I pledge no Allegiance

I believe when my mother was born she was covered in a Kenta cloth, with a mini African mediation place around her neck. In other words, she was, and still is, the greatest African-American buff I’ve ever known, and I am thankful to have been her faithful student.

The majority of what I know about African- American history I’ve garnered from my mother’s wisdom, and she started early. While my other third grade classmates brought in toys and animals for show and tell I seized the moment to implement black history. I will never forget the puzzled look of astonishment on my teacher’s face as I sat in front of twenty 8 year-olds fluently describing the perils of slavery as if I had flown back in time and got first-hand accounts. I used my black American doll, Addy, as a prop. I placed a scarf around her head explaining how slaves had to wear scarves to prevent sweat from beading down their faces as they worked from sun up to sun down for free on southern plantations.

My mother  received her Bachelor’s Degree in African- American studies from Youngstown State University 18 years prior, and was stead-fast on teaching me everything she knew, and when a teacher sent home a list of Caucasian history makers asking parents to pick which person their child would do a report on my mother replied with a letter of her own.

Dear Mrs. H,

 It pains me to see the list of historians you’ve provided for my daughter to choose from for her report significantly lacks the contributions of African Americans. People of color like Crispus Attucks, who was one of the first to sacrifice his life during the Boston Massacre, making him the first casualty of the American Revolution, or Phyllis Wheatley, who was the first African American poet and first African-American woman to publish her writing. Because of this, my daughter’s report will be Afro-centric, and I will choose from a slew of African American contributors, from which, she will write a thoroughly researched report. Thank you.

                                                                                                          Sincerely,

                                                                                                                       Ms. Terrell

She taught me it was never disrespectful to know your own history, and be proud of it. I learned to stand up for justice whether it was through my actions, or a pen because it was my responsibility to make sure I continued the legacy of my determined forefathers and mothers, who had sacrificed  their lives for me. It was a lesson I never forgot, and never did I imagine that ,at 16, my loyalty to this belief system would be tested.

I was misunderstood by my teachers for being a smart-mouth teen, a modern rebel without a cause with zero regard for authority. However, this couldn’t be further from the truth. I was fully aware of the hierarchy of High school, and had no problem respecting adults. I mean, I was raised by a southern grandmother, who would reprimand any child, who didn’t speak when an  an adult present. What teachers didn’t understand is I respected them as long as I was  awarded the same in return. I didn’t allow anyone to disrespect me regardless of age, gender etc, and it was a lesson my art teacher would have to learn the hard way.

I arrived in class on time with a couple minutes to spare. I chatted with my friends as we prepared to hear the tardy bell and announcements. Everything was going well until the pledge of allegiance began, and I didn’t stand.

“Eartha, you aren’t standing for the pledge,”. My teacher said.

“I know,”. I replied.

“Well you have to stand for it,”. She said.

“No I don’t,”. I replied.

“Yes you do, or you can go to the principal’s office,”! She yelled.

 I don’t know if my teacher expected me to go back and forth with her or not, but she appeared, a tad bit, surprised when I smiled, picked up my Geometry book, and proceeded to walk out her class.

“Eartha. Eartha,”! She yelled down Chaney’s hallway as I continued to walk not once responding to her.

I headed to the bathroom, and called my mom.

“Ma, my teacher just kicked me out of her class because I didn’t stand for the pledge,”. I said.

“What,”.She said. “I’m on my way,”.

I swear my mom must have hoped on a jet to my school because within minutes we met at the glass door of the office with her battle attire ready. She wore her orange, black, and red dashiki, her cheetah-print coat, and her book titled, The Black Book. She was prepared, and had waited for this moment her entire life, and I was more than happy to give it to her.

“Hi I’m here is to speak with the principal,”. My mother said with a stern tone.

“I don’t remember us calling you for a visit,”. The secretary said.

“You didn’t I’m here because my daughter was just kicked out of her class because of her refusal to stand for the pledge,”. My mom said. I was hoping the secretary valued her life because my mother was highly irritated, and looked as mean as a lioness protecting her cub in the wild.

“Well if she just got kicked out, and we didn’t call you, how did you know to be here so quickly,”? The secretary asked.

 Students weren’t permitted to have phones in school, and I knew exactly what the secretary was alluding to. Initially, I was sympathetic, but now I wanted front row seats to watch my mother devour her.  After all, she had earned it.

“That’s irrelevant,”. My mother said. “You’re just a peon with no authority, and like I said before, I need to speak with the principal,”.

The next thing I know we were sitting on a brown leather couch in the principal’s office.

“What can I help you with ma’am,” . Principal C said.

“My daughter was kicked out of her class for exercising her God given right. My children do not stand for the pledge if they do not wish to. Until Justice for all is actually implemented in this country my daughter will not stand,”. My mother said. She reminded me of a young Malcolm X in his prime.

“Well its policy that all students have to stand for the pledge, but can refuse to say the pledge. Your daughter is no exception,”. Principal C said.

“Policy is what kept blacks in slavery for over 400 years Mr. so please do not remind me of policy,”. She said.”

“It’s out of respect for veterans Ms. Terrell,”. He said. “Many men are fighting for our security, and your daughter cannot just ignore that,”.

“My great uncle was a veteran and was welcomed home by being lynched in his uniform. When the Constitution was written blacks were still slaves,”. She said. “Black s were emancipated in 1865, yet wouldn’t truly be afforded the luxuries of that emancipated for another 100 years  in 1965 after the Civil Rights Movement,”. Principal C tried to get a word in, but was unsuccessful. My mother was on a mission.

She was organized. She was systematic. She opened up her book, and pointed to a picture that showed a black man, who had been tied up on a stick with his genitalia severed completely off hovered above a fire pit surrounded by a group of hundreds of white men, women and children.

