Thanks to you.

My elementary school, Inglewood, California.

She had a burning desire to go far,
And she had lively hopes 
of reaching every star
One day she'd leave this place,
But never forget her people's face
And when she found her dreams,
She'd come back and proclaim:
 

Baby, you will rise
Limit is the skies
Don't you let nobody fill 
your head up with their lies
Baby, you will rise
Never compromise
Milk and honey's waitin' for you 

on the other side
 
You will rise....

~ Amel Larrieux with Sweetback

_____________________________________

 It's amazing how great of an impact people and experiences can have on who we become. Good or bad, huge or teensie-weensie, these moments that we have with others become building blocks of who we are.

My parents, of course, were careful to cherish us growing up. As a little girl, my father looked at me lovingly and treated me that way, too. My mother would let me sneak into her bed long after I was a toddler and every, single time I did, she'd wrap her arm around me, kiss the top of my pony tail, and snuggle me against her warm body. She would read my homemade books and ooh and ahh at my elementary school art creations.

And all of that helped shape me. But you know? Now that I'm older and with kids of my own, I know that it wasn't just my folks. It wasn't.

Today, I'm reflecting on a few of the people who helped to build me up in my early years. I'm thinking about how grateful I am that they were such judicious stewards of their time with me and I'm recognizing how great of an impact they had on who I am now.

The last time I was home, I got the chance to see a few of those people--particularly the ones who taught me in my neighborhood public schools. With so much bad press about education in this country (and locally), what better time than to shine a light on some good people who I think got some things right? It's also "Teacher Appreciation Week" at the boys' school so I kind of have appreciating teachers on the brain. . . .

Yeah.

Matter o' fact. . .I wrote a little post about it. Like to hear it? Here it go!


First, her:

This is Mrs. Schieldge. She was my back-to-back kindergarten and first grade teacher way back in 1975 - 77. What I remember the most about her is that she told me repeatedly that I was smart and special and talented. She encouraged me to write a story in first grade that my mother helped me type up and put into a special folder. It felt like a masterpiece.

"You are such a bright and special girl," she told me. And she told me this often.

Even though I was only five or six years old, I remember her saying that to me. I can see me coloring at my desk and giving my very best effort. I keep those words in my pocket to this day and do my best to believe them.

I appreciate Mrs. Schieldge. And you know? I was not at the "it" school by any stretch of the imagination. This was an inner city public school where just about everyone there looked like me and not her. But this woman built her entire career in that very school and never left.

She made a difference in my life. She did.

So did this lady:

This is Ms. Osborne. (She was the first person I met who was a "Ms," which always made her seem extremely cool.)  Ms. Osborne was my fifth grade teacher when I first started at the magnet school in our district. I was nervous and scared and unsure about a lot of things. But once I got into Ms. Osborne's class, that didn't last long.

Nope.

Ms. Osborne opened my eyes to a world of poetry, literary classics and so much more. With her, I read books like "The Hobbit" and "Lord of the Rings" and even "The Odyssey." Ms. Osborne taught me about haiku and onomatopoeia. She published a little book of poetry each year and I still remember how proud I felt when I saw my work printed in a bound book.

Haiku by Kimberly Draper, 5th grade:

The clouds are pretty

Cotton candy in the sky

a beautiful cloud

Even if it wasn't so great, it doesn't matter. That's the exact poem that was printed in that book and let me tell you how I know: Because it was a pivotal experience. People remember things that shape them.

I appreciate Ms. Osborne for opening this world to me and helping me find my place in it. She made me feel like I belonged there.


And then, there's this guy:

Mr. Evans.

Sigh. Good ol' Mr. Evans.

Can I first just go on the record and say that middle school sucked? For me, of all of the times I had in my education--medical school included--no transition was harder for me than that one I made to middle school. Socially, academically, and just period. Middle school sucked.

Yeah, I said it.

For me, it was the first time that I ever really had to fully manage myself. No one was nudging me or coaching me to do my work or get it in on time. My pretty drawings and poetry weren't enough in middle school. There was more to do, more to learn and more responsibility. Which, for me, was rough.

