Yeah, Well...

The sets, the detail in the extras and costume, the dynamic production and direction, the phenomenal casting, the mind blowing themes and symbolism...There are so many things that make Black Panther the record shattering film it exists as today and we will be talking about them for quite a while. #WakandaForever There is one specific moment though that is so powerful it almost made me break out in hives, speak in tongues, and elevate to the astral plane. Yet the discussion on it has been minimal. I know there has only been a small amount of time since the debut but I still feel obligated to bring it up and voice my opinion. Maybe it doesn’t mean much to you, but it meant everything to me! Like many of us are too proud to admit, I didn’t know much about the Black Panther prior to this movie. I was first introduced to the character several years ago when my actor godfather was set to portray T’Challa in a Black Panther film of a much smaller scale. Even then, I just wanted to support my family, I still didn’t know much about the Black Panther until the character resurfaced in the Marvel Civil War film and I thought to myself “Hmmm...now how far are they going to let this African superhero theme go on?” Baby....I had NO idea. When the first teasers started to appear for Black Panther I got chills. It was clear that this was something different. I initially thought that the awe inspiring Ava DuVernay had her hands on this one because she has that capability of viewing things and molding production in such a way that it strikes your core. You don’t just watch her projects, you feel them. Interestingly enough, the Marvel team DID originally sit down with Ava on this, but she passed on the opportunity because her ideas and vision were not fusing well with everyone else. Rather than have things end badly or have to cite creative differences later on down the line, she chose to simply not direct this one and focus her energy elsewhere (which I’m not mad about because it’s most likely how we ended up with A Wrinkle In Time, another sensational classic I am super pressed to support). So Ryan Coogler was brought in, and with the help of a dynamic team and cast, he literally spun box office gold. My husband and I dressed in our tribal inspired outfits and joined the droves of beaming, Afrocentric & Black Pride clad folk flocking to the theater opening weekend to check out the already record breaking Black Panther movie. We bought our tickets ahead of time, we got the good upgraded seats, we didn’t act like our normal black selves and sneak anything in, we actually bought concessions from the cinema, and we cozied up to take in all the black excellence. By the end, we were so damned full of emotion and excitement I just wanted to dance out of the theater, adorn myself in idabwe leaf, and hug every black person in my line of sight. It was incredible!!! Now again, it has only been a week since Black Panther has been out so heavy discussion has been limited so as not to spoil it for those who haven’t seen it, but I have been thoroughly enjoying the memes, inside jokes, and articles that have come out since the premiere. It really makes you think about the kind of people we should and could be, the what ifs of an uncolonized Africa, the strength in ancestral tradition, the continued plight of the Black family secret, and just so many other motifs. I’ve seen just about everything this movie touched on covered in somebody’s editorial or video critique or Twitter feed. However one of the most iconic moments of this film in my opinion is also one of the least discussed and I aim to change that. We can all agree that Black Panther highlights the strength and importance of women in a unique and very real approach, from the wizened tribal counsel leaders to the fierce Dora Milaje in charge of the nation’s safety. It is a beautiful thing to see a feature film not only embrace but respect the power of women. No moment makes this more abundantly clear than one in the middle of a battle scene toward the latter end of the film. W’kabi, head of security, has turned his back on T’Challa and now serves Killmonger’s claim to the throne. He leads his army of giant rhinoceros in a fight against his fellow tribes when the Jabari clan comes to Wakanda’s aide. As W’Kabi charges full speed, intent to kill the Jabari clan leader, M’baku, he is blocked by his lover and our favorite fearless leader of the Dora Milaje, Okoye, who stands unflinching in front of M’baku to defend him and thus her people. The rhinoceros, who is under W’kabi’s control, ignores his commander and stops his charge on a dime in front of Okoye, affectionately licking her face instead of plowing her down. It is both heartstopping and endearing in a matter of seconds. What man is too stubborn and stupid to acknowledge, this giant powerful creature cedes to instantly. He knows exactly what time it is and he wants nothing but love from mother. Completely thrown off and caught up under the guise of Okoye’s at the ready spear, W’kabi tests her laurels asking “Would you kill me my love?” In the quiet theater, having lost all reserve and being completely wrapped in this moment, I burst out “Absofuckinglutely! Get your dumb ass down here and act like you know!” Okoye, far more refined but just as resolute in her response never breaks a sweat and answers “For Wakanda? No question.” Beloved, I almost fell out of my chair! W’Kabi knows he has no choice but to yield or die, and so he dismounts the gentle giant and surrenders to Okoye, as do his men, ending the battle. It’s not just a cute way to break the tension, it was a cognizant awakening to a fact that is all too often overlooked and underestimated in the world: Black women will forever sacrifice EVERYTHING for what they hold truest at heart. We get it done by any means necessary. W’Kabi tried Okoye in a way men test black women all the time; pressing on our softness and ability to love and nurture to see if we will bend. He knows even as he asks that she is a woman of severe nobility and integrity but wants to use her femininity to his advantage. Okoye however is NOT the one. The things that would bring him to pause, she has already made up her mind to sacrifice for what she holds dearest. W’Kabi knows he doesn’t want it with this sis, and he’d rather have her love and his life, so he yields. Seeing a man, a black man at that, submit in