As if that wasn’t enough to leave anyone stuck in their tracks she proceeded to explain the tortuous inhumane treatment of Africans during the middle passage. She described the lynching epidemic in the 1930s, and finished with her thoughts on the modern-day state of African-American men.

“I worked in the prisons, and I have never seen so many black  men incarcerated in  my  entire life for drugs, which they do not have neither the power nor the economic prowess to obtain and bring into their communities,”. She said. “

“There is no doubt in my mind that this is no sign that America has decided to grant TRUE justice for all so if you, or her art teacher reprimand my daughter for her refusal to stand for the pledge I will contact the NAACP, the media and whoever else I need to,”. She said as she stood with her eyes planted firm on Principal C.

I didn’t have to stand for the pledge.

I believe that day was the highlight of my high school career. I sat down to stand up for an unequal educational system that plagued  children, like myself, in inner city schools like Chaney of Youngstown, Ohio and  for inequality I saw as I walked in my own drug-infested and tarnished city. I took a stand for justice that afternoon. I took a stand for myself because history the heart which  pumps blood through the veins of the future, and by forgetting  our history we ,ourselves, are responsible for the cardiac arrest of our futures.

Harlem Knights Pt.3 :When a good thing goes bad

This was going to be the last time I texted him. It had been a whole week, and I hadn’t heard from Harlem. He asked me to live in Atlanta, and I really was prepared to, heck, and would probably still move if he ever decided to answer his damn phone.

“Brucey, have you heard from Harlem,”? I asked.

“Nope, he has been M.I.A. ever since yall went out,”. He said. “What did you do to him,”?

“Shut up Brucey,”. I replied. “ I dint do anything to that boy,”. I laughed, but inside I was furious. Who did Harlem think he was? You can’t go around asking people to move in with you, and then ignore them for a week. What was his problem? I thought.

“You are such a fool,”. I thought to myself. “You really thought that he wanted to be with you, and he just met you,”? I thought some more. I continued to bombard myself with self loathing thoughts when my phone rang. Without even looking at the caller I.D I quickly answered it.

“Hello,”. I anxiously said.

“How’s Atlanta,”. My mom asked.

My enthusiasm significantly dwindled, and I replied with a dismal “It’s OK ma,”.

“What’s wrong,”? She asked. “Nothing Ma,”. I whined.

“ Okkkkkkkaaayyyy, I was just calling to see how you were doing,”. She said.

“I’m having fun,”. I replied.

“I know my kids, Eartha, so tell me what’s wrong,”. She persisted.

My mother was right. She knew me better than I knew myself, and today she was dead on. I had a serious attitude, but what was I going to tell her?  I couldn’t tell her the truth that I’d traveled miles chasing a love that  may or may not exist, and that I was thinking about moving to Atlanta with  a guy from New York I barely knew, who wasn’t answering my phone calls. The truth wasn’t an option, not at all. My mother would have chewed me out in more ways than one, and would’ve been justified, but right now I wasn’t in the mood. I just wanted to get off the phone, and talk later.

“Ma I’m fine,”. I said. “I’ll call you later,”.

What Harlem didn’t know is that I wasn’t your average girl. I wasn’t the girl who just sat around and waited for prince charming. I was the girl that kept about three back-up princes in the closet just in case the first one didn’t tickle my fancy anymore. I had princes on payroll ready to take his place. I was a keep-your-options open kind of girl, and he was merely a supporting cast member in MY show. Nonetheless, his disappearing act, I had to admit, was reeking havoc on my mental, but I had others to keep me preoccupied.

“So I hear you are talking to Mister, and you guys are in love,”? CR said.

 CR was a guy from school I knew liked me back home in Youngstown. He was a cute guy, very kind to me, and offered me the attention that I should have took heed to, but , being young and unenlightened I didn’t. He was a sweetheart, though, but I just didn’t feel that way for him. I gave him my number just as a courtesy, and I, arrogantly, assumed that was enough to satisfy him.

“Huh,”? I replied. I understood his question I just didn’t want to answer it.

“So is it true, do you and Mister talk,”? He relentlessly asked.

I didn’t really know where this Law and Order interrogation was coming from. CR and I had only talked on the phone a few times, but we were not headed anywhere, but where we were. There had been no verbal contract of any sort between us because there was no need to. I wasn’t interested in him. I just wanted to be friends, but I saw that this probably wasn’t an option.

“We did talk, but we don’t anymore,”. I replied even though it was none of his business.

“So are you guys in love,”? He asked. CR really didn’t want the answer to this question, and I didn’t want to be the one to deliver such gut- retching news, but I guess it was now or never.

“CR, yes we kind of are, but it’s complicated,”. I said. The next text would be one message that would go down in my personal hall of fame of “the one that got away”.

“Eartha, I really care about you, and I know that I care more about you then Mister, or whoever else does. They don’t deserve you, and I know he can’t love you like I can,” CR pleaded.

Even though I was texting I was at a loss for words. “Damn,”. I thought. Why couldn’t I just like him? He was perfect, and never pissed me off, yet I kept chasing these idiots, who seemed to make it their personal mission to mistreat me.

I should have told CR I had a change of heart, and that he was who I wanted to be with. I should have just called him, and lied, but I think that would have been worse.

“I am sorry CR,”. I wrote. “You are a cool dude, and I love talking to you, but I just cant force myself to feel that way about you,”.

I never got a text back, or heard from CR again.

The next day I was unusually happy. It was a sunny day, yet another scorcher in Atlanta so I guess my ass would be inside again under the AC (I have asthma I couldn’t take that risk).

