at Howard, 101 Magazine. Though I'm loving PR more and more,  my ultimate personal goal is to become a columnist. Working for 101 Magazine has allowed me to venture into both realms, while also padding my digital repertoire. I've been able to learn more about my writing style, what works best for magazines and online readers, assist in publicizing the site and help my editors think of story ideas for both the online and print magazine. It has been a great and educational experience. And now I am officially published!

What's more: Howard celebrated it's 87th Homecoming! The entire city came alive for the legendary week, where The Mecca lit up with celebrities, honorary alumni and students, like me, who soaked up the Bison spirit. HU....YOU KNOW! Chris was able to fly out and we spent the week exploring and enjoying all of D.C. Even the weather paused its steady fall transition to allow the sun to make several appearances.

And with that, D.C is officially in prime fall mode. Lately, I have been stopping during my walks about town just to stare at the trees. Being that I am from Cali, our foliage is simple: dead or alive. There is no 'cycle' or obvious stages of living or dying. However, the east coast is beaming with reds, oranges, browns, yellows and every variance in between. And though I know that these trees, like this year, is on it's way out - I can't help but linger on it and how far both have come. Reflect on how just a few months ago they seemed so full of life and possibility and now, seemingly accomplishing all they came to do - air and opportunity - and now are gearing to make their graceful exit from center stage.

November is settling to bring up the rear of the year... and I still have so much to do before I clock out of 2011. Stay tuned.

The C in D.C: The Politics of Death

Calling D.C a 'political city' is an understatement. Knowing it is the center of all things bureaucratic, legislative and municipal is much more like it.The Districts veins ebb and flow with the political jargon of lobbyists, Congressmen and women, Senators, Representatives and the ever present hopeful intern, faithfully trailing along the way, trying to grasp every name and duty thrown their way.Not only is it the home of all three branches of American Government, but also the place of change and civic rebellion of the status quo. Dred Scott v. Sandford, Plessy v. Ferguson, Roe vs. Wade - the list of notable Supreme Court decisions is ceaseless. History is a testament to that.

And now, so is this week.

For two decades, the case of Troy Davis has resounded in the South and slowly but surely made its unjust presence known throughout the country and the world. On August 19, 1989 a trivial argument over a can of beer between a friend of Davis' and a homeless man ended in the shooting and murder of Mark MacPhail who was working as a security guard at Burger King. Troy was convicted in '91 of his murder and sentenced to death by execution. Though witnesses at the time claimed they saw Davis shoot MacPhail, and incidentally the homeless man as well, time has since changed 7 of the 9 key witnesses stories, and they now claim Davis is innocent of the shootings. The police never found a murder weapon, obtained physical evidence or DNA from the scene; their entire case revolved around testimony - now completely inadmissible - and matching bullet casings from a prior shooting Davis was convicted of. The myriad of facts are seemingly regardless now; the overall lack of evidence, his original lackluster attorneys, the four scheduled and then cancelled execution dates, the countless appeals and court proceedings, the massive continual outcry of injustice and inhumanity. All the matters now is that on Monday, September 19th the State of Georgia scheduled a hearing for Davis' 2nd clemency hearing. On Tuesday it was denied. And by Wednesday, after heart stopping last minute Supreme Court deliberation to review Davis' stay of execution request was denied, Troy Davis was indeed executed at 11:08 pm in the state of Georgia.

Though some would say that Davis was guilty, some would conversely say he was innocent and others among us may simply not care about a would-be criminal of any sort locked away on death row. However, Troy Davis and his case were anything but typical. The supreme lack of evidence, both then and unsought after now, is the key to the universal disparity and applicability of this case. Anyone who should so happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time accosted by a mob mentality of pointing the finger at any sacrificial lamb who appears to be guilty could be the next Troy Davis. Any man or woman, in the state of Georgia or outside of it, can be accused and convicted of a heinous crime such as callous murder should a mere few of the many factors needed in a civic court of law just so happen to line up and earn you a conviction, consider yourself Troy Davis. And when a seemingly sophisticated circuit of the highest courts in our society throw the book at you and sentence you to the barbaric and inhumane ledge of execution, despite obvious objection and with every inkling of doubt amid it's decision - then everyone of us has the opportunity to be Troy Davis. Injustice reared its ugly unlawful head this week - we all got a long and through look.

