"I guess you can't follow up a praise with a 'but', can you?," said the almost-birthday girl.
That would be me. A year ago, as Facebook thought was appropriate to remind me tonight, I was packed and ready to move to Maryland and start graduate school at GW. The 2009-2010 school year was one of great expectation, disappointment, and then finally, reassuring clarity I prayed for, but never really knew what the answer to that prayer would look like. 2010-2011 answered that question...so, what was clarity?
It was 15 hours in a car ride with my daddy, who drove me up to the DMV. Hours stacked up, like an arsenal of love, to buffer the times when I wish I could hang out with him, but am too far away to snuggle into my reserved spot on his shoulder while watching NCIS.
It was my first apartment, completely furnished, and more affordable and spacious than any grad student deserves.
It was a grade point average valedictorians are envious of, and course material I was impassioned about. Who likes going to class? Celeste does.
It was finding a new hobby, in performing spoken word, and enjoying the sound of applause after the echo of my own words fades from the speakers.
Among the many blessings, I faced some of the greatest challenges I have ever faced in my young adult life. No close friends or family near by, I was forced to the front lines in the war many people lose each day- being myself. Orlando was training camp, and Washington D.C. was the battleground.
To the victor go the spoils.
I'm writing this between sips (straight from the bottle) from a new wine I bought at Trader Joe's on my first shopping trip to the grocery store as a resident of the District. White Lambrusco is bringing in the year of 23- the year of anti-cavalier. I don't have time or patience to act as if every day is not crucial to becoming more of who (whom?) I am destined to be. 23- the year of paying attention- to my school work, to my networth, to the relationships I want to keep, and the relationships I want to build. 23- the year I applied to medical school, took the MCAT twice (as of Tuesday afternoon), and realized no matter what it takes, being a doctor is all I want to be. 23- the year I finally opened myself up to exploring romance, and whether or not it works out, I can tell you already, I'm glad I took that leap of faith.
I tried to complain about being by myself on my birthday. Tried to gripe about not being sure if a birthday cake, card, and presents would arrive by the 20th at midnight. I tried to be ungrateful and somber, and wayyyy too poetic about what is and will remain the most simple and blessed fact of today: that I am here, another year, another day, another moment to experience all that is laid out for me to see. I didn't know that this is how I would bring in my 23rd birthday, and the way this bottle is being drained, who knows what will happen by midnight? But, I'll tell you one thing- I'm not drinking to hide from reality. I'm toasting the truth- that I'm happy to be alive, and continuing to find that clarity I asked God for a long time ago.
If you're still reading this rant, know that you too can be as deliberate and deep and poetic as you want about your birthday. But, dude. You may not have much time to be sad. There's no guarantee you'll have another one, so reflect on where you've been and step boldly to where you're going. I promise, you won't be alone on the way. We're all just out here figuring out what's next. Toast to your damn self, and live life as if everyday was the anniversary of your glorious arrival on earth.
So cheers. (sip sip) Happy Birthday, Celeste.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
More Than Words
Last week Wednesday was rainy, but not gloomy by far. A week before, the fabulous Spring weather in the DMV had my mom thinking she's cut out for the northern life. But her spring break visit was too short and sweet, and I was again hit with reminders of my first real winter, which I'd only just begun to forget about. Funny how sunshine and khaki shorts can make you forget what a scarf around the neck even feels like, huh? And, who knew there was actually a difference between my regular seasons: hot and cold? This Floridian didn't. Either way, Sparkle and I made the trek down to Washington that morning, yes, without a GPS...but it took me about 15 minutes longer than it should have to make it to campus. Work in progress. The occasion for Sparkle's guest appearance in the District? A spoken word event, hosted by me, sponsored by the Black Public Health Student Network. You probably saw me mention it on Facebook, Twitter, BBM, gmail...you get it. I was pubbing like crazy, and thrilled at the opportunity to rub elbows and exchange poems with some of DC's best. These guys and gal competed in the huge slam event, Graffiti DC, they have YouTube video views galore (that's when you've REALLY made it), and all came highly recommended. I knew the highlight would be watching and listening to the other poets, maybe soaking up some of their talent through osmosis.