Mr. Evans held my feet to the fire. He took no prisoners and pushed me to figure out how to sit my butt down and do my work. He was a firm, yet fair, git'r done or git'a zero kind of dude. There was no favoritism or passes with him. And honestly, that was hard for me. I had trouble getting things completed and often felt overwhelmed. But eventually, with his help, I got better at time management. I figured out what I needed to do as a learner, which was sort of different than some of my friends. I learned that I was a procrastinator, but that this was okay--as long as I figured out when I had to get on my job and get crack-a-lacking.

And when I didn't? There was no charming my way out of the big, fat 'C' that Mr. Evans would place in that top right hand corner without batting a lash.

"You were capable of an 'A', " he said, "but you just didn't make up your mind to work for it."

Damn.

I appreciate Mr. Evans because he taught me how to do my work. He taught me study habits and the importance of making up my mind to work to my potential. And he also showed me that there were consequences for mediocre efforts.

I am convinced that were it not for him, I would never have done as well in college or medical school as I did. His lessons took me far beyond middle school. His influence changed my life.

Lastly.

My middle school, Los Angeles, California

 Mrs. McNeal.

I wish I had a photo of her, but I don't. Mrs. McNeal unfortunately passed away from leukemia several years ago. But that doesn't mean that I don't remember everything about her just like it was yesterday. From her short salt and pepper hair cut, to her strict rules, to her liberal use of red ink all over our work--I remember it all.

Aaaaah, Mrs. McNeal. She was my eighth grade language arts teacher. And man, oh man, was she tough. I owe this blog, in part, to her. She was the person who really, really pushed me to write. She would write things like:

"Flesh this out more." Which meant that there was more in me to write.

"Don't be lazy!"  Which meant I was choosing easy words as a way out.

"Less is more!" Which meant that I had chosen too much.

Then there were the McNeal abbreviations:

"FRAG!"   (for fragment.)

"GRAMM!" (for grammatical errors.)

"AWK!" (for awkward wording.)

"DISJ!"  (for disjointed things that didn't fit the story.)

"REV!"  (which meant I needed to write it all over again.)


Mrs. McNeal taught me about literary license. She told me that it was okay to sometimes use quirky grammatical choices for informal story telling because sometimes it could give emphasis. She'd show me examples in literature and helped me to know when it was and wasn't appropriate. Mrs. McNeal helped me to learn to love writing. And to feel like I had to.

I cried when my mom told me she was sick. I cried again when she passed away. Writing about her even today makes my eyes sting a bit. But you know? I feel like I honor her every single time I write on this blog or anywhere else. Which means that she is very much alive.

Yes, she is.

My mother is a retired teacher. I know for certain that someone, somewhere is feeling these same feelings about her. And I love that. Did you know? Deanna was an educator, too. She taught middle school in some of the toughest schools in Atlanta and when someone asked her why she didn't just go somewhere easier, do you know what she said? She said:

"If I don't stay here and teach them, who will?"

Knowing the impact that she surely had on so many children warms my heart. Because it means that beyond even her family and friends, like Mrs. McNeal on this blog, she, too, will live on in ways that even I can't imagine.

Lord knows I would've never imagined all of this back in eighth grade. 

And yes. It stinks that there are also some teachers who haven't been so mindful of their influence on kids and who, just maybe, were sleeping on the job. But you know what? There are a whole, whole, whole lot of educators out there who leave it all on the field, man. Who get up and tell kindergartners that they are bright and special. Who open worlds of Greek mythology and iambic pentameters to young fifth graders. Who crack the most well-meaning whips on sixth graders and push them to achieve their full potential in ways that work best for them. And of course, the ones who pull out their red felt-tipped pens and graffiti the cursive written essays of fledgling eighth grade writers.

Yes, they still exist. I know they do because they are meeting me for parent-teacher conferences and helping me with building up my own children right now.

So, yeah. Shout out to the educators who have been serious about their role in the village of raising up children. Shout out to Mrs. Schieldge and Ms. Osborne and Mr. Evans and Mrs. McNeal. Shout out to Mrs. Draper and Miss Draper, too. And you know? Shout out to Mrs. Reed and Coach Bashor and Mr. Benefield and all of the people I know right NOW who remind me that teachers who care are not a thing of the past.

No way, no how.