this way to a woman is a rarity. We as women wield the power of life and are the centrifugal forces that keep it all in motion. I often say that if men are the core of the Earth, women are the hot molten fluidity that stabilize it and keep it spinning. It is one of the biggest unsaid truths of all time. Everybody knows it, but we hardly ever see it. So to have it portrayed in such a fierce way, in a dance of love and war, so powerfully stated with such few words, and a hint of sexy (because I’m definitely trying to get licked by a rhino after that one) just about brought me to tears! I feel like Ryan Coogler gave us this moment to share a vital message about what black women are and have always been. We are the beauty, the nurtures, the lovers, but we are multidimensional. We are also the glue, the doers, the fixers. Using one of my favorite The Wire quotes, we are the “go get shit done pieces”. The Okoye v. W’Kabi stand-off is a profound portrayal of this. That scene alone will make me buy and watch this movie over and over again. Well done! Standing ovation for the whole movie, but specifically for this scene. Oh and war rhinos for everyone!!! #WakandaForever

In those times, I do find a level of unbridled honesty and critique which no one else would be able to provide. This was one of those moments. Most people have a dream to chase or a passion that burns inside them so much it oozes from their pores. I do not. Did I ever have one? I honestly cannot recall. Choosing to chase knowledge and a ritual of doing the “right thing” exposed me to a multitude of skills, in all of which I possess only moderate ability. So when asked what it is I do best, I truly cannot devise an answer. Charge it to my Gemini nature of adaptability to have my hands in a little of everything and be great at nothing. For some, being such a factotum is quite the valuable resource, but when you find yourself almost 30 years into life with a full family and no room for instability, it is an absolute curse. Jack of all trades, master of none.

"Southern trees bear a strange fruit, blood on the leaves and blood at the root, black bodies swingin in the southern breeze, strange fruit hangin from the poplar trees..." These are the opening lines to the haunting song of protest sung by black jazz artist & writer Billie Holiday in the late 30s. Already controversial in itself, it was recently referenced in an incendiary speech, passionately delivered at the BET Awards ceremony by actor, former educator, & activist Jesse Williams. His actual words (though split up here for the sake of brevity) were "...we're done watching and waiting while this invention called whiteness uses and abuses us...gentrifying our genius...trying us on like costumes before discarding our bodies like rinds of strange fruit."   Jesse's abrupt and poignant speech struck a chord around the world and immediately went viral for several reasons. What struck me though is that here was a man standing up in one of the most advanced technological ages, crying out for justice and applying references from a song penned almost 80 years ago to address the same ugly truths about racial inequality and corruption that face us still today in this 21st century. Undoubtedly there has been some change as time creates opportunity and we are forced to evolve, but as a people, our plight remains much the same. How? When so many of us are thrilled to have the Ta-Nehisi Coates', Jesse Williams', Amandla Stenbergs' and other "woke" young minds speaking out on our behalf, what is it that we are missing? These are the Malcolm X's of our time, the Nikki Giovanni's and Nelson Mandela's of our generation and yet there is an obvious disconnect between our pride and our actions. 10% of our population is stirred enough to join the frontline of the movement while the rest of us hashtag it to the back of our mind and move on to the next story. As I sat back and watched the responses on Twitter to Jesse's speech, a theory came to mind as to why we can't seem to progress further in our fight than simply being loud & proud. We are listening, but we don't hear anything. We're too busy living our lives in a series of fading snaps, failing to grasp the urgency of our condition while the system lays the mortar to the brick walls we build around our own minds. We are still just strange fruit, hanging on the complacency of our ignorance. In following the Jesse Williams trend all across social media, I found the following things: Most black women were more into Jesse's physical presence, proclaiming him their new "woke bae" and expressing awe that a model and actor could be so illuminating. Newsflash, Jesse started out teaching & molding young minds of Philly for six years after earning a degree from Temple University as a double major in African American studies and Film & Media Arts. Growing up in a home where both of his parents were educators and strong social advocates as well, he's been on the front lines of the struggle for African American rights since before anyone even knew his name. So to put it in Twitter terms: he's been woke bae and is not the first of his kind, following in the legacy of other models/actors like Harry Belafonte & Ozzie Davis. But you know...welcome, I guess. Most black men either gave Jesse very respectful kudos or didn't know who he was at all. One user actually said, "Still ain't never listen to dat speech, dat nigga ain't no MLK." How very astute sir, how very astute indeed. On the opposite side of the spectrum though, white people of both sexes seemed to not only have seen the speech, but were able to regurgitate it and make sound opinions either in agreement or in complete opposition. One such response directly attacked Williams' claims about the extraction and abuse of our culture, stating that "...urban black culture is a cancer upon America. White America is suffering from it, not appropriating it." Deciding to do a bit of investigating in the physical realm, and not just on social media, I asked a few random passers by their age and their thoughts on the acceptance speech. The first, a 25 year old black man, said, "I like when he talked about how we magic but we real people too. Black lives matter, you know?" A 29 year old black woman said she liked, "That moment when he said we make money to give right back to the white man...Like that's so true though." When I asked their thoughts on Jesse's