Portfolio Continued
Essay
Men Around Town
"Hey, how you doin’?"
I was standing at the corner waiting for the light to change. Twice a week I work half a day in a law library in Midtown Atlanta, then hustle a few blocks up Spring Street to man the reference desk at a hospital depository. That day, the green light gods disturbed my flow. As a consolation prize, they sent someone to keep me company.
"Fine, how are you?" I turned briefly to glance at the man who’d greeted me. I really didn’t want to speak, but I thought being mean for no reason while trapped at the light was not in my best interest. I offered the words then quickly turned my attention back to the four lanes of streaming cars.
"You got a boyfriend?" Involuntarily I looked down at my feet. In my rush to get from A to B, I must have stepped into a portal that transported me back to high school. My eyes found the face of the man who had decided I was going to talk to him in spite of the obvious reluctance in my side glance. The man was somewhere in his mid-forties, short and thin with dark, rough looking skin, wearing clean, but distressed clothes. He stared at me from the seat of a ten-speed bike. I turned back to the racers on the road.
He waited on me: arms straight and stiff as his fingers clutched the handle bars. I did not get the impression that the bike was his way of lessening his imprint on the environment. He was so not my type. But, apparently I had been emitting something, because he was the third not-my-type man to approach me that week...
I was standing at the corner waiting for the light to change. Twice a week I work half a day in a law library in Midtown Atlanta, then hustle a few blocks up Spring Street to man the reference desk at a hospital depository. That day, the green light gods disturbed my flow. As a consolation prize, they sent someone to keep me company.
"Fine, how are you?" I turned briefly to glance at the man who’d greeted me. I really didn’t want to speak, but I thought being mean for no reason while trapped at the light was not in my best interest. I offered the words then quickly turned my attention back to the four lanes of streaming cars.
"You got a boyfriend?" Involuntarily I looked down at my feet. In my rush to get from A to B, I must have stepped into a portal that transported me back to high school. My eyes found the face of the man who had decided I was going to talk to him in spite of the obvious reluctance in my side glance. The man was somewhere in his mid-forties, short and thin with dark, rough looking skin, wearing clean, but distressed clothes. He stared at me from the seat of a ten-speed bike. I turned back to the racers on the road.
He waited on me: arms straight and stiff as his fingers clutched the handle bars. I did not get the impression that the bike was his way of lessening his imprint on the environment. He was so not my type. But, apparently I had been emitting something, because he was the third not-my-type man to approach me that week...
| Personal essay |
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Fiction
You Were Supposed to Love Me
"What if it turned out a client was my half sister from a relationship my father had that I didn’t know about? Would it be appropriate to terminate?"
Dr. Neal stared quietly at Davis. The older man’s bearded chin sat solidly on the tips of the triangle created by his long, thick, brown fingers. He studied his client before taking a stab at interpreting Davis’ latest attempt at running away.
"Is that the case, Davis?" Neal had determined during the last year as Davis obsessed over his young female client, Andrea, that Davis could not skillfully manipulate a single inquiry the way he could mangle multiple ones. Throwing a cluster of questions at Davis was the same as tossing multiple balls at a master juggler. The initial reaction would be fear and doubt, but once he got into it, assessed the challenge and set his pace, Davis would whip through the task leaving a dust storm of confusion for his audience.
"No, well, I don’t know for certain." Davis scratched his chin, uncrossed and crossed his legs. He was ready to construct a connection bizarre enough to make termination mandatory and a referral for Andrea to another one of his unfortunate colleagues a professional obligation. "It’s a possibility, though. I mean, considering that we’re both black..."
Dr. Neal stared quietly at Davis. The older man’s bearded chin sat solidly on the tips of the triangle created by his long, thick, brown fingers. He studied his client before taking a stab at interpreting Davis’ latest attempt at running away.
"Is that the case, Davis?" Neal had determined during the last year as Davis obsessed over his young female client, Andrea, that Davis could not skillfully manipulate a single inquiry the way he could mangle multiple ones. Throwing a cluster of questions at Davis was the same as tossing multiple balls at a master juggler. The initial reaction would be fear and doubt, but once he got into it, assessed the challenge and set his pace, Davis would whip through the task leaving a dust storm of confusion for his audience.
"No, well, I don’t know for certain." Davis scratched his chin, uncrossed and crossed his legs. He was ready to construct a connection bizarre enough to make termination mandatory and a referral for Andrea to another one of his unfortunate colleagues a professional obligation. "It’s a possibility, though. I mean, considering that we’re both black..."
| Short story |
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Opinion
Our Turn
I’m through with black men. I spent too much of 2007 standing up for them and I’m tired.
I wore black on Sept. 20th in support of the Jena 6 March. I said a quiet, "Thank God," when Genarlow Wilson, the Georgia man convicted as a teenager for having oral sex with a girl two years his junior, was released from prison. And I forgave Michael Vick after he owned up to his mistake. But when I heard in November of the young black man in Brooklyn, NY being killed by police after threatening his mother, I was done.
