#dcchronicles

Mid-sentence I stop. The blind man continued to the bus driver, excitedly. "We are African American because..."

All I saw was passing on the sidewalk.

Black rimmed glasses. Navy button up with brown-sugar and red-apple chevron lines, like a Native American tribal dance. tree-trunk boots; cookie-dough bowler.  Black coffee hair.

The boy walked further; our bus roared louder. Brandon laughed. We continued on introversion and family issues.

The Red Line to Glenmont was a crowded fish-submarine. It “whooshed” like the Death Star in hyper speed. Torch-lit tunnels, “outer space”; Metro Center, Gallery Place, Takoma.

But Spielberg didn’t have black women and porcelain toddlers; bold-roast braids and cream-white eyes.

I think we’re all a part of everyone else.

I put my headphones on—but only one. I choose the close-eyed “whoosh”, the torch-lit rush, the toddler-wide eyes. No matter how chalkboard-scratched the world seems, I choose to listen.

Our next eleven months; an office with scattered push-pin holes and shoe boxes. My desk resembled a kindergartener's toy--I let the chair "whoosh" to its lowest setting.

Sandrine--my AmeriCorps coworker for the next almost-year--and I laughed. Scuffed speakers (pushed against one of our light orange walls) were the size and weight of my nephews.

Our supervisor remarked, probably storage space. We laughed. Non profit work began. Job descriptions explained and added to. "Special Events Coordinator" really meant "let's-see-how-many-things-we-can-fit".

I suddenly understood city folk.

Tension grew like plastic bags in my lungs; overstuffed suitcases thrown at my chest. I found out a roommate wasn't well. I rode the Metro home like folks do, around 6:30 pm.

I understood my father in a new way.

I listened to someone in my headphones sing "I believe in a Kingdom--it's not of this world." It sounded less cliché. I watched too many people board and avoid. I realized my own figure in the reflecting window, absorbed in itself.

"I believe in a Kingdom--it's not of this world."

Even with the plastic bags and suitcase-weight, I had to smile. Got home, took a shower, ate dinner with beer. Laughed.

Felt sad watching the finale of iCarly. Thought of old friends swimming in my warm eyes. Yesterday we attended our next-eleven-month Episcopal church. I saw tradition; felt uneasy; stumbled over hymns; robes; incense; communion and altars and kneeling.  

Learned. Read. Prayed. Ate freely.

And that's it. Two days.

Frayed.

We each walked, one by one, from house to Church office.

Crossing the adjoining lot—our back porch—and the succeeding grass path, a faint dirt line led each of us to stone walls of a worn gray building. Our director (the church rector) waited inside.

The Bachelor Finale. Final rose ceremony.

"What do you want from this year?" he asked. "Where do you see yourself in five years?" All I could think; "Does he have a ring?" 

After, he came. House rose ceremony. A few sites and names were called, and then, Chris Harrison emerged. "Ladies, this is the final rose."

A moment later and, finally, it came: My name. Sigh.

Job Site: Sasha Bruce Youthwork. Sigh.

Episode Summary: I got a rose, and work starts Monday.