I hadn’t really forgiven myself about CR, but we were only 18- years- old, and he would get over it. I wasn’t thinking about Harlem, well not as much as before. I was just relaxing, and prepared to take on the beautiful day.

I was sprawled-out with my feet up in my Aeropostal shorts and a tank on my aunt’s chair that was in the shape of a stiletto when the door bell rang.

Brucey answered it.

“Why ain’t nobody answering my phone calls,”? Harlem asked. “I’ve been calling y’all all day so we could do something,”.

“Oh no he didn’t just come up in here like I haven’t been calling and texting his ass for the past five days to no avail,”. I thought to myself. This nigga must’ve thought he can run some New York bull, but he surely has the wrong one with me. My mama hadn’t raised a fool.

Fireworks blazed in my head, but when he approached me I held my composure. He was not about to get the satisfaction of witnessing me get out of character on account of his inconsiderateness.

“I don’t have my phone t’s in the bedroom, and I haven’t check it all day,”. I said.

“Oh, OK. I’m trying to do something today,”. He said. “Are y’all down,”?

“Sure we where do you want to go,”? I asked. “Anywhere,”. He replied.

Brucey had mad dashed in front of me to go get dressed, and I continued to move in slow motion towards the bathroom to take a shower when Harlem grabbed my arm.

“I’m sorry ma,”. He said in a whispered tone so only he and I could hear.

“Sorry for what,”? I asked. I was prepared to remain in nonchalant character for as long as it took. I could have won an Oscar that day.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been returning your calls,”. He said. “I just got a new job, and I been working twelve hour shifts,”. He said.

“I usually just sleep during the day,”. He said while trying to sound convincing.

He was persuasive I’ll admit, but I’ve been tired before , and still shot a text to someone so I definitely wasn’t buying what he was selling, but I had to get out that house so I let him slide.

‘It’s cool,”. I replied.

“Yo. For real don’t be like that. I’m sorry,”. He said while staring directly into my eyes.

Damn, he had gotten me. I wish I could say that I stood my ground, and continued to play my position like a short stopper (shout-out to Nelly), but I didn’t. I melted faster than ice cubes left on the kitchen counter too long.

 The rest of the day was fun-filled. We walked hand and hand through the Lenox Mall, and he got me ice cream, chocolate chip cookie dough, my favorite. We drove around some more, dropped Brucey off, and ended back at his place.

We sat and watched some movies, and ate T.V. dinners. I watched the sun set from his balcony while he took a shower. Later he joined me.

‘Yo ,you still thinking about moving here,”?  He asked. “Why so I can be stuck at your apartment for days, and you not respond back to me,”. I snarled.

“Yo,” before he could finish I cut him off. “I’m just playing,”. I said.

“Yea you should come stay here for real. I think you would like it here,”.  He insisted.

“I know I would love it, but I just don’t know,”. I said.

He went outside to get something out of his car when I saw his computer was still logged on to his Myspace page.

Now usually I don’t do this but, hell I’m lying. I hopped on that PC faster than Hayley’s comet. I needed to know why he was too tired to return a call, but seemed to be awake enough to interact on Myspace.

I didn’t have much time. I scrolled through his friends rapidly. I saw nothing out of the ordinary in his top twelve except a Hispanic girl with long blonde hair who was one position higher than I thought she should be. I looked on his wall still nothing. I was feeling optimistic about love until I got to his messages, and saw a conversation that said it all.

My woman’s intuition had served me well again. He and the Hispanic young lady had been carrying on a conversation for the past week just about as he had been ignoring me. She was from New York, Brooklyn to be exact.

He told her she was cute, and she responded she thought he was fine himself. He went on to tell her about all the things he would have liked to do to her given the right space and opportunity. She replied with a few smiley faces and that is when I stopped reading.

Immediately I was angry. I mean, who wouldn’t be. He had made it seem like he and I would end up like a Disney fairy tale, and I had put a down payment on this fallacy of a dream.

“WTF,”! I thought. I had fallen for the wrong one again.

Being broke aint my cup of tea

           I was sitting in an empty living room with no furniture just crates full of Michael Jordan sneakers, bright-colored pumps, and past-due bills. Slumped over and drenched in my own tears I panted unable to catch my breath. I was hyperventilating. It was my wasteful and mindless spending that had gotten me here, and I was to blame for my own financial woes.

“I can’t get evicted,”? I thought. “I don’t have enough money to eat let alone pay bills,”.

I didn’t have much time. My $30 electricity bill was due in a week, along with my $86 cell phone bill, and $30 gas bill. I had to move fast, but I didn’t know what to do.

I could throw away my pride and ask my mom, but I knew she would, most likely, scold me and wouldn’t have the money. I could ask my brother, but last we he’d already given me $30 for food, and gas money, and that was like pulling teeth. I was frustrated. I mean, I was a junior at one of the greatest colleges in the nation, The Ohio State University, yet when it came to managing my money I was as dumb as a door knob.

 The money I was awarded from school last month was more than enough to cover these bills, but I had spent it all on eccentric clothes, and stylist jewelry. I was down to my last $100. I thought, to myself, what would make me commit such financial atrocities upon myself. I knew my expenses, yet I continued to buy material things I didn’t need, and couldn’t afford. I must have been insane.

I blamed Facebook. Growing up in such a social media manic society I felt the pressures to keep up with the trends and fashion.  Religiously I scrolled through pictures seeing everyone with the latest dresses, purses and bags. It had taken over my mind. I was consumed with keeping up with the viral Jones.

I bought it all from overpriced skinny jeans to hi-tech smart phones. I bought numerous shoes at one time, and once I even spent over $200 dollars in ten minutes, just so I could get my shine and reign as the flyest Facebook diva that had ever lived. I was subconsciously feeding off of every comment like “looking good girl, and “Dang can I borrow that,”. It had become like my imaginary cloak I wore for a quick self-esteem boost, but what else had it gotten me?