You know what?  No matter what the newspapers tell you, all is not lost. It's not, it isn't, it ain't.*


*You can thank Mrs. McNeal for that (appropriately placed) FRAG! and that GRAMM! used for emphasis in this informal piece of writing.

***
Happy Teacher Appreciation Week. (At least, at my kids' school.)

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . Amel Larrieux with Sweetback singing "You will rise."


P.S  OMG! I just remembered that for a brief spell, Deanna had a blog. Turns out that she never took it down. . .and that made me sooo happy! She wrote about a few of her funny encounters as a middle school teacher in inner city Atlanta -- and through the humor, you can feel the love she had for those kids. Go visit her posts here.  Among her many other gifts, she had a beautiful gift for writing, too. What a joy to hear her authentic voice through her writing today. And you know what? There's another teacher somewhere to thank for that.

Where I'm from: The Hair Edition.

~ WHERE I'M FROM: THE HAIR EDITION ~

I'm from, "Sugar, you had to have heartburn 'cause that babygirl got a lot of hair!"  I'm from pink bows on baby afro-puffs but just for K-Mart pictures--otherwise a big, unrestrained fuzzball for everything else.

I'm from assembly line hair styling with Goody brushes and Blue Magic hair grease. I'm from, "Hold still",  from "Stop being so tender-headed," and from a smack on the back of the arm with a comb. I'm from "baby hair" with an old toothbrush and some Vaseline to hold it down.

I'm from "Let's play Beauty Shop!" and JoLai giving me my first (but not last) asymmetric haircut--with a pair of Fiskars Pinking Shears out of Mommy's sewing kit. I'm from bangs cut over bathroom sinks and a big pink sponge-roller in the front for eighteen out of twenty four of the hours in the day. I'm from Five-Minute Fast Set, Cream of Nature Shampoo and Pink Oil Moisturizer.

I'm from big multicolored hair "balls" and smaller ones tied on the ends of long twisted pony-tails. I'm from one pony-tail on the side, a zig-zag part down the middle, and two french braids that I did all by myself.

image credit

I'm from sitting on three phonebooks and running from pressing combs. I'm from not understanding the difference between my hair "holding heat" and you just burning my damn head over and over again.  I'm from "my hair normally comes to my neck but when I get it pressed out it goes all the way to the middle of my arm--for real!" I'm from "Shirley Temple curls" on big holidays and "kiss curls" on regular days--and fully warranted vanity when returning to everyday places like school and the neighborhood playground when those curls held up longer than intended.

I'm from braids with foil and multicolored beads that took my homegirl across the street the whole sleepover to do. I'm also from losing half of them while running barefoot down the block to catch the ice cream truck and crying all the way back. I'm from "but everybody else has a Jheri Curl!" and really, really wanting hair like Ola Ray on the Thriller video.

I'm from bright orange patches in the front from heavy-handed sprays of Sun-In and even brighter orange patches when the same homegirl who braided my hair alerted me that "regular old hydrogen peroxide would do the same thing." I'm from Kool Aid rinses in junior high water fountains. I'm from first relaxers that left my hair feeling like straw but hair that laid down on my head for the first time ever in a swimming pool. I'm from Beauty College makeshift hairdos that always came out like hair-don'ts.

I'm from first paychecks and first time getting the cut I really, really wanted. I'm from big flips and fly girl mullets, from "OOO BABY BABY! SALT 'N' PEPA IS HERE!" cool girl haircuts that I paid for with my own money from being the cashier at Foot Locker but couldn't maintain at home. I'm from "pretty sleeping", Gold'n'Hot crimping irons and leaving hot curlers plugged in overnight to get them "extra hot."

Maaaaan, I'm from ten dollar relaxers in Fredrick Douglass Hall but only five dollars if you bring your own chemicals. From washcloths with burned hot curler marks on them from cooling off marcel irons that your roommate bought from Sally Beauty Supply last week. I'm from the new Hawaiian Silky perm that was both Hawaiian-looking and silky-feeling for the first week until it promptly fell out.

All of it.

I'm from returning to the press and curl and chemical free life before it was "in" and vowing never to relax my hair again--but relaxing my hair again. I'm from Janet Jackson in Poetic Justice "dooky braids" while studying for boards and when rotating on Surgery.