Now living in D.C perhaps I was made more aware of the proceedings going on both here and in Georgia because of the role of the Supreme Court, and it's proximity to my backyard. As a student at one of the most politically active Black colleges, my peers and I spread the word and others marched to the White House. Though Troy himself cannot be saved, the world knows his name and will never forget. And ambitiously speaking, this should never happen again. Please, let his story be a testament to that.

The C in D.C: Learning My History Amongst The Mecca

Howard University, 'the Mecca' for some who don't know, is a Historically Black University; an HBCU. Meaning it was established and is promoted as an institution for the advancement and greater education of Black people; moreover, minorities.While that implies several things, likely some of them true, it does mean that the history and contributions of Black people are truly highlighted, analyzed and celebrated. Most importantly, they are talked about to begin with. Though I didn't transfer from a backwards college in California nor an ignorant one, I should confess and explain that history - my history - was neither discussed or revered. We got the obligated synopsis of Mr. Columbus and his colonizing claim to fame; The Revolution and the American audacity for freedom; Slavery and its ugly omnipresence; Civil Rights and the endless struggle. A recap, if you will, that gets pawned over year after year in grade school. Admittedly, a large reasoning for my initial application to such a school, an HBCU, was that yearning and curiosity that college ignites: who am I? Where do I come from? What do I believe?

These thoughts had never been mauled over too much because I, for a long time, have been somewhat embarrassed at my lack of even knowing about my people. Suburban raised, I knew more and felt most comfortable with my Caucasian counterparts than with those who looked, hailed from and were seen as 'like me'. For some, this may seem like an easy fix: read a book, look it up or seek it out. For me, however, it was a mindset I was craving. A total overhaul of ideology, commonality and reference. And with that...here I am.

A part of my rigorous first semester at Howard is the mandatory selection of an African history class. Gleefully I signed up for what is, in so many ways, the first attempt at my history. Foremost, there is, in fact, a difference between 'African History' and 'African- American History', not just geographically, but in all other facades. Howard certainly distinguishes as such, and so, now do I. The choices were endless - The Harlem Renaissance, Intro to African Literature, African Systems of Thought, Black Asthetics, Contemporary Black Writing - and so was my decision as to where to begin this historical wonderment that had, in part, brought me to the East Coast. My decision was Afro - 193: The History of West Indians in America. As I sit in this class now, like I will for the next 14 weeks, already my horizon is on the brink of awe. Names I have vaguely skimmed in textbooks are now being brought to life in full dimension,through reflective context and most importantly, laiden with the truth. A raw truth already shocking, a tad disheartening and seemingly too blatant to be true, but it is. Black history is American history. Visionaries who would otherwise be lauded with awards, titles and respect had they been white, are so readily dismissed by the very history they were born to create. Students of life never introduced to the very people who died upholding the 'dream' and 'promise' of life and liberty that make America what it is.

Here, at the Mecca, actual home to names like Thurgood Marshall,  Kwame Toure or as the world has come to know him,Stokely Carmichael, this history - our history - has a place. And here, at Howard, I have begun to find what I have been looking for on the path to discover the answers to those universal collegaite questions of self...

C in D.C: Quakes, 'Canes and A Little Morning Mobile Masturbation

The District has welcomed me with open arms.

Very blunt, public and interesting arms, but open nonetheless.

As a new and excited member of this politically intriguing, culturally satisfying and historically enriching community, I feel as if the world has just opened up. And in so many ways, it has. Though I am here for school, this District is certainly teaching me about life, about true city life and the hardest lesson of all - about myself. Class is now in session:

With actual classes starting Monday and my boxes from California still amongst the postal chaos, I had lots to get done this week in order to get somewhat settled. Grocery shopping. my habitual run(s) to Target ( I really can't get enough of that place no matter where I am), meet-n- greets with friends of friends and naturally, school run around. All of this on the Metro and yes, on foot. I'm from a place where a car is key to any efficient or social life at all.