There are too many cases; too many incidents of black men putting themselves in situations where they can be mistreated or discriminated against. I can’t stand in support of all of them. And I can’t continue taking my focus away from black women who are being harmed, often fatally, and frequently by the same black men that I champion.
While the black community has united around hate crimes and the unfair treatment of black men by the legal system, we ignore the problem of violence in our own homes. According to the U. S. Department of Justice Bureau of Justice Statistics (BJS), from 1993-2004 nonfatal acts of violence perpetrated by intimate partners was higher for black women than white women. And in 2005 the BJS found that 38% of black female victims were acquainted with their attackers. As black women stand in support of black men, it is important that these same men take note of what is happening to the women beside them...
I wore black on Sept. 20th in support of the Jena 6 March. I said a quiet, "Thank God," when Genarlow Wilson, the Georgia man convicted as a teenager for having oral sex with a girl two years his junior, was released from prison. And I forgave Michael Vick after he owned up to his mistake. But when I heard in November of the young black man in Brooklyn, NY being killed by police after threatening his mother, I was done.
There are too many cases; too many incidents of black men putting themselves in situations where they can be mistreated or discriminated against. I can’t stand in support of all of them. And I can’t continue taking my focus away from black women who are being harmed, often fatally, and frequently by the same black men that I champion.
While the black community has united around hate crimes and the unfair treatment of black men by the legal system, we ignore the problem of violence in our own homes. According to the U. S. Department of Justice Bureau of Justice Statistics (BJS), from 1993-2004 nonfatal acts of violence perpetrated by intimate partners was higher for black women than white women. And in 2005 the BJS found that 38% of black female victims were acquainted with their attackers. As black women stand in support of black men, it is important that these same men take note of what is happening to the women beside them...
| Opinion sample |
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Memoir
Break to Re-build
I was home with the flu when I saw a new Michael Jordan Nike commercial. It featured athletes training and agonizing over the preparations for game day. While the spot was visually engaging, depicting the physical and emotional strain involved with becoming a pro-athlete, it was the title of the commercial, "Break to Build," that captured my attention. I was struck by the words because that week in October 2009 I broke my connection with my parents. With the break came my opportunity to finally begin the work of rebuilding myself.
In my family of origin I am the "scapegoat." If we had ever made it to family counseling, I would have been labeled "the identified patient." I was the one who was chosen by my parents to carry the blame for our family’s problems. After confronting my parents about how they treated me as a child, I realized that I had played this role not only as a youth, but as an adult as well.
A few days before I came down with the flu, I wrote a letter to my parents that reviewed the volatile history of our relationship. I confessed that I’d been harboring anger against them since I was a teenager. I told them that I was severing ties with them so that I would not have to face another new year battling the negative feelings I held towards them.
My symptoms progressed in lock step with the writing of the letter. Over the course of three days I made notes of old memories, hurtful things my parents said to me when I was a child. I also recorded my role in perpetuating the behavior. The slight tickle in my throat turned into an itch that I had to cough repeatedly to soothe. As I began to form my notes into text, the itch intensified, creating a desire to stick a finger down my throat and scratch. I finished the letter during my lunch break at work on Friday, by that evening I had a sore throat. After taking my sixteen-year-old son to a movie and dinner, the itch had turned into a hacking cough that demanded an albuterol breathing treatment to which I submitted. By Saturday night, I had every symptom on the CDC website flu page. Four hours in the waiting room at my doctor’s office the next day resulted in four prescriptions, three days off (which turned into the full week after my son contracted the virus) and a lot of time to think about what breaking up with my parents would really mean for my future...
In my family of origin I am the "scapegoat." If we had ever made it to family counseling, I would have been labeled "the identified patient." I was the one who was chosen by my parents to carry the blame for our family’s problems. After confronting my parents about how they treated me as a child, I realized that I had played this role not only as a youth, but as an adult as well.
A few days before I came down with the flu, I wrote a letter to my parents that reviewed the volatile history of our relationship. I confessed that I’d been harboring anger against them since I was a teenager. I told them that I was severing ties with them so that I would not have to face another new year battling the negative feelings I held towards them.
My symptoms progressed in lock step with the writing of the letter. Over the course of three days I made notes of old memories, hurtful things my parents said to me when I was a child. I also recorded my role in perpetuating the behavior. The slight tickle in my throat turned into an itch that I had to cough repeatedly to soothe. As I began to form my notes into text, the itch intensified, creating a desire to stick a finger down my throat and scratch. I finished the letter during my lunch break at work on Friday, by that evening I had a sore throat. After taking my sixteen-year-old son to a movie and dinner, the itch had turned into a hacking cough that demanded an albuterol breathing treatment to which I submitted. By Saturday night, I had every symptom on the CDC website flu page. Four hours in the waiting room at my doctor’s office the next day resulted in four prescriptions, three days off (which turned into the full week after my son contracted the virus) and a lot of time to think about what breaking up with my parents would really mean for my future...
| Memoir sample |