I'm from horseshoe bobs and Pantene samples, from "do you got some Indian in you?" and "Do you got some tracks in your hair, girl?" I'm from drugstore highlights and Jazzing hair rinses, from Aphogee hair treatments and Sea Breeze poured on itchy scalps pre-scratched with rat tail combs.

I'm from "Please, just cut it off" and "Yes, ma'am, I'm sure I want it that short", from "No, ma'am, I'm not depressed," and "I'm sorry you think I'm ungrateful for cutting it." I'm from jet black rinses for style at first then later to cover up sprouts of gray.

I'm from T'Renee, Bernetta, Mommy, Deanna, Violet, Treasure, Stefano, Meechie, Supercuts, and, now, Sakinah. I'm from The Jackson Five, Prince, Bo Derek in 10, Beat Street, Anita Baker, and Halle Berry. I'm from Alberto VO5, Stay-Sof-Fro, PCJ, Affirm and sometimes nothing at all.

I'm from natural reddish and auburn highlights and semipermanent rinses and eventually grey parts likely grandmama had that are no longer undercover.

I'm from "Young, Gifted and Black" and a story nestled into every single strand.

I'm from "we love you no matter what" and finally being alright with me, my hair, and my journey. . . .

. . . . a journey I wouldn't take nothing for now.

***
Happy Tuesday.

So tell me. . . .Where YOU from? I just KNOW y'all have some good journeys--ALL of y'all!

The linchpin of the personal statement.

"Research is the linchpin of a thriving academic medical center." 

~ Kimberly Draper, M4

Bleccchh!

This is a sentence that was written by me what feels like twelve thousand years ago. I guess I was trying to sound smart, so I included these words (along with many other equally pretentious ones) in the personal statement I wrote for my residency applications.  Talk about a snoozer.

Yawn.

Look. I'm not saying that research ISN'T the linchpin (linchpin?!) of a thriving academic medical center. I'm just saying that I have no idea why these words would have any place in an essay that was supposed to be designed to convey who I am. Or at least was in 19-hundred-and-95.

Now that I'm a residency program director, I know how extremely crap-tacular my personal statement was back then. It did nothing to paint a picture of me and the person a residency program could expect to get. Instead, I wrote words that I thought they'd want to hear.

Unfortunately, many people still do.

And see, the personal statement essay-thingie doesn't exactly go away after you start residency. If you decide to pursue a fellowship training program, many of them want one, too. When I applied to be a society leader in the School of Medicine that, too, called for--you guessed it--a personal statement. Oh yeah, and last year when I submitted my portfolio for academic promotion to Associate Professor, I had to write a four page version of a personal statement. And while technically the four page promotion one had a few specific rules about teaching, scholarship and service, it still proved to be tremendously important. Maybe even a linchpin of a thriving academic promotion package.

Mmmm hmmmm.

These days I have been looking at a lot of personal statements and also meeting with advisees about their applications to residencies and fellowships. Yesterday, in particular, I had an extremely rich discussion with Kevin S. about developing his essay.

"Why are you like you are, Kevin?" I asked.

And yes, that sounds loaded but let me explain. See, Kevin is a fourth year medical student who has a heart for medicine, yes, but something more than that. His passion includes care for what the Grady elders and the church folk call "the least of these." The homeless. The unstably housed. Those with strongholds of drug addiction.  HIV-infected and out of care but needing it. And honestly? If he can find patients who meet ALL of these criteria at the same time, he's at home. No exaggeration.

Now. Let me just be clear and say that it's my guess that most kids from the northern suburbs of Chicago aren't quite as keen as Kevin is on this--the dirtiest of the dirty work in domestic healthcare. And no, this statement is not meant to offend any of you north-side-of-Chicago people who DO volunteer with this population. I'm just saying that his desire . . . and even need. . .to be in such an element comes from somewhere. And that? That's what I want to learn about when reading his personal statement.

I have a horrible confession. I have read only the first fifty words of what feels like over two hundred and fifty trillion personal statements. Mostly because they're talking about "linchpins" and such and nothing about who this person is who wrote it. If I am not grabbed in--okay-- at least seventy-five words, I stop reading and skim over to the letters of recommendation. Horrible, right?

Oh, and if those are super-impersonal and unhelpful, too? That's a real, true red flag.