However by Tuesday, I got a small tidbit of home that I think others could have lived without. A 5.9 earthquake struck Virginia and rippled through the District and Maryland. Howard shook like a flag in the air while hoards of people screamed for their life. Yes, screamed. Because screaming has always been the protocol for emergencies such as earthquakes. *shrugs*

With the quake heard round the east, classes were dismissed indefinitely ( hindsight: it was only until Thursday), as were most other schools and business, and all of D.C was free to roam about. True to character, I used that time to try a new happy hour: Zatanya in downtown. Success.

By Thursday, life has ensued and I headed to a full day of classes: Communication orientation, West Indian history, Spanish and Social Theory. However, I didn't even make it to class when I caught wind of a very private, very intense masturbation session with some strange man in his car. On the street - the main street. I didn't believe my eyes, until I saw what I saw increasingly getting closer and closer as I walked toward my school and inevitably, toward him. After the initial shock and dismay, I proceeded to vow I would always walk the streets with my sunglasses on; day or night, just for any extra protection against any added visuals. And prayed I may never see him, or his member, again.

Thursday also brought about news of a possible hurricane approaching the east coast. Irene was set to touch down in North Carolina by Saturday. Family and friends from the west coast flooded my phone with tips and warnings about how to be careful during a hurricane. Might I add, to the best of my knowledge, only one of them had actually been in a hurricane. I digress...I prepped like any naive person would: I just starting buying stuff. Extra food, toilet paper, and a personal Brita filter...anything I could get my hands on. Stores were filled to the brim with weary and nervous neighbors looking to purchase just one more candle, one more battery to hopefully keep them safe against the 'cane. After spending all day Friday personally attempting to stimulate the economy, I exhaustively set out to finally unload the last of my traveling boxes from home and make my room complete. The weekend started off quiet, but it wasn't long before consistent and heavy wind-assisted rain drenched D.C. Though we didn't get nearly the worst of it, the city was bathing in Irene's water, with Virginia and of course, North Carolina getting the brunt of her wrath. Indoors and without the balls to step more than a few feet out of the house, I watched Irene from my window and the porch. What a feisty bitch. Sunday bought about some of the best sun and breezes that I have seen since leaving California and because of that, all is forgiven between Irene and I.

Alas, my week was one I may never forget here in the District. A first for so many things on so many levels. Not many people can say they experienced an earthquake and hurricane all in one week. Now I will. And should anyone ever ask me what I feared most during this week of firsts in D.C., assuming I will respond with either the quake or the 'cane, it will now, and forever be, the man with the mobile morning masturbation.

The C in D.C: And It Starts

Once upon a time, say last year, a young 20-something year old dared to pursue her dreams. Better yet, she finally stopped dreaming. She'd never seen fulfillment fully done, didn't know exactly what to do or how to make 'it' happen but something, just something in her knew it was time to start living what she thought she was born for. Self-doubt and lack of imagination had kept her hostage for far too long.

With the types of her keys and the support of several inspirations, she lept...onto the pages of college applications, hoping somewhere in between the generic someone would see her passion and propel her toward her future. Name. Check. Address. Check. Reason for applying? To conquer the word as a writer. Little did she know, that was easier written than done. Eight applications later, she waited. And waited. And waited, for what seemed like a lifetime. Her lifeline lay in the balance of when, where and what if.

It was the beginning of Spring and an all encompassing transition on the horizon; the leaves awakening, the sun peeking through the winter slumber, and the arrival of possibility in the mailbox. Atlanta. San Francisco. San Diego. But it was D.C., the east coast and so far from home in sunny and temperate Southern California, that captured her curiosity and confirmed her road to Howard University.

In fact, that is where we find our anxious, newly acquainted city-girl now: in the throws of change roaming around an unknown jungle where the final moments of the old and the beginning of the new are encroaching. With the end of her first full week in tow, but very much at the start of what is bound to be a wonderful and challenging chapter...

A strangers plea

Princesa
Im writing this directly from me to you - it couldn't come faster from my heart. 
A quasi kindred spirit though we are in every sense so apart.

You dont know me but I feel like I know you. 
So innocent yet so battered and blue
This big wide world is trying its best to swallow you
Trap you into a statistic and never nourish you
Keep you longing by a window and never encourage you
and I just want to give you a hug...