point about the gentrification of our genius, one admitted they didn't know the meaning of the word gentrification but the other replied, "Ummmm...I mean I guess he's just saying that our minds aren't for sale...we can't just be brainwashed anymore." Now, this is by no means an intent or attack to say that all black people are too stupid or unbothered to pay attention while white people soak it all in. I am very interested in panning out this theory across broader ages and cultures. But taking just the example of this particular speech for now, I couldn't help but be curious about a few things. This speech aired on BLACK Entertainment Television and while the black community raucously applauded and called for Jesse to be the next presidential nomination, white America was just as quickly stricken into varying stages of uproar and seemed to have a firmer grasp on the subject matter. A 20 year old white woman I interviewed saw the speech online and said, "Omg, that moment when he talks about how freedom is conditional here! He said 'freedom's always coming in the hereafter but the hereafter is a hustle.' I feel like that's such a reality for soooo many people in this country! A country that's supposed to be one of the freest places on earth..." Likewise a 32 year old white man thought it was powerful, saying that "[Jesse's] reference to the losses that stemmed the black lives matter movement, his clear callout towards media bias, his refusal to sugar coat...I mean it was shocking for sure, but kind of in the best way." Again, this was just a small sample conducted to support a very thin theory of mine, but it just seemed to me that even with all of our willingness to appreciate and respect Jesse's incredibly moving words, we, the people who need to hear them most seem incapable of processing them or unwilling to really listen. This was a pivotal moment in the black community and instead of taking heed and rising to action, we were already distracted by how gorgeous of a man Jesse is, his white mother, bashing Justin Timberlake, and the other performances of the night. Meanwhile, the very system of whiteness he spoke against had taken in every word and was already in motion to censor Jesse's speech, to neutralize the flames before the world was set ablaze, to remove access to critical information as they've done time and time again. That's what Jesse is saying and therein is the heart of this op-ed. That's why the wheel is broken. I believe it was George Santayana who gave us the old adage "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." We MUST recognize these crucial moments when they occur and be willing to comprehend in order to apply change. Otherwise we will remain in this cycle of being cut down and the songs of yesteryear's woes will still apply in the next century. To directly quote Jesse, "It's kind of basic mathematics. The more we learn about who we are and how we got here, the more we will mobilize." It's up to us. Will we wake up and demand better for our existence?  Or will we find ourselves 80 more years from now still fighting to be greater than just fruit for the crows to pluck? You decide.

*Booking inquiries can be sent to [email protected].

It's so strange how things come to you....I've been writing an entirely different novel, got writer's block and put it down for a bit. Instead of pressuring myself to write, I went back to reading. And then today, ideas just started cropping up, sentences started to form in my mind. The only problem is they weren't for the novel I've begun. It was clear that they were something different, and now it seems I may be writing something new altogether...I'm actually excited about this one. With the recent changes in my life, I have no idea where the time will come in to see it through but I believe it's just going to happen. In much the same fashion that this just happened upon me. Here's the first draft of what I think may be the dedication to a collection of some truly wonderful stories. Most children begin their career aspirations and life goals by viewing the examples set before them by their parents. If mom is a lawyer and dad is a doctor, they tend to want to be public servants of the same nature. If mom is a stripper and dad is a dope dealer...well...who knows. My parents however, had the exact opposite effect. Witnessing their life made me absolutely certain I wanted to be nothing like them. My mother was the product of a loving Cosby-ish, although nowhere near as middle class, household. She was imaginative and caring, beautiful and smart but she was young and had a giant handicap. That handicap was my father. If my mother grew up like the Cosby kids, then my father was a product of the Mansons. He was a born thug, unfamiliar to expressions of affection, apt to drinking, smoking, and cussing like a sailor. Children were allowed to speak when spoken to and everything was fixed with a good ole fashioned ass whoopin. The two of them met as teenagers on the streets of Baltimore and it was hot and heavy from there. They were married and pregnant with me before my mom even finished high school and just ten months after my birth, my brother was also delivered into this world. It wasn't uncommon for girls to be pregnant in high school, but to be set back a year and have a husband and two children at your graduation...now that was something you didn't see every day. From then on my mother worked hard to support us and, with the help of her parents, managed to make a stable living for us. She didn't finish her college education but she was able to move out of her parents' home and get a house of her own. I would think that my father had his fair share of jobs but they never lasted long and after he spent a few years in prison on a manslaughter charge, steady work was even more difficult to maintain. I remember only a few of my father's jobs: linen truck driver, bounty hunter, electrician...What I remember more was the time he spent talking about his next endeavor. He had these dreams but they were usually in flux and never panned out. Meanwhile, my mother continued to work. By this point in our lives she'd been working as a postal carrier and had another son who'd been "magically delivered" by the stork while my father served his time. (Yes, it took us way too long to figure that one out.) So with three young children, a house, and a full time job, my mother was working