By 6pm, Sparkle was parked and unloaded, turkey sandwich platters and water bottles graced the tables in the on-campus lounge, and the neosoul Genius mix was spewing acoustic inspiration from the Bose speakers. Those who attended left with smiles on their faces, and I left with an uplifted and inspired mind (and two new BBM contacts, but you expected that, didn't you?) It's safe to say, everyone, that I LOVE spoken word. And, I am IN LOVE with performing it. But, this is a relationship that I may have to treat like a long-distance lover for a while. I'll only see my poetry book on weekends here and there. I've neglected the blogging and poem writing for a while because I'm giving this MCAT thing and school all I've got. Trying to, anyway. Keeping up the stamina problem after Chemistry problem after Physics problem is tough...and here I am wasting perfectly conscious night time minutes on a memory.
But, I can't stop thinking about it.
Sharing my words with the crowd, mostly strangers, and getting a few under-the-breath moans of agreement and head nods, that was a reassuring feeling I hope will never feel jaded. Being appreciated, being understood. Closing your eyes, and hoping that when they open, those people in the crowd who could boo you, make eye contact to give props, instead. They feel whatever you were feeling when you raised your voice and didn't even mean to get loud. You hope they can resonate with the emotions you croon in octaves you didn't even know you could reach. Will they get it? That was my big fear before I went up to perform. But when I started reciting my poem, I forgot about crowd appreciation, and I just listened to the woman who was up there baring her soul through my voice and lyrics- the woman I wrote about who I'd met nearly a year ago. I channeled her pain when I wrote it, and I believe we all ended up tuned in.
Here I go getting poetic again. Time to hit these notecards and catch the train back to the apartmadorm, folks. See you soon.
By 6pm, Sparkle was parked and unloaded, turkey sandwich platters and water bottles graced the tables in the on-campus lounge, and the neosoul Genius mix was spewing acoustic inspiration from the Bose speakers. Those who attended left with smiles on their faces, and I left with an uplifted and inspired mind (and two new BBM contacts, but you expected that, didn't you?) It's safe to say, everyone, that I LOVE spoken word. And, I am IN LOVE with performing it. But, this is a relationship that I may have to treat like a long-distance lover for a while. I'll only see my poetry book on weekends here and there. I've neglected the blogging and poem writing for a while because I'm giving this MCAT thing and school all I've got. Trying to, anyway. Keeping up the stamina problem after Chemistry problem after Physics problem is tough...and here I am wasting perfectly conscious night time minutes on a memory.
But, I can't stop thinking about it.
Sharing my words with the crowd, mostly strangers, and getting a few under-the-breath moans of agreement and head nods, that was a reassuring feeling I hope will never feel jaded. Being appreciated, being understood. Closing your eyes, and hoping that when they open, those people in the crowd who could boo you, make eye contact to give props, instead. They feel whatever you were feeling when you raised your voice and didn't even mean to get loud. You hope they can resonate with the emotions you croon in octaves you didn't even know you could reach. Will they get it? That was my big fear before I went up to perform. But when I started reciting my poem, I forgot about crowd appreciation, and I just listened to the woman who was up there baring her soul through my voice and lyrics- the woman I wrote about who I'd met nearly a year ago. I channeled her pain when I wrote it, and I believe we all ended up tuned in.
Here I go getting poetic again. Time to hit these notecards and catch the train back to the apartmadorm, folks. See you soon.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Lip-service, a.k.a. "chirps from birds."*
The year is 2007. It was a national day of remembrance, and a day Curtis Jackson will certainly never forget. With bated breath, hip-hop fans awaited the official results, and people who bet on "at least 300,000 more units sold” probably felt like Miss Cleo, reincarnated. By the end of the first week, it was confirmed. The career of the most bulletproof rapper in hip-hop had been shot down by a former art student who loved to rap about his mommy.