Not. Kidding.

And see, this is what we, as mentors, need to be telling our advisees as we're discussing their applications. Get away from that babble that you think I WANT to hear and tell me who you are. Because it ISN'T intuitive through your grades. And you AREN'T the first smart person to apply to that program or that position.

Case in point:

Yesterday when I was talking to Kevin, he said that "loves Grady Hospital and the patient population there." And as we explored that more, it became apparent that, again, it had a lot to do with his drive to participate in the care of the underserved and the misunderstood. He loves to be in the trenches looking into the eyes of people whose faces are peering up from the bottom of the well. And normalizing them through his heart for delivering them the education, care and mostly understanding that they deserve but unfortunately don't always receive. That's why Kevin loves a place like Grady Hospital.

But me? While all of those things do apply, my main drive for being at Grady has more to do with who I am genetically. I am the child of two African-American parents born and raised in the deep south. A daddy who was one of eleven whose mama (my grandmama) was one of ten. The grandchild of a man who was quietly confident and who met his love, my grandmother, at the very historically black college where my own parents met and that the four of us would subsequently attend. Tuskegee. The school not even a two hour drive away from Grady that, also, my uncle would follow my father's footsteps to. The same uncle who had his life shredded to bits by substance abuse and who continues to fight it to this very day. I'm also the same woman whose father grew up in the epicenter of Jim Crow horrors in Birmingham, Alabama and who was looked straight in the eye by a high school counselor who told him he couldn't be a doctor.

Yep.

See, that's who I am. So for me, walking into Grady Hospital and touching the hands of the patients and listening to their stories is like coming home. Home. Those elders are my grandparents and my great aunts. Those folks with their crack cocaine and alcohol strongholds are my Uncle Woody. The young ones with their babies and their issues are the girls I used to double dutch with on the corner until the street lights came on in my inner-city Inglewood, California neighborhood. Even the scores and scores of immigrants I care for are the loved ones of my friends at my elementary school and high school. You know--the one with such a growing population of Spanish-speaking students that each morning we recited the pledge of allegiance in Spanish, too.

Don't believe me? I can still say it from memory:

Juro fidelidad a la bandera de los Estados Unidos de Americas. Y a la republica que representa, una sola nacion, bajo de Dios, indivisible con libertad y justicias para todos. You may be seated. (We always said that part in Ingles.)

It's okay -- you can stop applauding. Ah hem.

Wait. . .what was my point again? Oh, yeah. So my point is that I'm at home in this environment. And some of these pivotal experiences have made a place like Grady feel like home.

And for Kevin? I'm not sure. But I know there is some explanation. Perhaps it is something he saw his parents doing when he was a kid. I have met his parents so this would never surprise me. And, hey, maybe it's something altogether different. Either way, that tells a lot about who he is and why he's wired this way.

And remember Joe, the guy working as a Grady patient transporter? Surely there's a story behind him being the kind of person who would not only want to do that for a whole year--but actually make that happen for a whole year-- before going to medical school. Getting my point?

See, my dear friend Kris who lives in Uganda was raised by a surgeon father. That father often did medical mission trips to Kenya. She grew up seeing and experiencing that. So despite what many would call a rather affluent upbringing she now she cares for patients in the middle of Africa. And is right at home doing it. And remember Mina, one of Kevin's classmates, who wants to be an ENT doctor? Much of Mina's work ethic came from her Vietnamese immigrant mother who guided her as she painted designs on toenails in her nail shop each summer. Make sense?

So I ask the students the same things I asked myself before preparing to write my most recent personal statement.

Who ARE you?
Why are you like this?
What pivotal experience or relationship got you here?
What cultivated it and nourished it?
What have you continued to do to cultivate and nourish that part of you?
Where did you learn your work ethic?
What are you looking for?
What can we expect from you?

Not:

Why is this a great field?
What did Socrates once say? 
What did Hippocrates once say?
Or Winston Churchill?
Why is research important?
Why is medicine important?
Did you know that I wanted to be a doctor since I was a baby?

*Yawnity-yawn YAWN*

It's called a PERSONAL STATEMENT for a reason. It's to tell people WHO YOU ARE. Period. That's it. That's the "linchpin" of a kick-ass personal statement. It's one that communicates the essence of professional you. . . .which should never be too far away from regular ol' you.