I looked in my closest. Every inch covered with something name brand. I rolled my fingers along my navy blue pea coat. I had just paid $45 dollars for it the previous week. It was originally $85 so I had gotten away with a steal. I picked up my new favorite mini dress I had also recently purchased from Urban Outfitters. It was royal blue with crisscross black and gold back straps, and fit me like the designer had preordered my measurements. It was a must-have, but the reality was these things didn’t mean much, and I couldn’t turn in those Facebook comments as currency to pay my bills. I needed to make a change.

I did the only thing a 21-year-old could do. I called my dad. My father and I had not had the best relationship throughout the years, but we loved each other dearly, and he made sure I was always taken care of. I hated calling him, and asking for money, though. It just made me feel like less of myself, but I had to do what I had to do.

“Hey dad,”. I sheepishly said.

“What’s up Eartha child,”. He said. I could hear the grin on his face.

“Umm dad I’m sorry I have to ask you this but I don’t have any money, and I have rent, and my utility bills to pay,”. I asked. “ I promise I can pay you back when I get the money, but I really need your help. I’m sorry,”.

My hands were shaking and my heartbeat slightly increased. My body was definitely in fight or flight mode. I hated asking for money.

“How much you need Earth,”. He asked.

“$200,”. I said.

“You don’t have to apologize. I know you are in school, and trying your best. Money is going to come,”. He said.

“But when, though dad ‘causes being broke aint my cup of tea,”. I had calmed down enough to smile and make a little joke.

“Delayed gratification, Earth,”. He insisted.

“ I know how it feels to be broke that’s why I work two jobs ‘cause I can’t stand not having money in my pocket,”. He said. “ Like my granddad always told me being broke aint that bad, it’s just so damn uncomfortable,”.

My dad and I both burst into laughter. My grandfather’s words of wisdom had managed to break the ice, and I didn’t feel so bad anymore. My father took my account number, and the next day I paid all my bills off.

It appeared that all was well in my world, but it wasn’t. I had a bigger problem. I needed to deal with the fact that I cared way too much about the approval of 350 friends on Facebook that I didn’t even know. I was competing with phantom opponents on the World Wide Web in a game of misconception. The funny thing was that I probably wouldn’t even be able to recognize half of these people if I ever saw them in public. Clothes didn’t make me who I was and Facebook didn’t define me, I did.

Harlem Knights Pt.2 : Reunited

Harlem Knights Pt 2. Reunited

“Good morning beautiful,”. He said.  Every morning I’d received a greeting from Harlem since we last parted in Atlanta three weeks ago. I had to endure only one more week of hell in Youngstown before I was to be reunited with my prince.

“Hey,”. I said, well texted. I wasn’t really into mushy lovey-dovey text message lingo back then, so my answers paled in comparison to his Shakespearian diction.

“I miss you, Yo,”. He said. “I just wanted to tell you I hope you have a wonderful day, and I can’t wait to see your gorgeous face soon,”.

“Thanks,”. I replied. “I can’t wait to see you either,”.

I was stunned. I felt like that line from Jay-Z’s, Excuse me miss, either she the one or I’m caught in The Matrix.  I asked myself what I had done to make this New Yorker fall, seemingly, head over heels over me. Who was I, and was I that special?

I’ll admit I was a smidge naive, but I was not dumb. I learned the perils of dating early, and I was not getting played again.I was in like, but not in love, and I was planning on keeping it that way. Besides, he was miles away chartering a popular metropolitan city so I wasn’t expecting much. To be honest, I don’t know what I was expecting. We texted all day, and talked all night, but I really didn’t know what I planned to do once I actually arrived in Atlanta in a week. Would we fall so madly in love he’d ask for my hand in marriage? Would things go terribly wrong, and I waste my entire time taking this expensive trip that I had completely funded myself, or would we just share a summer together? There were many possibilities, and I was quite nervous, but I would just have to see for myself.

My last week of high school went by like a breeze. I don’t know if this was due to my excitement about my trip, or the fact I would no longer have to deal with such mundane incompetence of my senior year. Either way, I was just happy it was over because I was long overdue for some kind of change.

It was 4am, and I had worked up a sweat  fighting with my suitcase. I was more than ready. I had three more hours before my aunt would be there to take me to the Akron Airport when I got a text.

“Go outside and look on your porch,.” Mister demanded.

“Is he crazy,”?. I thought.

“Why,”. I replied.

“There’s something out there for you,”. He said.

I am not going to lie (believe me I want to), but I was extremely thrilled. I had made a personal boycott against Mister due to a confrontation involving him, me and Mrs., a few weeks prior, (which is a complete blog in itself) but I still wanted to see what was going on. I expected he would be sitting out in front of my house in his car with that candid camera smile like he’d done before. (I watched way too many teenaged romantic comedy movies I guess).

 I ran as quickly and as quietly as possible trying not to disturb my grandfather because if he heard me, let’s just say, I needed to avoid that situation. I carefully opened each lock slowly until the door was open. Unfortunately, when I went outside I saw nothing. I looked left, and I looked right, there was nothing. I was frustrated and a tad bit humiliated. Did Mister know that I had just preformed a 007 slash Mission Impossible task to get outside, and if my grandfather caught me I was dead? Was he determined to piss me off until the very end? “Damn,”. I thought.

I went back inside. I almost called Mister ready to unleash an earful of insults, slurs and snide remarks, but I was headed to Atlanta, and nothing was going to ruin that.

It was time for me to go. My aunt pulled up, and came in to help me with my thing. “

“What’s this,”. She asked?

“What’s what,”. I responded.

“This card I found on the porch with your name on it,”. She said.