I too am a kite that a bad decision had almost hindered my flight. In so few words, I feel for you. 

Cry on my shoulder and vent about realities tough love. I could be there to listen.

But you have to know better.
You cant run away from life's reality forever. You cant defeat the inevitable no matter how clever - chasing boys instead of chasing books will leave you on the hook for things bigger than you could have ever imagined. I bet your beginning to grasp the possibilities following such an endless white rabbit down a bottomless hole can have. You dont want to be hopeless, lost in his habitual wonderland...
So many have never come out. 

Take this with all the love and concern an absolute stranger can have for another - I do mean well. I have sisters your age and for them to be you, now, makes my tears swell. I wonder where your thoughts are chasing you now... please, just stay. Nothing good has come from tackling the world your way. 
It all seemed so cool, Im sure - fleeing in the night, dismissing those who care about your true light to be with one who would leave you should he like. Think: where is he now? Smoking god knows in back alleys, hanging with who knows and they perpetuate the scene. Believe me pobre chica, mama always said nothing good happens after midnight - especially in the streets of Santa Ana. But I think you may see that now...maybe. Maybe.
Princesa. The world is yours; should you want it enough to have it. Take it. Dont let your life and your will be steered by others who want nothing for you...but everything from you. Alas, right now, you may not have anything else to give but the rest of your life to gain. Take it....I only wish you knew your not alone. No. Your simply in a test and I pray you make it to the other side...wheres there is a hope and possibility.  Nothing, es impossible. Countless women have trudged to pave your way. Keep pushing. Cry when you need to. And push. Breath when you need to. But push. Fight when you have to push push push to acheive what some may not think is in your future. Princesa...I dont know you and yet I know your boundless. You should too. 

And I just want to give you a hug. 

Column: Self-Serving Our Way to Becoming Disposable

In an effort to steadily keep up with the leaps and bounds made by 'The Jones', I found myself buying yet another, even smarter, smart phone. Im already behind on the IPad, still dont narrate a Twitter and downloading songs circa 1997 is my new joy and hobby. The least I could do for my tech-cred is to keep a decent phone. It has all the 'necessities' that come standard with todays smarty pants cells, and then some. In fact, the truth is: its smarter than me. This isn't a new revelation, nor a solo one Im sure; but one I am ready to now say and assert out loud. It thinks, predicts and supplies me with information from an endless app mall that could rival any library - all in the palm of my hand. Except when it pauses, hesitates...slows down for any reason, I spaz like Ive lost my best friend. Such is the case today. Instead of eating at lunch, I headed straight for the ATT store and puppy-eyed them as soon I as walked in the door - 's.o.s, my phone isn't thinking for me'.

EXCEPT - i wasn't met with a person or any form of a real live human being. When they realized my service was cut off for being a DAY late with my bill (that I hadn't known was due - hello, I just got the phone), immediately I was directed to the holy Kiosk - a huge burden of a machine in the middle of the sales floor and the ultimate would-be demise of half the employment in the store. To get help doing almost anything -paying said late bill, checking coverage, getting tech help or adding a line - the Kiosk was my go-to right man. Er, well right Kiosk. In fact, one of the overly paid and unnecessarily employed employes told me that to get actual help it would cost me $5 per transaction. So all in all, Im paying you to do your job....that your already being paid for? Nonsense. However, this is not the only place that is doing this.

For years, self-serve stations, kiosks and registers have poped up everywhere from the grocery store to post offices to international airports, all with the higher goal of efficiency in mind. YOu and I use them regularly and without apprehension; corporations swear customers appreciate the productive and timely service, and employees are free to handle other concerns. But at what cost? While it may not always be a nominal charge, using self-serve help comes at a different price. Lack of catered assistance, personal interaction and continually relying on technology to assist us in the most basic of needs - literally, in need - is a problem to be thought about. As well, the need to consider actual people and their contingent employment based on the usage of these self-service stations versus the employee; lets face it, its cheaper to buy a few machines then to maintain a salaried employee. I for one appreciate the occasional convenience - but it far too often come with mass-tailored questions, roundabout waiting and, my personal pet peeve, entering in your information several times. In such a case, as is the norm far too often, I will take the overly-bubbly far too talkative girl behind the counter who may be a smidgen less efficient than a kiosk, but whom I can engage i a personal interaction with, whilst meandering for the help I need.