So the best advice is simple. Keep it personal. Keep it human. Keep it you.

Unless, of course, you only want someone to read the first fifty words. . . .

***
Happy Sabado. Y justicias para todos.

From Kimberly Manning, MD--now an Associate Professor (!) of Medicine. Claro que si!

Now playing on my mental iPod. . .  .a little of my personal statement . . . in song by the lovely Ms. India Arie singing "The Little Things." This just made me cry while watching it because thinking of who I really am makes me cry. In a good way.

Complexities.

image credit

I was sitting at the nurses' station typing my notes and minding my own business. It was smack in the middle of the afternoon so there were scattered residents, students and ward teams around the area. Some were rounding. Some were teaching. A few others were just hanging around tying up loose ends from the morning.

And me? I was just in my own world typing my notes into the computer. My own team was on call so I was left to do my work while they stamped out disease in other parts of the hospital. I looked at my ratty checklist and methodically marked off my boxes with each note.  I was completely in that getter-done mode; I was in that zone that others automatically know to not disturb.

"You need to go be with her ass then!"

This was what jolted me out of my note-writing groove. My head whipped up and I saw her standing there. A young woman with a hand on her hip and an elbow resting on the counter. In that hand she had a bedazzled cellphone pressed up against her ear tightly. Almost as tight as the expression on her face.

When I looked at her we locked eyes. It was my way of telling her that she was not speaking in an "inside voice" at all. And that, seeing that this was a hospital and all, she needed to.

She rolled her eyes away from me and dug back into that conversation.

"See now you 'bout to piss me off. That b---ch called your phone and I saw it. You think I'm stupid. I ain't stupid."

Her voice was loud. Too loud to be standing where she was standing and saying what she was saying. I looked up at her again. Trying my hardest to communicate with her through my searing eye contact.

Another eye roll.

"I tell you what! Tell that b---ch to come within two feet of me so she can see what I got for her. Naw. . y'all both got me f--d up!"

That f-bomb grabbed the attention of everyone within earshot. She ignored the glares and snickers and kept on going. More f-bombs and even the n-word. Repetitive. Loud. Unfiltered.

And embarrassing.

There were easily twenty people who heard her. And of those twenty people, I was the only one there who looked like her.

Here I was sitting there in my white coat and professional attire trying my best. After walking around and seeing patients who smiled so deeply and with such pride to see me, their doctor, standing before them. Touching the hands of Grady elders and pulling my shoulders back a little more because I know that I am representing many of them, too. By doing things that were never even options for them to do.

Yes. This is something I have strapped to my back while working at Grady. This responsibility to provide a different kind of insight into black people. Through my actions and the things that I at least try to do. And on many days? I feel like it's working. I feel like somebody is looking and listening and thinking, "Hmm, this was not my impression of black people, but now perhaps it is." Or instead of that,  just some kind of realization that we are far more alike than we are different.

And then this. This young woman with a frighteningly unnatural hair color stomping her feet and hollering into a cell phone. And as if it couldn't get any worse, when I got up from the nurses' station and walked around the counter I saw that she was gripping the hand of a very confused-looking toddler.

Yes.

I thought about approaching her and saying something. But initially decided against it since the last thing I wanted was to let those twenty people witness two black women arguing in the hallway at Grady. So I walked by and cast my eyes in her direction once more. She kept on with tearing that person on the other end of the phone a new you-know-what--despite me or anyone else hearing.

I walked down the hall and then paused. Before I could talk myself out of it, I did an about face, forward marched right up to her and then stopped. I softly touched her shoulder and also softened my voice.

"Would you be okay with stepping into the family waiting area? Some of the patients can hear you and your conversation sounds pretty personal."

I braced myself for her to say something back but she didn't. Instead she huffed away and into the corridor toward the family area. Still swearing. Still loud. And still with that baby in tow.

And everyone just sort of stood there watching but instinctively not saying anything because I think they knew not to. Perhaps they knew me well enough to know how I was feeling. Or maybe her behavior was so inappropriate that the moment was far too awkward to even comment upon.

I don't know.