It read.

“I’m sorry for everything. I know I hurt you, and that was not what I was trying to do. I’m sorry I lied, and you had to find out the way you did. You are my homie, and I you keep me on my P’s and Q’s. I can’t imagine not having you in my life. I love you,”.

Mister was such an incredibly sweet S.O.B.

I arrived at Atlanta’s airport at 9am sharp, but it took me, at least, an hour to figure out where the hell I was, and how to get to my luggage. I have no sense of direction. I felt like I was in stranded in the desert with no food or water, and so, I sat full of exhaustion.

“Yo, what up ma,”. Harlem’s voice was reminiscent of rain drops on a roof top that rocked you to sleep.

“Hey, Harlem,”. I replied with a smile large enough to expose my wisdom teeth. To this day, I don’t know how Harlem and my cousin Brucey found me because I didn’t have enough reception in that airport to call Jesus.

We headed back to my cousin’s house so I could change clothes. I put on my ripped blue jean Bermuda shorts, a form fitting white tank-top, my black, yellow and white retro Jordan sneakers (the sevens) and combed my wrap. I was ready to go see what Atlanta had to offer.

“I see you don’t wear heels a lot,”. Harlem asked.

“No. I’m a sneak fanatic,”. I replied. I don’t know whether it was annoyance, or intuition, but for some reason his comment on my chose of shoes offended me. I mean, I had traveled far and wide to see him, and that’s what he says to me.

I shook it off. I figured I was being a little too emotional and up-tight, and this was neither the time nor the place to do so.

The entire day was excellent. Harlem and Brucey had taken me to every inch of Atlanta, and back. I had spent over $300 in one afternoon, and I wasn’t the slightest bit upset about it.

Later that evening Harlem had made plans for us to go out for dinner and  a movie. My older cousin dolled me up for my date, and I have to admit, I clean up well. I had my nails done and my hair pressed and curled by the best stylist in the ATL. I was gorgeous!

Harlem, like the gentlemen he was, came in and promised my aunt he’d have me back at a decent hour. He escorted me to his car, and we drove off.

His eyes were lit up like Christmas lights.

“You look good girl,” He said. “You should dress up more often,”.

Now this was the second reference he had made to how I dressed. I don’t know, but I was a little perturbed at this point, so I asked “Do you not like the way I dress,”?

“No. I think your style is dope. I just like when girls are dressy,” he said.

I nodded, and made a mental note because I was no prissy southern belle, and if that’s what he was looking for he had the wrong one.

We headed to a chic spot downtown. It was so enchanting. Orange, red and green lights dimly accented the small bar, and the music was on fire.

He said he wasn’t much of a drinker and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. The 21-year-old must have jumped out of me because I ordered that margarita like I was a senior alcoholic. The waiter never even attempted to ask for my I.D.

“We made small talk, had a great meal and headed back to his place. He had a lavish apartment with a picture perfect view of the city off his balcony. I loved it, and I wished I could stay there forever.

“How you like ATL so far,”. He asked. “Is that a real question,”? I asked. “I freaking love it here, and I wish I could move here,”. He said with no hesitation. “Maybe go to Spellman, and stay here with me.,”.

I had just met Harlem, and he was asking this! I could never just up root myself, and move, or could I? I had graduated from high school, and I felt the sky was the limit, if not Spellman, maybe Clark Atlanta University, or Georgia State. My mind raced. All my life decisions had been made for me perhaps it was time to make an executive decision for myself once. Could I start a life here in ATL with Harlem?

Harlem Knights Pt.1

Harlem Knights

  I was in Atlanta, Georgia (Lithonia to be exact)! The warm weather, the lights, the big buildings, and even the smell of the city did something to my spirit. I was finally here, and the mere aroma of the streets made being crouched in the back of my aunt’s mini van for twelve long hours a small sacrifice for such an experience.

  My cousins, Nauji and Brucey, were graduating from high school, and I was really excited for their accomplishments and my own, but I was even more elated to be in the arms of (piece up A-town down). What 18-year-old wouldn’t be?

  I can remember getting on the train for the first time, I know the natives were probably extremely annoyed with me and my family as we turned their daily rutine into a full-fledged Terrell holiday. I can still hear my aunts and uncles screaming and hollering trying to figure out how to get on and off the train. I had turned the complete ordeal into a personal photo shoot. I was trying to make sure I would never forget a moment I’d spent here, and surely I wouldn’t.

  My cousins’ graduation ceremony had at least 400 graduates. It was monumental, but I had sat in an uncomfortable chair for about three hours, and I was in dire need of food to replenish my body. I was more than ready to get to the after party.

I don’t know if it’s a Terrell tradition or not, but we have to walk around the entire hotel and visit each other before any and every event when we are out of town. This event was no exception.

As I pranced down the plush halls of the Holiday Inn, still barely able to take in the fact that I was here, I noticed a guy standing in my cousin’s doorway. I hadn’t seen him at the graduation so ,of course, I was curious who this guy was. His back was turned towards me, and the first thing to catch my eye was his royal blue and white New York Yankee varsity jacket. I love varsity jackets so his fashion sense caught my eye immediately. He was tall, he had a Yankee fitted to match his jacket, and ,by golly, I had to speed up to see what he was all about.

  I was usually uninterested in any of my cousin Brucey’s friends. They were usually awkward weirdos, who thought they were so exclusive, and god’s gift to anyone because they were from Atlanta. I was never impressed, but this guy was different.

  I walked up on my cousin and his stylish guest, and made sure they saw me.

  “Hey Brucey,”. I said.