Just dont have me pay her $5 extra bucks - thanks.

I Think

I think...
I think I may have found it, but I don't want to say.
Like a child in play, Im afraid it may be sought after, snatched up, or worse, taken away.
This discovery is made from life's beautiful things...its bliss enrapturing and Im caught in its spellbinding ring. The result leaves me breathlessly smiling.
Time waits for no one and this finding has impeccable timing.

Im ready for something incredible.

I think...
I think he may be right on time. Appearing when there was nothing but lost hopes, sighs and cries. A tackled heart crushed by a crush gone awry...
A doubled-over party hangover from which some life didnt survive.
Yet Ive found he - he, I - here like a silver lining not to save me, but to be by my side and help me shine.

Cautious whispers that say I may [not] find something better one day are uninteresting; Im happy today - who has time to worry what tomorrow may bring?
Complexity rearing its head making its way into my happiness...
After other attempted couplings, you would think this girl would look at past stings and say - don't rush things. Ah,
But don't all great fools rush in? This thing I have found may begin to tinge with the 'what if' its festering in should I not enjoy it, and fully delve in - I don't want to miss what so innocently began as...Hi.

The difference in what I have now from my past demise is profound. Call me jaded but I started to think men like this simply weren't around - maybe I got the last one? Im not looking for anymore to be found. One's all I need.
I think...
I think...
I know I havent known this feeling of adoration in a long time.
I just hope you'll stay awhile.

Limitless

Life is blazing and Im where I want to be
The heavens are bestowing upon me all my dreams
Here I float, purely on excitment and endless possibility
Slow down world - your making me high
Am I really ready for a topless sky?
Without boundaries and limits and plenty of room to fly
...I don't ever travel below the radar so naturally its only among the stars that I shine.
Previously enraptured by self-doubt but now with confidence in surplus supply
I zoom about the Galaxy of the Best with a rocket befitting one of this quest; just I.
Surprise -
That twinkle in your eye that you saw when you looked at me
wasn't a coincidence or serendipity but rather realization that my destiny
is manifested since day one of time: Greatness...who am I not to comply?

In this moment at this time the world is mine.

A universe of 'I can do anything' simply give me time - to grow and work out the details. Prepping for 'what if ' does not equate 'I may fail'.
Continue to breath in hope and opportunity
And produce results amid progress as I exhale
Walk with intention and stomp with determination...they will always hear me coming. Dont say I didnt warn thee
Live like there is no tomorrow
My now is in this moment and benefiting from the cosmos - lucky me -
see fit to keep me winning
Consider my dreams completly within my grasp and like Fabo... just throw 'em in the bag.

The Future Belongs to Those Who Believe in the Beauty Of Their Dreams...

Mama May Have

God bless the child thats got its own...
Running a comb through my hair
I look up and she is solo there
Just my mother, with her longing look and her blank stare
Out the window to where life is moving and shes stuck, feeling trapped in here.
See Ive always known
Her heart loves me so but her head is elsewhere. She deserves to be she,
but shes always mommy to me, daddy too to unrelenting degree -
herself secondary and in return, I am allowed to be free.
Unhinged to the swinging door of single breeding. The cycle is vicious -
Ive learned from her disposition.
Bills on the brain, with{out} a way to maintain - shes solo, you know so
The world is on her shoulders yet shes always trying to keep in the game...
Life is playing {un}fair, but whos to referee?
Papa may have.... his freedom, but he never sees me
Has no idea where I be - lost or alive, {un}loved or treated kind. Hes fucked and out of luck;
his trivial influence to undermine. Im a product completely of her design. Independent.
This cycle of circles, intertwined between haste, exhausting my mother
but for me she has always stayed.
Blessed for me that shes got her own - and from her I have my own.
A women with no silver spoon but here I am, the silver lining.
Everything that she is, I am , and I have it all.
Sometimes, I just have to remember, mama may have
but from her, I have it all.

