I Stopped By To Thank Mary


“You are who Mary had in mind,” she said. “You came back to serve.” The tears I had to fight back while speaking to my sophomore year journalism professor were large and strong, but I won. Immediately, I knew making Bethune-Cookman University, my alma mater, the first place to screen Seeking Asylum, was the perfect idea.

The idea that I’m one of those students who fulfilled some dream or some hope was not something that crossed my mind. This was supposed to be nothing more than me coming home. The people will always tell you who you are and what you’ve done. Thanks, people.

The chapel was full of students who came in to pass time, some who came for extra credit, and some with a genuine interest in the topic. Almost immediately, the slouching, texting, and eye rolls stopped and everyone watched, waiting to see where the documentary would head. And to my surprise, there were many raised hands after, many great reviews, many photos taken, and several seeds planted.

Thank you Raquel! You’re too amazing to be all human. Thank you Stacey! You know my love for you grows constantly! And to everyone at Cookman who raised me just a little more than when I came, thank you!

Today was beautiful. I went by Mary McLeod Bethune’s grave to pay homage, then remembered all the insane moments I had on the campus.

I’m Naked and This Isn’t Religious


This afternoon, yes afternoon, I jumped in the shower to begin a day that would consist of me packing a bag of dirty clothes, eating a cup o’ noodles, drinking a half a glass of Schwepp’s, and hopping the train to the Meatpacking District to drop off a few macaroons to a lady down there, and jump on the Starlight Express to make my way for Charlottesville.

I finished my shower over an hour ago and I’m still sitting on the bed naked with my towel over my knees and sensitive areas to keep the computer from burning anything fragile. I’m thinking about this voice that came to me in the shower. It’s not uncommon, especially when I turn my back to the shower head and increase the temperature and let the water hit my lower neck with my eyes closed. This time is different. This time, that voice, a voice that doesn’t speak aloud but you hear it anyway, asked, “do you realize what could happen if Black men were able to discover their divine self? Why aren’t you showing other Black men how to do it.”

Who told this speaker I’ve been able to discover my divine self? And if I have, who told this speaker that in spite of what my 2015 goal list said, I’m ready to throw out my ego and move toward a life I don’t know for certain I’d be proud of on my death bed.

But I can’t stop thinking about it now. I blame Janna M. Hall mostly for Funkadelic last night. I think about George putting Eddie in a room full of amps and telling him to play like his mother just died. I think about Eddie finding his divine self in that room, and no matter how many covers will come from Maggot Brain, there will only be divinity in that one.

And this has absolutely nothing to do with religion.

I’m still not able to fully comprehend how I found the amount of vulnerability I needed to find who I was in that field, and in that living room, and in that hospital waiting room, and on the other side of a Facebook message.

I did it though, huh? Yeah. I guess it’s not about showing others how to do it. It’s showing others what I did, and letting them tune it to fit them, eh?

Shit. I don’t know. But it’s 2:30 and I should get dressed. Feels like a long day ahead.