I do know that this is one of the things that makes being black so complicated. There is sometimes this self hatred that creeps up if you aren't careful. This thing where folks who have been given opportunities and guidance and parenting grow further and further away from those who don't. Chris Rock once built an entire stand-up routine on this notion. Which in some ways was very funny, but in the deepest ways was not. At all.

Especially since the whole world was laughing, too.

Over time I have learned that there a lot of folks that don't like black people. Regrettably, more of those folks than many realize happen to be black, too. Just ask Chris Rock.

So I thought about that moment a lot after it happened. I reflected on that toddler standing next to her as those expletives flew off of her tongue with out the tiniest concern for those pre-school ears or any other ears. Then I wondered whose hand she had held as a toddler and what she had heard.

Probably something identical.

It sucks that history tries so hard to repeat itself. And it sucks exponentially more that without a whole bunch of fight, that it almost always wins.

So we have to fight. But fight for all of us. Not just our own kids in our own houses.

After writing my notes, I headed to the elevators. I pushed the button to go down and sighed. It startled me when I looked over to my right and saw her still sitting in the family waiting area. Off the phone now and wiping her daughter's face with a wet wipe. An ironically mundane scene after what I'd witnessed earlier. I took a deep breath and approached her.

"Hey little sister . . .I didn't mean to get in your business like that. . .I just. . . yeah, it just sounded . . . . .personal."

"Tha's okay, " she replied. Her voice was surprisingly pleasant. "I just got a lot going on. Sorry I was loud."

And I stared at her and wished that I could sit right next to her and talk to her for four more hours. About why she was even in that conversation and what it could mean to her daughter to hear and see things that could rob of her innocence. I wanted to hold her hands and tell her that she was beautiful and full of promise. And that we are no different except that I was born to William and Cheryl Draper and she was born to whomever she was born to. But, still,  that we were one and the same and that we needed to fight. Together. That's what I wanted to tell her.

But I didn't. Instead I just smiled and said, "I hope everything works out for you. I really do, little sister." And I really did call her "little sister" because that helped me to see her that way instead of hating her.

Because hating her would be hating me.

Yeah.

You know what? I love being who I am. But sometimes? Sometimes it's kind of hard.

***
Happy Saturday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . the great Frankie Beverly singing "We are one." Because we are.

Where I'm From.

Warning: Extraordinarily random post ahead.

Literally where I'm from.

Okay.

Today I was thinking about my "Top Ten" and had nothing popping into my head worth listing. I put it on ice and decided to wait to be inspired. Well. . . .I didn't get inspired to make my top ten, but I did get inspired.

The inspiration came from a "blog meme" that I learned of while reading one of my favorite blogs this week and again today.

Before you ask what in the expletive-of-your-choice a "meme" is, I'll tell you. A "meme" is like an idea, a theme or a topic that somehow gets thrown out there that then goes viral. Well, not really viral per se. . .but an idea or thought that gets passed around. In the blog-writing world, a blog meme is something that prompts a topic on a blog. (Thanks for that definition, Ann!)

As it turns out, there's other memes, too. An internet meme might be that same email that everybody and their mama keeps asking you to forward to five thousand people, or some youtube video that no matter where you go, seems to be embedded in somebody's site--and that you just can't stop looking at.

Kind of like this one which I find equal parts horrible and hilarious:



Anyways.

My blog-friend (and author of the aforementioned) happens to be both a real blogger and a "stay-at-home-humorist" and she was the one who humored me with this . . . blog meme. . that she used for her last post. This meme--wait, can't we just say "theme?"--is called "Where I'm from" and its origin lies deep inside of a touchy-feely poem by George Ella Lyon (who I admittedly just heard of today but who does seem kind of cool.)

Okay. The way it works is that you make your own version of "Where I'm From" by including details applicable to you. Ann (the stay-at-home humorist ) shared this link that kind of explains how to do it in detail. (Thanks again, Ann.)

Yeah. So I read the details, reread Ann's post, felt inspired and decided to do it (since when it came to the top ten I had nothin.')

One of the things the description said about this exercise is that "the prompts have a way of drawing out memories of the smells of attics and bottom-drawer keepsakes."

Well. . . I don't know about all that, but I do know that Ann (the stay-at-home-humorist's) super witty version did make me laugh . . . . .and want take a crack at it. . . .