  Finally he turned around and the man was a finer than I could ever imagined. He had jet-black hair with waves so deep I was eager to jump in whether I could swim or not, hazel big brown eyes, a mustache that was big enough to notice, but small enough to not irritate my lips if we kissed, and his skin a light yellow that was smoother than butter on my grandmother’s biscuits. The boy was fine, and his deep voice vibrated in my eardrums as he introduced himself.

  “Yo, what up ma, my name is Tony,”. He said.

    Child he could have said this is a stick up, and I need all your money in that New York accent, and I would have happily obliged.

    “I’m from Harlem boo,”. He said. “What’s your name,”?

“uhhhhhh ummmmm… My my..,”.I stuttered praying that this heavenly creature that  Jesus himself had personally bestowed upon me wasn’t looking at me like a complete and utter fool.

  Brucey got the hint and quickly came to my rescue. “Tony (Harlwm) this is my cousin Eartha,”. He said.“ She’s from Youngstown,”.

He smiled, and I swear doves flew from the sky, a baby was born, and world peace was discovered. This man was fine, and I don’t know what came over me, but I was determined to get him by any means necessary.

  I finally got the nerve to talk to him, and we talked until the wee hours of the morning. I was sincerely interested in his wild stories of the life of Harlem, and he seemed to be amused at the lifestyle of us country folk in Youngstown.

  He smiled, and I smiled. We both were feeling the chemistry between each other, and I thank God because I had negotiated with him all night for this opportunity.

  It was the last night in the city, and my cousins, Harlem and I decided to go out. He was the only one with a car, and I was happy for that.

  We were cruising the city headed nowhere fast in his jet-black Cadillac. His chiseled tires were decorated in shiny chrome rims, and the inside of the car was as clean as a whistle.

  “Damn this dude was superb, and we had to stay in touch,” I thought.

  “Where are we going,”! I yelled trying to be heard over the base of Kanye West’s ,can’t tell me nothing,.

  Everyone else continued to text, talk, bobbed their head, and ignore me, except Harlem.

  He turned down the music , smiled, looked back at me, and said “Where would you like to go ma,”?

“Somewhere fun,”. I replied in the most seductive voice an 18-year-old could muster.

  Five minutes later we ended up at a bowling alley. I was a tad bit disappointed. I could bowl in Youngstown, but I was in Atlanta. I expected something less traditional, but I soon found out this was not your average bowling alley.

People were bowling. Some people were dancing. Eight flat screen T.V. hung from the ceiling each playing a different video. Brucey and Harlem walked in like celebrities while I caustiously tiptoed in like a mouse surrounded by traps ready to snap at any moment.

“Whats wtong,”? Harlem asked.

“Nothing, I’m just taking it all in,”. I said.

  I sat and ate my barbeque wings and fries when all of a sudden a saw a huge crowd. I don’t know what made me get up, but I barged my way through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Brucey and Harlem were in a dance-off. I mean a real dance-off. I’d seen these on movies like Honey, but to be apart of an actual one in reality was brand new.

  No offense to Brucey because I’m sure he wowed the crowd with this moves, but I was more focused on what Harlem had to offer. I watched him with as much vigorous intent as a gazelle searching for its prey.

  He moved like a professional. He was magnificent, and his arms and legs were in perfect alignment with every beat of every song. Our eyes met while he was on the dance floor.

He smiled. I smiled. We were official. Whether he knew it or not he was mine.

  I don’t remember what time we all got back to the hotel, but I do remember Harlem and I sitting on his car looking at the  stars.

“You know you fine right,”. He said. I don’t know why I looked around like someone else was around, but I did.

“I sheepishly replied “Thank you,”.

In his stereotypical New York accent he quickly followed up with a “ Yo, I think you  mad cool,”.

“ I didn’t say much I was just glad to finally be alone with him without my family around. I ceased the moment, and went in for the kill.

 His lips were soft. I could tell he was enjoying himself because he started to grab the sides of my face. I would have allowed him to do much more, but he was a gentleman. We exchanged numbers, and he politely escorted me back to my room.

  I was only 18, but I believed I had kissed enough frogs, and now I’d found my prince. I was Harlem’s Princess.

My girl got a girlfriend

It was a pretty easy going day. Glimpses of the sun crept onto my dresser on this 75 degrees spring afternoon, and I lay looking at the painted clouds of my ceiling thinking about nothing when my sidekick buzzed. I had a message.

“Umm I have something to tell you,”. My best friend, CeCe, wrote.

“Oh dear god she must be pregnant,”. I thought.

It was a logical inference. After all, she was a 19-year-old freshman, single female, who was miles away from home, for the first time, being exposed to all kinds of new people.

“What’s up,”. I replied.

As I look back I wish I had of called her after that text, but hindsight is 20/20 as they say.

“I’m gay,”. She said.

If she would have told me she was the real Virginia Tech killer it would’ve been an easier pill to swallow that that. I know exactly how I would have responded. I would’ve  told her not to talk to anyone, and we could both take our refund checks to hide out until we could escape to Mexico never to be seen, or heard from again.(Doesn’t it seem like everyone who commits a crime always tries to escape to Mexico!)

It probably seems odd that at 19 I was so prepared to ride or die for my best friend, but if you knew her you would understand.

CeCe was a tall skinny brown skin girl. Her 5’8 frame towered over my mere 5’2 statue, which is probably why she excelled in basketball, and I didn’t. Her charismatic demeanor attracted everyone to her, including me. She was known for her humor, and should have been a comedian, but above all that she was my lifeline. When I moved in the sixth grade from a predominantly white suburban school in Mansfield, Ohio to an urban school in the heart of Youngstown, Ohio, a city nicknamed murder capital, she showed me the ropes.  There were times I envied her because she never seemed to be fazed by anything or anyone, and I could tell her anything without the slightest bit of judgment.