hard to keep us all afloat, but their marriage had quite a few holes in the ship. I was too young before my father was arrested and sentenced to remember what their marriage was like before hand, but I was around five or so when he was released, and from that point their relationship was a revolving door of passion and drama. It would take an entirely separate book to tell the story of my parents' marriage and the role I played in it, and that is not the point here, so I'll try to summarize. My parents were not the positive example for me. I witnessed and became a middle man in an environment of anger, love, heartbreak, lies, and tears. I saw my mother unconditionally pour love into a man who didn't know what that meant, thinking she could change him, thinking it would get better only to have it thrown in her face countless times. When they were good together, they were good and she lavished on him. She paid the bills, she made the home, she took care of everything. He desired her, he brought home trinkets and ran candlelit baths, he gloried in being her man. But more often they were terrible. They fought and fought, he cheated, she put him out, he lied, she cut him off, she confronted him, he would leave, she demanded better, he would quit and find solace elsewhere. The cycle of Mike and April is a tale of young love and distrust that just kept turning on and off well into my adulthood, and my siblings and I were pawns caught in the crosshairs. For so many, this is not an unusual occurrence. It has become a social norm to be a product of a dysfunctional family. What was different for me was the level of awareness and reality I had to grasp at such an early age. While other children around me were in similar situations at home, sometimes even worse, they still had goals of becoming like their heroes around them. They still wanted to have families, be leaders in their communities, become superstars. They wanted to be like what they were seeing, they had dreams. I just wanted to escape. I wanted to be NOTHING like what I was witnessing daily, I wanted no more of the tears I'd become so accustomed to mopping up from around my mother's broken spirit. My grandmother would promise me in gentle whispers whenever I sought understanding in her arms that it wouldn't always be that way, that if I stayed in school and just kept my head up, there would be better days. I believed her, and I was determined to make it the truth. So I did everything possible to see it through. My dreams didn't matter because they weren't tangible. My father was a dreamer and it got him nowhere. My mother worked her ass off and success still evaded her. I wanted to be different, I wanted more. So I stayed in school and I did well. I held myself accountable and put in the work. I didn't have real boyfriends until I was a junior in high school and I didn't have sex until I met the man who would become my husband. Determined to not only graduate without getting pregnant, but to go on to college and earn a degree as neither of my parents had done, I guarded my heart and kept my head in the books. God bless all writers of books for that is where I found my escape. As a child in a home of chaos and hurt, burdened by brokenness beyond my years, hell bent on being nothing like the dysfunctional adults around me, I found a getaway in the worlds created by brilliant authors like Toni Morrison, Milton, Shakespeare, Richard Wright, Zora Neale Hurston, Stephen King and Danielle Steel. My world wasn't a place I cared to live in, and as a mere child I had no way of just leaving it all behind. But these authors had penned the stories of others that had the capability to transport me outside of my reality. I could do my work, shoulder my load, and even in the middle of the darkest storm I could pick up a book and go wherever I wished. That is the beauty of writing and that is how this craft came to me. I never professed myself to be a writer and I could never gather myself enough to tell my own story, but to give voice to another's story is something especially different. So this collection is dedicated to my Ginga and wonderful friend Andrea Jones for planting the seed and watering it with a swift kick in the butt, to my husband for enduring my indecisiveness and loving the crap out of me on good days and bad, and to my parents for being the anti-example, love you both anyway! Most of all this collection is for all of the little Kyri Renae's out there looking for just a bit of peace in the middle of their storms. It won't always be this way, we are living proof that there will undoubtedly be better days. Hold on.

Here's another excerpt from the piece that I'm working on. I ran into a few walls, so I'm writing the chapters out of order as they come to me. This scene happens much later than anything I've published here so far, and it will probably change a million more times knowing myself....But here it is for now. Tell me what you think! Slivers of pale moonlight and velvety blackness of shadow battled intimately across her skin. The night caressed her and she cooed her satisfaction in small exhales of ecstasy. Rolling her hips in sync with the sultry sound of "Moments In Love", she flung her hair down to her feet and slowly ran her hands bac @k up to her thighs. He wanted her. His mouth watered in anticipation. Rising from the lounge, he pulled her waist in close against him, grinding his swollen girth into her backside. He ran his hand up her spine and wrapped his fingers into a fistful of her bouncy curls, pulling her back into an exaggerated arch. A low moan crept out of her throat and he had to have her. Hungrily he pushed her over the chair and slid the thin lace of her thong to the side of her cheek where it hung on her hip like a question. The pools of water within her rose willingly to meet him, lapping up against his solid flesh as of waves crashing on the shore. They were strong winds of fire and ice, blissfully merging into one storm, one entity, a supercell of rhapsody. She warmed all over, feeling hazy like summer, as she tightened with rising expectancy, and he urged her onward. Then, a blast like a cannon sounded, and the door of the dark room hang unhinged. Those slivers of pale moonlight that had been so inspiring moments ago now delivered horror as they half showed the twisted face of the person glaring in the doorway, freshly smoking gun barrel in hand.