Column: Im not waiting for Mr. Right- more like Mr. Realistic

Back in 2009, being single was a mandatory breath of fresh air. I had recently broken up with (or he broke up with me – depending on who you ask) my live-in boyfriend of a year and a half. The same boyfriend whom, at the time, I lucidly saw myself marrying, baby mama-ing and complacently spending the rest of our amazing days together. However I was on the verge of 21, he already encroaching 26, and for one reason or another, the clear picture of my domestic future got beer-goggles once I stepped into the ‘adult’ world of legality. Everything was so exciting and social…we all know how fun life can be once laced with the hypnotic allures of alcohol and freedom. Read: I liked to go out, he liked me home; we broke up.

Since that wonderful learning experience, I have dated/encountered an interesting myriad of boys, men and assholes alike to come to a very real and sound conclusion – there is NO Mr. Right. Perhaps several Mr. Right-nows, Mr. Right-ons, certainly a dash of Mr. He-can-get-me-Right and yes, a fair share of Mr. Wrong’s; but alas, no for sure Mr. Right. Why is that? Simply put, no one is perfect, No one man, woman, anyone will be your ‘everything’, all the time, forever. To be frank, Im not sure if I would want a man like that – seems too good to be true and that’s because it is.
What I have come to realize, however, is that there are Mr. Realistic: men who are not perfect, but encompass several (if not many) traits, qualities or preferences you may like, and more importantly, can deal with dating. And while I am still young, occasionally reaching for those rose-colored beer-goggles to make what isn’t realistic at least convenient and suited for the moment, I can say that what I wish for versus what I cant live without in a person are becoming clearer than they have ever been.

A guy who has the basics

· Like your favorite recipe for chocolate chip cookies, or your moms amazing and irresistible lasagna, a good man like a good meal needs the basics. I call them basics because really, this is where it should all start. While every woman is different, my basics are pretty standard and non-negotiationable: respectful, honest, a sense of personal morals and justice, kind, humble, friendly, and able to be around others without turning into someone else. The last one may not seem so basic, but it has become a necessary staple to have with men I even care to get to know past, “Hi may name is”. Don’t be an asshole, a douche, a womanizing man whore or a liar who can’t even remember his own real name. I will call you out, leave you for ‘dumped’ and never ever look back.

A guy whos both fun, responsible, silly, intense, outgoing but shy…

· Im admittedly full of contradictions and to some degree, I feel a lot of people are as well. Whether they are as readily to admit it as I am is an entirely other story. Regardless, I want someone who doesn’t necessarily ‘fit’ into a type; your not this and your not that. I consider myself boundless – Mr. Realitstic should be too.

A guy who makes me laugh and can laugh with me

· This is a combo request: I thoroughly love to laugh and find so many things either hysterically funny or tragically amusing. Either way there is laughter. I don’t need you to make a production or stand-up routine out of everything, but having an innate sense of humor is key. I like to think of myself as someone who doesn’t take things too seriously, especially when dating someone, and needs a like-minded mate to be on that same page with me. Really, it’s a wonderful page to be on.

A guy who wants to teach me

· As an undercover(s) nerd, I enjoy learning about anything and everything. Im no child prodigy, but I find new facts, information and ideas tantalizing and dare I say it, mad sexy. Teach me something new…Im intrigued. Introduce me to your passion…Im interested. Include me in some of your favorite diversions…Im yours.

A guy who has goals to execute

· This is a bit of a biggie. While I don’t expect you to rule the free world a la Obama, be the next Jay-Zoutselling Madison Square Garden, or even create what would become the ‘computer’ like Bill Gates, I do need you to have a dream. And not only a dream, but a means and plan on how to capture that dream and make it reality. Whether you want to help make the world a greener place (pun possibly intended) or simply be a tycoon, just do it. I, like so many other women, admire the steadfast nature so many men have, but so many men tend to let slip in between their grinding fingers. Women want to help you be the best and most prosperous you; let us. Just promise you’ll be more than a lost dreamer…

A guy who lets me be me…

· When in a relationship, I am the epitome of ‘girlfriend’. Im all about ‘us’ and what ‘we’ can do/see/eat/go/try together. Its in my female nature to want to dote on someone else, and when in a relationship, that someone becomes him. Yet, even in that picturesque mode, it is in my human nature to need to simply be me sometimes. Do things solo, make mistakes despite your warned attempts, engage in new friendships beyond ‘us’ and continually learn about me. Mr. Realistic would be understanding of this need; not feeling ignored or unloved, just realizing this is a ‘Christine’ thing. Equally, he would need time for him and I would insist on it. Its all about space and boundaries.