So here we are. Today, I bring you my version of "Where I'm From." And yeah, yeah I know today is supposed to be the Top Ten. . . but a girl has to go with her inspiration!



Drum roll please. . . . . .

***

Where I'm From: A Throwback Love Story

What you know about Chinese jump rope?

What you know about ice cream man?

What you know about Radio Raheem?

Where am I from?


Man. . . I'm from street lights that come on at dusk and butt-whoopin's if you don't get in the house before they do; from Skippy peanut butter and Welch's grape; from fried baloney sandwiches, Ramen noodles, and "breakfast for dinner."

I'm from green stucco houses sandblasted with precision, from one tree per lot, and from shorts on Christmas. I'm from metal swingsets that squeak from the rust that rubs off on your hands and pants but that still work just fine, and from go ask your mama if she can "loan" me a cup of sugar and some buttermilk.

I'm from "hot peas and butter!". . . from double-dutch on the corner from sun up to sun down with the good phone cord, from Chinese jacks, Chinese jumprope, and Chinese chicken salad. I'm from cornrows by my homegirl Bernetta complete with beads and tin foil on the end that let you swing your hair back and forth; I'm from sizzling Blue Magic under pressing combs in the kitchen and "hold yo' head still 'fore I burn you!"

I'm from Tom and Jerry, Schoolhouse Rock, and "Michael Jackson is on Soul Train!" I'm from "Damn! Damn! Damn!" after Florida lost James, from "Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?" and getting socked in the eye real hard by a boy in my second grade class for calling him "Kunta"-- as in "Kunta Kinte" from Roots.

What you know about "Damn, damn, damn?"

What you know about Kunta Kinte and Chicken George?

I'm from concrete everywhere but beaches and mountains close by; from running after ice cream trucks that drive way too fast for kids to be around and sitting on the curb eating Now'n'Laters, Jolly Ranchers, and big fat dill pickles.

I'm from Rapper's Delight, La-di-da-di, backwards rollerskating, mean German shepherds named "King," and neighborhood drill teams. I'm from fights on the last day of school, from pop-locking at recess, beatboxing and breakdancing on cardboard boxes and yawning at sightings of Bloods and Crips.

I'm from family meetings, color coded chore assignments, and "Wake your behind up 'cause this kitchen is a mess"; from a pack of beef jerky for good grades and "Don't tell Daddy we got our progress reports, okay? 'Cause you got good grades and I got just okay grades, but not okay conduct and I really don't want a whoopin'."

I'm from Mudear, Sugar, Bunny, Skeeter, Boot, Chief, Pipes, and Bodena; from first, second, third and play cousins and from cross country road trips to Alabama in the back of a wood-paneled Plymouth station wagon.

I'm from "What did I say?" and from "the look" that made you close your mouth; from little penguins sewn onto homemade shirts in places curiously similar to alligators.

What you know about a double belt?

I'm from the Church of "Do Your Damn Homework and Clean Up That Damn Room"; from the "Every Blue Moon" ministry and the Figure-It-Out-For-Yourself Faith, and from "So what if I learned The Lord's Prayer from Prince's song "Controversy"--at least I know it!"

I'm from "I expected more out of you", "I'm so proud of you," and "I never expected anything less of you." I'm from standing ovations, T-ball coaches, PTA presidents, and "No, I can't skip class with you guys 'cause my daddy on the School Board."

I'm from consistent and predictable, from steadfast and selfless, from airtight hugs and kisses on the lips. I'm from historically black college graduates that seem exactly like the Huxtables and first ones to go to college that seem nothing like the Huxtables. I'm from perfect imperfection and a drive to always shoot for the stars that always was driven home.

Who me?

I'm from love. Yeah, man. That's where I'm from.

********

What you know about tinfoil on the end of your braids?

Hmmm. . . . that was actually kind of fun. Kind of like attic smells and bottom-drawer keepsakes even.

So tell me. . . . where YOU from? And no, Mom (aka the-typo-and-grammar-po'-po')-- I didn't mean to say "Where're" or "Where are" you from--I mean to say exactly what I said. Which was:

WHERE YOU FROM?

I can already think of several people whose version of this I'd LOVE to hear. . . . what you got?

***

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . Digable Planets "Where I'm From"