"Well, here we go again..." I commiserated to myself, rolling my eyes. It was eight p.m. Sunday night and I had given in to the silent social pressure surrounding Beyoncé's new teaser for her album "Lemonade". Owing to my love-hate relationship of all things Bey-related, I was both reluctant and excited to see the cause of all the buzz stirring from the Beyhive. Hoping it wouldn't be a giant waste of one hour, I turned the channel to HBO where I had the album special recording just in case it ran over into my Game of Thrones time, at which point I would've certainly abandoned my curiosity for the better option. (Yes, in my world GOT trumps Yonce, sorry Bey). The opening credits disappeared and the teaser began with a slow motion shot of Yonce sporting cornrows and some unfortunate animal's pelt as a wrap, her face intriguingly covered by the furry sleeves. Then it cut to some bayou b-roll and Queen Bey's haunting vocals played out over the reverbing bass line of "Pray You Catch Me", the opening track of the album. I must admit, when the first selection of spoken word started, I was convinced that the rest of the short film would be an overrated, artsy-fartsy disappointment; reminiscent of the high Hotep crowds at open mic nights and jazz cafes. Think the Love Jones era. But as the visual continued on an exploration of feelings like intuition, anger, and denial through sentimental ballads like "Sandcastles", and stirring guttural pieces like "Freedom", it became clear that "Lemonade" is the next stroke of genius in Bey's extensive body of creative acumens. Songs like the brutish trap track "Don't Hurt Yourself" and the misleadingly unapologetic "Sorry" give off an Angela Bassett in "Waiting to Exhale" vibe that had me (and every other woman in the world with access to HBO) thinking, "Whoo chile!! You mad or nah Yonce??" The bevy of memes that overtook the Internet shortly after the release, making fun of the Rachel Roy-Jay Z-Beyoncé triangle, definitely did not help matters. Yet as the special continued to its end, the reasoning for the album title and the message behind the music was evident. Descriptions from a maternal ancestor about passing values and tradition down the bloodline, striking images of the mothers of Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, & Mike Brown, and the cameos from different types of beautiful black women, combined with footage of special moments in Bey's personal life all speak to a bigger point. The album is not a call to male-bashing, it is not a reproach for her messy cheating husband, but it is a diary entry made public. Like many women all over this world, Bey knows what it is to be hurt, to suffer loss, and to feel all of the devastating emotions that accompany such grief. She also knows what it's like to work through it, get past it, and salvage what matters most in life. This visual, as is the same with many of Bey's previous songs, is an ode to the strength of women and living in love. Yes, sometimes you want to bash the living shit out of everything your man holds dear, YES, it hurts like hell to lose a child or lose faith in yourself, and YES, your heart can be broken into a million shattering pieces. Be that as it may, just like lemonade, we must take the bitterness we've been dealt and churn it into something sweet. Queen Bey had the world thinking she was serving up some major tea, when in actuality, she was reminding us that she too had to learn to make lemonade from the sour lemons in her life. By the end of the short film, I was no longer rolling my eyes at the absurd amount of uproar that seems to follow anything mildly related to Yonce. Instead, I was very much looking forward to hearing the album in full. Then I discovered that it was only available on Tidal, to which I had no subscription.....Really Bey? It's okay though, I'm not mad. Besides, who can be mad at a production that includes the stunning Serena Williams shaking what her momma gave her? You know what they say: when life gives you lemons...

Ah…smooth. I must admit, it’s very cute. Smirking in spite of myself, I exit through the glass front doors and stand at the edge of the white washed concrete to once more wait for the neon man to tell me to cross. The sun gleams off passing cars as I put my ear buds back in and press play on my phone.

Careful whispers flittered throughout the air around me, the hushed voices of my family and friends. We'd maxed out the permissible amount of guests even with the absence of my mother in law and second designated godfather. How they all made it in the middle of that inexorable blizzard still strikes me as astounding. The red digital clock above the white board on the wall clearly displayed the date & time, and yet I was at such a point of exhaustion that my mind couldn't even process that simplistic information. Instead, I took solace in the rapid dull thumping of the monitor strapped in two places across my swollen belly, and soundlessly repeated a mantra of faith over and over: God is with me, God is taking care of me, God is taking care of everything, I will trust Him. It was early morning, Saturday, January 23rd. We were 24 hours into a category five snowstorm and I was laying frog legged in the middle of Mercy Medical Center's maternity ward, about to give birth for the first time ever. Funny how the biggest days of your life are always the ones that start out completely normal and inconspicuous. With two weeks left before my due date and my cervix barely one centimeter dilated, my husband and I had settled in at home to hibernate out the storm. The snow had been falling consistently and heavily since around 3 p.m. Friday afternoon, forecasted to be so intense that the governor had already declared a State of Emergency hours beforehand. There was no reason for anyone but emergency personnel to go anywhere. Period. Of course God laughs when you make plans, and so it was a little after 1 a.m. on Friday, Jan 22, that my water broke. With no amniotic barrier left to protect my unborn child from every imaginable germ and infection on the planet we had two options: buckle down and have our first baby in the ill equipped sanctuary of our home, praying that help would arrive in time, or make our way through the accumulating snow and covered streets to the hospital. Even the on call OB emphatically encouraged us to go to the hospital nearest our home instead of trying to make it to our planned hospital in downtown Baltimore, thirty minutes away. We prayed about it and proceeded to drive the hell out of my truck