A guy who has a similar 5, 10, 15 year plans as I do

· I say, “as I do” in jest, since Im not exactly referencing true plans to say “I do”. Beyond simply getting married one day, and yes, settling down one day, I am more so inclined to talk about the events in-between the seminal ones: where we see ourselves living, perhaps traveling, a job, skill, or trade you may be inclined to explore. All the things people end up doing, but may not be aware of the want to do so. In getting to know more about me, I have become aware of the nomadic path I see my future taking and I am very comfortable with having several address, seeing the world from the back of a bus, plane, or train and all the while writing about life, love and this sought after pursuit of happiness. My Mr. Realistic should probably have some of these fantasies as well. Marriage, babies, and picket fences will be par for the course…the latter end of the course.

These things will change, evolve, and improve as will I. But for now, Mr. Realistic...heres what's required.

Vice

If you listen closely, you can hear them. Trying. Seeping through my walls, under my door, in between my window panes...crawling into my world from right beyond the next.

Them - these - infinite cravings entice me, moaning in the night well into day; well into a deep and desperate unrest. The yearns lull me at times - a habitual lullaby - its rhythmic beating, persistent against so many morals and ethics; despite so many attempts to extinguish its whispers. It cries louder and louder, hungered by the tasty tidbits of the city:
Lights, camera, action....enter, addiction. Onto stage left. Creeping to center stage. Cue the junkies. Them - they - want to be my new friend.

Keep on. Cant you tell its from a place so near...
glamorous ideas of grandeur: pop me, snort me, smoke me, invite me via vein if it means I'm yours. The taunting is never lost and all too readily found, invading my space and calling my name. It knows me by name, by face and try as I may, my head leans toward the the lures at times.
Here, here, I can supply your curiosity's whims if you'd only let me in...
The nights are lonely and any company is sometimes welcome. Even if it may become a monkey on my back.

Nights darkness can cover the illicit affairs. Secret procedures and hazed recoveries. Enjoy and repeat Im told. Sounds like so many played out movies. Like so many played out stars. But its night and any and every star can shine brightly if exposed to the right concoctions. Including me. What once swallowed me into sleep with its breathy temptations now keeps me awake thinking and hints at the endless bounty awaiting me - should I just let them in. Crawling from the world right beyond the next, should I just let them in.

Only hours before the sun kissed dawn and Im alone left to wonder. How bright do I want to shine... Should I just let them in?