I could have even dealt with her failing school, and wanting to drop out. Perhaps she had eloped, or even better she had finally got drafted to the WNBA early. I would’ve definitely known how to respond to that, but this was something I knew nothing about. I couldn’t go to my usual stash of Negro spiritual advice and pull out a clichéd quote or phrase for her. I had nothing, and for the first time in a very long time I was speechless.

Millions of thoughts raced through my head. So many of them only a few even come to mind.

“Why is she gay,”. I thought.

“Who made her this way,”. I thought as if she had contracted some incurable disease. I continued to let my mind wonder some more, until finally a few minutes later, which seemed like forever, I got another buzz on my sidekick.

“I wanted to tell you for a long time, but I just didn’t know how.”. She explained.

“I’ve been dating this girl, and I really like her, and I don’t know where this came from, but I know it real,”. She said.

Still, I lay as motionless on my bed as a cadaver in a morgue unsure of what to think, let alone say. Flashbacks of all the times we talked about the neighborhood girls who were lesbians. Just a few weeks she had informed me that a close friend of ours had come out, and my reaction was nothing short of brutal.

“Guess who is gay,”? She squealed.

‘I don’t know, Who,? I anxiously asked as if I were waiting to see if Barack Obama had won the 2008 presidential election, or not.

“Lisa,”! She yelled. She knew I was hanging on every inch of her words, and that she had basically just delivered my daily dosage of gossip for the day.

“Whhhhhhhhhhat,”!!!!. I objected. “Ugh, that’s nasty,” I quickly followed up. “If my daughter ever turned out to be gay I’m gonna beat it out of her,” I jokingly, but with a serious undertone replied.

We both laughed and moved on to the next topic.

I thought about that conversation, and how she appeared to agree with me, and my opinions. She never gave any clue that she too was a lesbian herself. I felt horrible. Had I ignorantly hurt my friend’s feelings?

“How…what.. who .. when,” I finally texted.

“I don’t know, Eartha,”. She replied, and I could hear her frustrations in my mind as I read the message.

“Have you told your mother,” I asked? “No. Not yet,” she said.

“Well, you know I love you regardless,” I said.

The conversation was just the beginning of our process, well my process rather. After that, things significantly changed. I would come home to visit, and not see her as much. Days where we use to spend talking and laughing for hours were replaced with unanswered text messages, and mysterious visits to unknown places with unknown people excluding me. She had chosen a different crowd now, I assumed, and I no longer fit in. I was hurt, and saddened. It had appeared I lost my best friend of six years in a matter of one text, and two months.

Half of me wanted to say something, and make amends, but the other more stubborn side wouldn’t budge. “She’s the one whose into girls now, so she should come and see how I feel about it instead of ignoring me,”. I thought.

I mean we had a system. We had a program that I had grown accustom to, and now she was just coming along and destroying everything we had built.  Good friends come along every once and awhile, and now I was being forced to seek and find another one.

I, by no means, approved of her lifestyle. It was ungodly. Didn’t she know she would be sent to hell? I pondered.

By this time it was the summer, and everyone was back home from college. Before I could even adjust to her lifestyle she had posted pictures of her change via Facebook. Now everyone would know. I suppose that was her point.

Coming from such a small town as Youngstown, Ohio, where there is not much to do, Facebook can become the highlight of people’s days. I began to get bombarded with questions about my friend like I was her publicist. Everyone had an opinion, and it was like I had become the filter for them, but little did they know I still had unanswered questions myself. I was just as clueless as they were.

My brother, who was also apart of the paparazzi, called me and decided to really talk to me about it.

“Yo,whats up with your girl,”? He said. “She all over Facebook, and shit, dressin like a nigga,”.

“She likes girls now,” I said with a hint of annoyance hoping he would get the picture.

“Naw, Eartha you ain’t seen the pictures on Facebook,”? He said, and clearly missed my passive aggressive attempt to change the subject.

“No, I haven’t seen them,” I said.

“Well you need to for real,” He said appearing to forewarn me of some unknown disaster that awaited me whenever I got around to seeing them.

I’d glanced over her page a few times never really paying attention, but this time I wanted to see what had gotten my brother so riled up that he made a personal phone call to me.

I got on the computer, and I was utterly astonished. CeCe, who use to wear more makeup then me, had now become a completely different person. Tight tanks and skirts were substituted with XXL button-ups, and baggy jeans. She even had pictures hugged up on another girl. “Oh my god,”. I screamed, and before I could catch ahold of my emotions tears began to fall. I had to do something, and we had to discuss this elephant in the middle of the room because it was about to suffocate this relationship.

It was a dark night in Youngstown when we finally decided to talk. Ironically, in the parking lot of a church we sat, and finally chatted about what was going on.

“I mean what is up with you,” I started.

“Nothing really, I just been chillin,” she nonchalantly responded. I knew I was going to have to jump right in, or she was about to play cat and mouse all night.

“You are taking pictures with girls, you are ignoring me, and you’re gay,”!!!! I exclaimed! I continued on my rant about how she could never look into the eyes of a child that she and another woman created, and how she was making a mistake about choosing such a lifestyle.

“I know that, but I can’t help it,” she said.” I like women, and nothing about a man excites me,”.

“I know that I may have a seat in hell with my name inscribed in it, but I can’t help feeling the way I do,” she said,”.

“I haven’t been around you like we use to because I know how you feel, and I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,”. She explained, and at that moment I wanted to slap the shit out of myself for being so selfish. Here I am consumed with self-pity and anger while my friend has taken my feelings into consideration. Something I hadn’t done for her in a long time. I mean not once did I ever imagine what she may be going through.