to Mercy hospital anyway. Several cafe trips and social media updates later, my labor was progressing at a snail's pace. Forsaking all medication in an effort to have a completely natural birth, I had labored for over 12 hours and was completely exhausted. I felt weak and sleepy, and with every rising wave of contraction, fluid gushed from my body like a geyser. I could've nicknamed my uterus Old Faithful. Having reached this point and only dilated 3 1/2 more centimeters, the risk for placental infection climbed higher and my doctors were considering Pitocin. That meant this was the end of my natural journey. I had already lost so much energy; Pitocin was definitely not something I was prepared to take on without a little added help. Reluctantly I agreed to let the anesthesiologist jab a needle and catheter into my spine to temporarily paralyze me from the waste down while the nurse hung the clear little bag of induction serum. An epidural to combat the Pitocin. As I felt the tingly numbness creeping over my lower body, it was a little easier to relax. Immense pressure continued to come but I no longer had to fight and focus. In a matter of minutes I would be completely unfeeling. I was even able to sleep briefly. I felt completely at peace with the universe. My body was performing its divinely designed task and nothing had ever felt so amazing. I was grateful. Less than 15 minutes later all of that had changed. Panic flooded my mind and I couldn't even get my words out sensibly, much less center myself with prayer or any of the techniques that had worked up to that point. A sharp, burning sensation had shot through my body as if fired from a pistol. My pain level, which had been hovering around a 7 until the epidural brought it down to a 4, was way up off the scale. It was inconceivable agony and I knew something was wrong. I thought one of two things was happening: either my placenta was rupturing and I would need a c-section, or the baby was coming before I could fully dilate, literally tearing me apart. Either way it wasn't good. Either way it was going to happen right then and stopping it was completely outside of my control. Rendered outside of myself in this moment of hysteria, the only words I could emit were "Something's not right. Get somebody in here now!" My husband, being so wondrously yoked to me, knew to follow those exact orders right away. The remainder of my support system just thought that I was having a bad contraction and tried to talk me through it. But I could not talk, I could barely breathe. There was just no way to explain any further that this pain was emergent and definitely not just a contraction. The doctor and nurse came running in and I repeated the same limited phrases all jumbled up as if they would make more sense that way. Very mildly the doctor reassured me and explained that she would check to see what was going on. Her gloved hand inside of me, fingers searching around my cervix, only intensified the suffering. "Oh God....oh God please..." is all I thought as I laid flat on my back, mentally blinded by the agony and physically blinded by the delivery room lights. The next words I heard stopped everything like some abstruse pause button, and will stay with me for the rest of my existence. In the most unperturbed tone the doctor said, "Oh, you're fully dilated. He's right here. It's time." It was as if I had become this cyclone of a woman, gathering calamity in seconds, ready to release my havoc in an outpouring of emotion, only to have the wind change at the last minute. It was time to push. And just like that, nothing else mattered. Three to four thrusts later my bright eyed baby boy came shoving out of my womb into the insane asylum that is our world. A day that I had originally intended to spend insignificantly with my husband, naked and snacking on the couch, had turned into one of the single most important moments of my being. Veridically and suddenly I had produced life. I was terrified. I was in love. I was a mom.....And I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Okay so anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm a proud Baltimorean. I literally grew up on the streets of that beautiful mess of a city and love it wholeheartedly to this day. That being said, I am no stranger to altercation. I've been in several fights, I've had my ass whooped, I've narrowly escaped assault charges a few times. I mean, I'm the nicest person in the world but if tested, I very much go from 0 to 100 nigga real quick. Like in all seriousness I think Drake wrote that line specifically for me. But I'm smart about these things though. My judgment and decision making has adapted with my level of adulting in an effort to be a decent human being and, you know, avoid starring in Maryland's version of Orange Is The New Black. If I'm going to fight at this stage in my life, it's because someone is threatening my life and one of us is about to go down for good. I'm really good at determining that early. But every now and then, someone comes along and tests that fine line between good sense and oh hell naw. This is a story about one of those someones. This particular occurrence went down in the capital of random idiocy herself: Walmart. I don't know what it is about Walmart that inspires such copious amounts of ratchetivity in all kinds of people, but it's definitely a phenomenon that everyone comes to experience at some point. It's like puberty or something. Grow 5 inches, get pimples, and shop at Walmart. I mean seriously, there's an entire Facebook page, at least three Twitter accounts, and a few Tumblr blogs dedicated to that special kind of je-ne-sais-what-the-hell that you can find in Walmart. Well I decide one sunny but cold Saturday afternoon to waddle my 24 weeks pregnant self to my local Wally Wally World for some scrap booking items, carpet freshener, baby onesies, and of course some prime snackage. I'm feeling good, why not right? Wrong. Rule #1: NEVER go to Walmart on a Saturday. EVER. Bruh, just navigating the parking lot is like the first run of the Hunger Games. I manage to find a space relatively close but of course the car next to me is parked so crookedly that I have barely enough space to climb down out of my truck. I squeeze out and make it inside. If the parking lot was bad, it's nothing compared to inside where it's a super center of absolute chaos. Carts everywhere, screaming children, yelling associates, merchandise scattered...it's a war zone and naturally, I have to pee. After emptying my bladder, I grab