Column: The Black Burden

While watching my nightly indulgence of lighthearted sitcoms on a well-known black network, I was shocked to find myself bombarded with numerous airings of a ridiculous and racist commercial that I couldn’t believe was actually airing; on this station, countless times. It began with your typical surge of public opinion after the narrator asks, “ What is the #1 cause of death of African Americans?” People naturally stated the obvious leaders - HIV/AIDS, gang relations, murder, cancer, and others causes sharing the similar fatal outcome. I, along with those featured, were curious to find out this mystery answer, thinking 'Im black, the people on the ad are black, this is a black network – how educational and opportune of them to inform their viewers of this assumed ‘killer’ on the loose and how I can now be aware and possibly avoid it', right? If only it were that simple.
This “cause of death” – as inaccurately phrased in my opinion – was revealed to be abortions. In fact, they state that black abortions, or abortions performed on black women, make up 35% of all abortions and because of such, has reduced the black population by over 25% since 1973. Bluntly put, “a black baby” – ‘baby’ being an emotional word since no abortion is ever performed on an existing baby – “is three times more likely to be aborted than a white baby”. I will be the first to say that this news is overwhelming. It saddens me, as the double-minority black female they are targeting to hear such facts. It is truly a problematic situation of despair and an extreme lack of preparation or planning that even allows for disheartening statistics like these. And while I have all the sympathy in the world for women, of any color, who have come to this life-altering decision and feel the need to go through with an abortion, I in no way excuse or appreciate this propagandized commercial.
Fueled by blackdignity.com, the ad directly reflects abortion within the black community as not having pride or dignity for our race, and irresponsibly ‘causing’ a sort of genocide within ourselves. The commercial proceeds to show the stunned faces of young black people, like myself and the rest of their targeted fertile and youthful audience watching, hearing the reality that because of abortions, the black community is diminishing, all while loosing our distinction and character. Translation? Having an abortion is wrong. Why? Not wrong because God says so, or because it’s a huge decision that no one should really have to make, not even because of the possible health and emotional trauma one may have. No, its wrong because it’s causing black deaths of a collection of cells that scientifically and biologically, have yet to form anything, let alone an actual child. Moreover, a black child. But I digress…
I feel the strongest point this commercial - fear tactic - lacks in its entire thirty-two seconds of airtime is that truly, in reality, a lack of education to young people, especially women, along with a culture built around glamourous and unsafe sex is the root in this swell of terminations. Often people illustrate the term abortion with literally killing a child and that is far from the case. Abortion, by definition, is a procedure to end pregnancy, yes, but at a safe and humane stage of cell mutation when a fertilized egg is still an embryo. As well, people don’t end pregnancies for no reason, regardless of race and ethnicity; 100% of the time the situation, whatever it may be, is not conducive to bringing a child into the world. Supporting it, loving it and nourishing a soul both financially and emotionally, as society demands are not within capacity for so many people. Reluctantly, one cant hash over the state of abortions now, without reeling where abortions have been. Whether you are pro-life or pro-choice, it is hard to deny the menacing history self-imposed misbirths have been for women, let alone black women, and the humane progress that has been made. We have come from literally poisoning ourselves in hopes of ridding an unwanted fetus, to physically using rusted wire coat hangers to end a shameful pregnancy. Yet in 2011, there is still the humiliation and an unspoken social shun of terminating a pregnancy and because of such, women turn to disastrous methods- including back- alley abortions. All of this is reality, but you didn't see any of this the half-minute guilt trip. Instead, the commercial continued the cycle of disgrace that comes along with abortions and the decision to have one, instead of providing a resource for real dignity, real pride, real self-respect: education. Education is the key to ‘save’ the black culture from its supposed genocide due to abortions. Informing young people about the risks and reprocutions of sex - even if some think its a dead horse issue. With a 3:1 ratio of black abortion, the topic is far from over-discussed. Still no one is doing so – condoms are seen as accessories not necessities, birth control is expensive and not readily available. Ironically, the culture trying to be saved is the same culture that praises rims over responsibility, hood rich instead of soundly wealthy; dough boys instead of doctorates and diplomas. Our deficit in education is the true culprit for the 35% of women who feel they have no choice, know no better, and are forced to stand in the statistical line of women who are branded as being guilty of not only aborted 'babies', but hopes and dreams. That, Im sorry to say, is the true black indignity.

A memorable meet

Arrogance is self inflicted ignorance, not confidence as always referenced. You wear it so well, its weird that you actually got caught up in its spell; its confusion, its desire, its facade. 15 minutes of fame because your submerged in lifes game...until they forget your name when the play doesnt go the winning way. What can I say...you walk the walk and talk the talk but your pride doesnt feed on this scene like it used to...Has no one told you, your better that that? ...I would have assured you.
I must admitt, you do this thing with your cheeks and your grin that might have made me lead to sin had I not remembered what they say and certainly where you've been. Your all too legendary with the female kin. I almost gave in... you almost came down. The high horse you sit atop floating on clouds. The praises they throw that loft you up. I cant lift you that high so here we are stuck. A middle ground unmet and Im disheartened and your stuck up. Dont look now, but I thought the real you was trying to come out. Its sweet and longing, sincere with a drip of earnest. Boy are you sexy when you peek through the spotlight and stand on your own. Cuz I dont believe in shooting stars - fade away dreams or fly by night boys. Empty promises and little kid toys. Then again, you love the flashing lights and how can 1 girl compete with that?