"Moving like a tortoise, full of rigor mortis"
"Express Yourself," Dr. Dre (Ghostwritten by Cube?)
I ascended Rockefeller's stairsteps looking for my
other mother but a little afraid her affection may have started to dwindle. It's been 3 years since I strode out of
New Birth tassle turned to the left and months since I had been in communication with the carrot topped gemini herself and I am always afraid that
in due time people will fall out of like, love, fatherhood, sisterliness, familial affinity and all other affection with me so I stepped nervously up the old staircase that smelled so much like Spelman like what I imagine all black colleges to smell like. Ms. Ada no longer womans the desk (thankfully). In the days of olde I would have strode past reception importantly. I used to have a key to her office. It might as well have been mine. But I stood outside and politely requested an audience with the Dean and then I waited. When she slid into the foyer, she didn't see past the braided delinquent in her direct line of sight and just as I began to exhale knowing dissapointment and then she saw me, exclaimed, embraced, and presented showed off her rag tag baby (no seriously I hadn't made it to my hair appt yet and I was on no sleep again) to any who would look or listen. It felt good. I told her I hadn't finished my thesis yet she said she understood. Patted me on my back told me it was my perfectionism getting the best of me never mentioning my laziness or my proclivity for turning things in late. That's what mentors/mamas do.
My bags safely stowed in Moya's always open domicile, right next to my own freshwoman lair (LLC I 213), I made my way to Ms. Liz for a fresh cheap press. She expressed a marked dislike for the city especially boring ass Queens (her sentiments admittedly shared by me). "Yes, Ms. Liz its a hard city but its a city for dreamers like me." She asked me how I wanted it styled complained about the shortness of my sides curled it tight hugged me and sent me on my way. Ran into the old homies at
Soul Veg, ran into class of 2000'ers back for their 5 year reunion (Damn!), ran into the
Young Jeezy video shoot at Chanterelle's, ran up the AMEX at
Phipps and for a moment builded with the graduates,
Moya and
Mensah, God's amazing reflections. Felt not so much a mother hen as an outsider. Fond feelings and friendships and warm hugs aside, Joe Turner done come and gone leaving with me with a heavy warmth that continually cools as time passes. I searched for the warmth in a recently renovated and reopened
Sisters Chapel. I remember eearly morns indoctrinating the chirren there, hot afternoons teaching first years their class song, welcoming them into the sisterhood and otherwise acting a fool but the new flooring seemed to cover up the traces of my
Air Rifts (I was the first in ATL to have them. No, REALLY!)footsteps. The fresh paint erasing all traces of my hands bursting them open back before air conditioning, which in black school talk, is three years ago. I sat an said a prayer in the chapel, thanking God for the experience hoping for ones equally as good and life changing and in came a elder in pink. "Reminiscing," she asked. "Yes m'am." Turns out she was too. A alum of the class of sixty something (Marian Wright Edelman's Class) when they sat in lunch counters and department stores, had to wear white gloves, attend church every morn, eschew pants and otherwise act the part of the Spelman Woman. I escorted her around campus although she was spry. She was good company. Her stories are as eye opening as they are humbling and connect me, really all of us there, to a legacy and tradition that we alternately bless and buck.
After teetering on 4 inch
Costume Nationals during Baccaulaureate I found Dr. Stanley and Dean Baxter.
Dr. S, who will feel the rains down in Africa while she works with
Ousmane Sembene, hwas happy to see me too. Told me to be in touch. Old news. She had passed the same word through Moya but I promised to this time. I appreciate her more and more in the distance, in the absence in the northern cold. I looked for the Star for a while she wasn't where I left
Alii. Then I found her cradled in compliments with an administrative admirer, her bubbly mama and auntie and dapper dad but I ran out of film so that moment will be another fleeting memory unfrozen on Kodak paper. I felt like an asshole for not walking through the arch with the Doc Che. It was the one thing I really wanted to to do. But shit we can always go back to campus to snap that pic. I have decided I'm gonna head back there in June. Kick it with Kris, swing by and see The Graduate. Make a guest apperance in a Young Jeezy video courtesy of video prod superstar/filmmaker to watch
Tiona.
"And when you can't go back, you have to worry only about the best way of moving forward." The Alchemist, Paolo Coelho
It felt good to be home. It felt like a hard hug. NYC often feels like a cold slap but I don't want to leave. Maybe I'm just foolish or selfish or a combination of the two. I'm reading
The Alchemist now at Devin's recommendation. I had heard of it but interpreted its immense popularity to be a functions of its commonness. But life lessons abound in it. And all I have to say is I'm in pursuit/search of my personal legend and will be until further notice.
"Catch niggas having they fun and we ruin it."
"Louder," HNIC, Prodigy
As high as I was I got a little low. The rain poured on Sunday. Fucked up the overpriced 'fit and grand plans. My mouth started to run and I was that wrong nigga to fuck with (resurrected "these bitches don't know me" favorite sophomore phrase, ask Taneya) especially after those lame ass
Morehouse fake ass crossing guards tried to prevent me from connecting with my fam across the yard in the monsoon that was Morehouse's graduation even after showing them my VIP alum tickets. Although I sang that Usher song most of Sunday, Ask
L. I didn't get caught up or at least I hope not. I'm channeling Xenia's bubbliness and meditating on
The Alchemist while I cook up something or other.
You already know I'm indulgent and probably know I'm nostalgic but this is real. Nothing compares to the four years I lived in Spelman College.
Fat Titties Turn To Teardrops As F(l)at Ass Turns To Flab...Growing Old.
The Born Day's right around the corner.