a few things, none of which I originally came in here for, and I make my way back to the baby section. The aisles are narrower here and when I get to the place where the onesies are there's a beefy woman in leggings that don't fit into her short Ugg boots, on her phone, with her cart splayed directly across the place I need to reach. Of course. I try saying excuse me and squeezing by to see if I can reach any of the onesies. I can't and she's not paying me any mind. I decide that I'll just come back but when I do a few moments later, she's still there and still in the way. *Sigh* Louder this time, I say, "Excuse me. Can I get here on this shelf for a second?" She sucks her teeth and says into her phone, "Hold on bitch, hold on..." and she moves her cart like two centimeters. No lie. Then goes back to her phone call ("Yeah bitch I'm back") and browses in another rack with her cart still on this wall, still in my way. Okay, fine, we're doing this the hard way then. I waste no more niceties on this walking blob of slop and instead I just push the cart out of my way, closer to where she's now browsing. Picking out my onesies I hear her say, "Excuse the fuck out of you." Ahhhh, here we go. Typically that's my cue to let a chick know I'm not the one, but I'm carrying precious cargo so I opt to say nothing instead. I'm fuming though. Then I hear her say into her phone, "No girl, some rude ass bitch on my cart like I'm not fucking standing here...yes, like I won't slap the shit out of her or something." Yup, that did it. Slap me? Oh no baby, she picked the right one. I turn around to where she's standing and tell her, "Please do. Please slap me. I would love to see you try." The spew of slurs that come from her mouth next aren't intimidating, impressive, or even sensible. We stand there shouting at each other like animals until I realize that's all there is to this woman. I've invited her several times to do her worst and she's content to stand here and yell like an idiot, making me consequently just as idiotic as her. Nope, I'm not doing it. I kindly tell her to crawl back into whatever poorly used condom she came from and I walk past her into the crowd of onlookers who are unabashedly watching this spectacle. As I pass her I feel her grubby hand shove my shoulder and I stumble into the rack of tees ahead. I promise on everything I love that I left my body for a second. Some maternal predator instinct switches on and I want to rip this woman's throat out with my teeth so bad that my mouth is watering. Remember that scene in the Color Purple where Sophia gets slapped and her face darkens like a storm cloud while her fist balls up almost instinctively? Yeah that's me right about now. Well there must have been a shift in nature too, like a giant panic button or something, because the instant I recover my step and turn to throw my everything behind the hook I'm about to sink into her face, an employee is swiftly and forcibly guiding me backwards away from this woman. My adrenaline infused system allows me to keep getting away but the employee is quick; he keeps catching and detaining me. Security is able to make the woman leave while I'm being forced in the other direction. I'm pissed. Like I swear to you that full on bearded walk on water Jesus and EVERY angel came down to run this interference because in my mind I'm going to kill this woman. She not only took me outside of my character, but she showed complete disregard for the safety of my unborn child. What's more is that after all of that I didn't even get a resolution! So I'm standing in the middle of Walmart, 6 months pregnant, raging mad, unaware of where my stuff went in the middle of all of this, and crying. Not crying because I'm upset, but crying because now I can't remember where I parked my car and I have to pee again! Stupid hormones. It was without a doubt one of the most frustrating days I'd had in a long time. It's definitely ranked somewhere between my first black eye and 9/11. Moral of the story: Don't be the "almost" person. Walk away from the start or go balls to the wall and knock that super cunt out before they even see it coming. And never, I mean NEVER go to Walmart on a Saturday.

41 inches of LED screen flashed vague scenes from some obscenely shallow reality program about dwarfism. Further exploitation of an already taboo culture probably would've held my interest ordinarily but I was busy counting time. Seemingly endless time. It had been two hours since he left and when he would return depended on several varying factors. Yet here I was, watching the digits behind the colon change slower than molasses oozes off a tree. How was this my life now? I'd spent two years in head start, four and a half years in elementary school, three years in that Catholic sham of a middle school, four years in one of the most prestigious city high schools, and then four more years earning that bullshit honors degree from the university....All to be sitting here jobless, uninspired, completely bored with myself and completely exhausted. Seriously....how the hell did I get here? No one ever explains in all of that teaching and telling us to "be all we can be", "reach for the stars" cliche slinging that adulthood is the absolute worst. None of those Nancy Reagan 87 after school specials ever mentioned that the agonizing pressure and constant failure of being an adult is the VERY thing that makes swallowing an entire bottle of sedatives so appealing in the first place. I had a full plan once. I believed the idiots who sold me my dreams on the silver platter of if I did right, the world would be mine. I spent my life on the right track only to wake up one day and find out that my train was not only off the rails but had crashed and burned miles ago. I didn't survive. I was a part of the wreckage. A mess of shattered hope trying to put all the pieces back together. That's adulthood. At some point we all just get to a place where we're aimlessly floundering through life, bouncing off of walls like the old Windows screensaver, just trying not to die until we've found purpose again. Where's the four credit course to prepare for that stage? It had been two hours since he left and when he would return depended on several varying factors. Yet here I was, with the tone of my evening completely dependent on a man. Because he was my life now. Because my own life had faded into some blurry gray zone of uncertainty. I had no idea what I was doing. So I counted the slow blinking digits behind the colon. It was easier than adulting.