I was so embarrassed. How could I not be? She had never judged me, or allowed her opinions to overshadow her love for me, and how could I not return the favor? I realized this conversation was not a platform for me to convert her to the wonderful land of heterosexuality as I had originally planned. Her lifestyle wasn’t negotiable. She wasn’t some new woman loving monster, who needed to be saved, sanctified and filled with the Holy Ghost. She was what she had always been to me, and that was my best friend.

I learned, at this very moment, I didn’t give her the gift of life, thus, making it impossible for me to decide how, who, and on what terms she spends it. The religious argument I, so adamantly, stood by became invalid the very moment I put on my black robe and gavel. I was the one who had the problem, not CeCe.

Mr.and Mrs. the saga continues...

There are plenty of songs and poems describing a person in love. Some call it a state of unequivocal joy, while others refer to it as absolute euphoria, where two insane people are completely unaware of the world around them. Love is blind is just one of numerous clichés coined to justify the actions of a person diagnosed with a case of 'The Love Jones".

On the other side of the spectrum there are just as many descriptions of one who has fallen out of love. The agony and pain of a fallen solider on love's battlefield is a universal feeling almost everyone can understand.
The feeling one gets when someone you care about leaves you to drown in a puddle of your own miserable tears isn’t an easy feat to overcome. Though, these two points on love's continuum are as opposite as water and oil they are both distinct destinations where feelings are easily identifiable.

 Where are the songs, poems, written sources, or clichés for someone at a state of numbness? A point defined by neither good nor bad, but rather complete ambiguity. Is this the plateau that is reached when an individual is tired of being in or out of love? Is one better or worse off when they are here, and how does a person reach such obscurity?

These questions and many more arose in my thought process because I was at a state of numb. I stood at a place where nothing mattered. I witnessed the word love being abused so frequently it has lost all meaning .I lost expectations, and I literally became immune to being in love and falling out of it. I lacked the thirst to title myself as "in a relationship”, nor was I eager to brand myself as 'single'. I was simply aloof when it came to that "L" word. There are many different circumstances which led me down such a deserted road, but there was one, in particular, that aided the most in the homicide of my emotions completely.

I was a junior in high school when I became interested in Mister. I had known him for quite some time because we shared mutual friends, and even had a cute junior high crush, but nothing more than that As usual things started out perfect. We laughed, he was attentive, and he treated me just like I should have been treated.

One of my fellow volleyball teammates had convinced me that he was a catch, and I soon agreed.

“Giiiiiiiirrrrrrrllll, you seen Mister lately,”? She squealed.

“Yes ma’am,” I replied as if I was as cool and nonchalant as Guppie in the movies, The Mack.

When in reality I was screaming louder than fans in the front row of an Usher concert.

I was initially apprehensive, but I quickly ignored my fears. I was coming out of a relationship with a previous asshole so he was, in a way, my knight in shining armor.

Now anyone who knows me will tell you I keep my feeling pretty tight under wrap. i mean I'm not cold blooded , but I’m not the kind of girl who falls in love quickly. I’ve watched the terrible withdrawal symptoms of love addicts trying to let go of past relationships, and I couldn’t be that girl.

Unfortunately, I began to let my guard down and trust him (I became that girl).  This was a foreign concept to me because the idea of trust had been as abstract as wind blowing on my cheek on a summer day. I mean I knew it existed, but I had no way of touching it.  This was different, though, because I actually started to tell him things I hadn't even told my closest friends. I started to engage in that unequivocal joy I mentioned earlier, and can you believe it? I was in love, that or I was among millions of other 17 year-olds girls who also believes they were in love. Of course, I didn’t initially inform him for obvious reasons. I was taught when it came to love you had to approach men like a hunter approaches deer in the wild. Slow and steady because in an instant you could scare them off.

I played it cool, well as cool as I could, for almost a year, and while I was making millions on Love’s Jeopardy I didn’t even attempt to notice he wasn’t even a contestant on the show.

We would talk for hours on the phone, and Myspace chats. (I wished I’d saved them as evidence to show I wasn’t crazy), but in public discourse I could count the few words he uttered to me.

I remember a day a friend and I cut class to sneak into his. (This was not the most intelligent moment of my life I admit that just as a disclaimer). He completely ignored me, and I mean I am professional passive aggressive diva so I played it off quite well, but in reality I wanted to scream, and yell at him! “You are the one who is calling me,”!

As I look back perhaps I could have saved myself a few months of agony by just being more insightful, but if you ask anyone that knows me they’ll also tell you that I am very oblivious in my own right. I could be in the middle of a tornado, and not pick my head up from Twitter until a cow flies past my face.

 Nonetheless, he had deceived and humiliated me. I was devastated. Heartbroken would be an understatement. I felt so much pain crying just didn’t suffice anymore. I decided to I’d just let the tears swell up inside until they and the rest of my emotions evaporated into a mist of memory of what could have been.

Now one would think after this point the story would end in me saying I left him, and eventually got over him right? No, wrong! I, like a damn fool, continued to talk to him daily, partake in intimate situations with him I shouldn’t have, and all the while he continued to still do the same with another Mrs. Even after that dreaded day he finally got the nerve to finally admit the truth to me, and the rest of the universe as if we didn’t already know.

I will never forget scrolling through my Myspace messages, and seeing his picture with the subject title  of  I’m sorry. I opened it up and read as he poured out his sins as if I were a viral priest of some sort.

“I have been talking to her, and I asked her and everyone else not to tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you,”.

 I admittedly, was half humored and half pissed that he would think I really needed this confession to know the truth! There had been enough buzz and rumors about him and Mrs. Over the course of four months that Horatio could have solved the case in 15 minutes of an episode, without a body.

Though this appeared to be the closing remark of an ill-fated relationship, it was actually just the beginning of a my personal saga with Mr. and Mrs.