Here's an excerpt from the start of my first novel. I'm still not sure where it's going and I'll probably edit it about a zillion more times before this is over, but right now, this is where it begins. Sometimes all you have is a starting line. "I WOULD WALK 500 MILES AND I WOULD WALK 500 MORE….” Ugh….My cell phone blares out at deafening levels from the nightstand on the side of my extremely old and very comfortable twin bed. I've forgotten to turn the ringer down. “..JUST TO BE THE MAN WHO WALKS 500…” You know, I really used to love that song. Funny how your aptitude to love a thing suddenly diminishes when it roars out into the still darkness of four in the morning. Who is calling me anyway? It can't be good. Nothing good comes from unexpected calls this early. "...DAH DA DAH!! DAH DA DAH!!!... " Okay, okay! Unwillingly I roll over and stretch my fingers past scattered hair pins on the cluttered stand to silence my persistent phone. Squinting against the lightning bright screen I can see it’s my mother calling. “Hello?” Yikes. I sound like death frozen over as I pick up. “Hey sweetie…it’s your mom.” Yes, I know this already, but sensing the stress in her tone I decide against pointing out the obvious. “Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you up?” “It's Aunt Jo…" she replies. "She’s gone Reine.” Damn. I can’t say I'm surprised, or otherwise label my feelings at the moment, but the finality of receiving this kind of news is never easy. It's always heavy and awkward finding out that someone you know has died. Like the seconds of embarrassing confusion that follow tripping over thin air. Aunt Josette was my dad’s only sister and she had been sick for a while now. We'd received the news about 9 days earlier that her organs had started failing. Cirrhosis. No viable transplant option. Man, alcoholism sure is a bitch. But then again, so was Aunt Josette. For a while, when I was a child, she was my favorite relative; outspoken, beautiful, spoke 6 languages and taught some to my brother and I, and she always had a treat for us from her travels working as a translator. I was born with her hazel grey eyes, and it was she who inspired my parents to name me Reine, a French word for queen. But as life would have it, things changed and so did Aunt Jo. She went through so much in such a short time it seemed. She lost her job to downsizing, her husband to a busty blonde named Cheryl, her lavish Mediterranean home in the divorce, and lost what was left of her looks to emotional eating and depression. It was an extremely trying time for her. 54 and jobless, with her severance used up and nothing in savings, she was left to find whatever work would have her on board. My parents tried to help her as much as they could, but she was enormously stubborn and became very bad tempered. I can’t begin to count the times my father and Aunt Jo got into shouting matches and the numerous attempts she made to steal from our home. After a while, we just grew apart from Aunt Jo and she sought comfort in the numbing oblivion at the bottom of scotch glasses. She could’ve easily run herself a bath everyday with the amount she came to drink. I tried to make it a point to visit her when I was old enough to go on my own, but the days of colorful stories and sweet international treats were long gone. Her one bedroom on the backside of Pucett Alley stank of old grease and stale beer. There were stains in the carpet, holes in the walls and furniture…and I’m pretty sure the paint sealed windows were obscured in lead poisoning. It was a dump. Aunt Jo would sulk for hours on the threadbare sofa, budging only to get another drink. Occasionally she would scowl at me with those once bright eyes and say things like, "And what the fuck are you looking at?! Don’t get no ideas about takin’ my shit! I’ll slap your little narrow ass! Matter fact, sit down on your hands where I can see ‘em! And give me my goddamn remote!” 30 minutes of Days of Our Lives and 5 glasses later, Aunt Josette would be slumped over, snoring into her chest, and I would make my exit. I was raised to mind my elders, and once upon a time this sad little woman had been my favorite, so I never gave her any lip. But I no longer felt a connection to her and soon came to regard my visits to her dingy hovel as little more than charity. Then my parents got a call one morning from the hospital near her home. Aunt Jo had been admitted unconscious and soaking wet, bruises over almost every inch of her body. To this day we can only guess at what happened to her. I was with my mother and father when they got the call. I remember their stony whispers on the ride over and how they seemed more exhausted than worried. I heard the doctors tell my parents that they had stopped the internal hemorrhaging and got her blood clotting again, but that Aunt Jo's cirrhosis was extreme. There was a slim chance for improvement, but the effects could not be reversed. The best option for her would’ve been a transplant but since alcoholism is viewed as a self-inflicted disease it was difficult to get her on the list. And now my mother is on the other end of this call telling me that it's happened. Aunt Josette is dead. Mixed emotions wavered around in my head. Death is never a positive thing, but for some reason I felt relieved. Relieved for myself, relieved for my family, and mostly relieved for Aunt Jo. Maybe now her once beautiful spirit could emerge free. Freed from the hells of a world that she worked hard to build up only to have it all collapse as if it were made of cards. Or maybe she would continue to be tortured by her decisions in the afterlife…Who can really say? It's now 4:25am….My mother is asking if I'm alright. I reassure her that I'm okay and tell her she should rest. Advice I intend to apply to myself as well. There’s still time to sleep before I have to get up and get ready for work. Hearing the line go dead I hang up and make sure to turn my noisy phone to silent mode before I lay back down. As I close my eyes a soft melody resonates in my mind...foreign and sweet...a lullaby I think. I don't understand the words but it is very familiar. I can see Aunt Josette, lovely and young again, framed in sunshine as she smiles and waves out of a doorway, whispering "A plus tard mes petits cheris." Yes, see you later indeed Aunt Jo. See you later indeed.