Just a year before the historic album-release battle, Twitter was founded, and within two years of Kanye West’s historic victory, mobile phones and internet connections across the nation were accessing this online schoolyard. Everyone, and their best friend’s college roommate’s ex-girlfriend, tries to outwit each other with 140 characters worth of pure genius…or is it pure bullshit? It seems to me like many of the people who were forced to back up their big talk in the real world, now have the luxury of beefing up their prowess from the soft shoulder of the information super-highway. Party promoters can boost an event by guaranteeing it will sell out, and as they press send from their TweetDeck, a full stack of unsold tickets sits on their desk and continues to collect dust. Men and women who swear they keep it real fill timelines with posts about all the drama they aren’t about. Luckily, the person they are writing about has yet to create a Twitter account, so, there's no chance of getting caught and backing up all of the shit they’ve been talking.
Just like Fifty Cent tried to brush off his supremely embarrassing defeat by the Louis Vuitton Don, people use Twitter as a gimmick to beef up their social life and fend off any real-life self-doubt. I have no problem with self-esteem, nor do I have a problem with other people having high esteem of their @#&$#%^%@%#ing self. What I do have a problem with, however, is how our generation has become this pretentious and self-righteous group of naysayers and complainers. Everything is less than perfect, and nothing is worth bragging about, unless we or our friends are involved…and then, it’s the biggest accomplishment anyone this side of the Milky Way has ever witnessed. Everyone is stunting…by association. Every new Polo purchased is a pump of hot air into a head already filled up with its owner’s infallible opinion.
As always, you know who I blame: Hip-hop. Don’t get this twisted; I’m a lover of a perfect verse over a tight beat. But, I can’t stand to see men and women who haven’t seen half of life’s ups or downs exclaim that they’ve figured this thing out, and then proceed to tell the rest of us where our faults lie. Biggie told us that as long as we go from negative to positive, it’s all good. He didn’t talk about his diamonds and stretch Lexuses just for the sake of bragging and stunting on other people, but if you had holes in your zapatos you, too, would celebrate the minute you were having dough. Here’s the difference- you notice the man who runs the town hasn’t much time for blogging. He’s busy running businesses and jetting from country to country- he has no time for jogging your memory about how great his birthday party was last night.
I’m writing this because I think we still have a chance. We have the privilege of living in a world where access to information and opportunity can come at the click of a button. That is neither an excuse nor explanation for us to talk more and add more nonsense to the atmosphere. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Twitter caps us at 140 characters, do you? (Of course, someone found a way to Twitlonger.) You’re missing. The point. How about less talk, more using our heads now, huh? How about taking our eyes off of our keypads and putting them back on the #goal? You know, those things we aspired to before anyone even knew how to spell hashtag. Let’s step out of the limelight and stop advertising our accomplishments; instead we can be a person so consumed with and humbled by improving ourselves and others’ lives that people have to beg us for an interview. Let your track record, and not your trackball, do the talking. Then there will be no need to leave the spotlight just to come back and tell everyone you’re still the greatest. No, Hov did that so hopefully we won’t have to go through that.
*the dictionary definition of a "twitter"
Just a year before the historic album-release battle, Twitter was founded, and within two years of Kanye West’s historic victory, mobile phones and internet connections across the nation were accessing this online schoolyard. Everyone, and their best friend’s college roommate’s ex-girlfriend, tries to outwit each other with 140 characters worth of pure genius…or is it pure bullshit? It seems to me like many of the people who were forced to back up their big talk in the real world, now have the luxury of beefing up their prowess from the soft shoulder of the information super-highway. Party promoters can boost an event by guaranteeing it will sell out, and as they press send from their TweetDeck, a full stack of unsold tickets sits on their desk and continues to collect dust. Men and women who swear they keep it real fill timelines with posts about all the drama they aren’t about. Luckily, the person they are writing about has yet to create a Twitter account, so, there's no chance of getting caught and backing up all of the shit they’ve been talking.
Just like Fifty Cent tried to brush off his supremely embarrassing defeat by the Louis Vuitton Don, people use Twitter as a gimmick to beef up their social life and fend off any real-life self-doubt. I have no problem with self-esteem, nor do I have a problem with other people having high esteem of their @#&$#%^%@%#ing self. What I do have a problem with, however, is how our generation has become this pretentious and self-righteous group of naysayers and complainers. Everything is less than perfect, and nothing is worth bragging about, unless we or our friends are involved…and then, it’s the biggest accomplishment anyone this side of the Milky Way has ever witnessed. Everyone is stunting…by association. Every new Polo purchased is a pump of hot air into a head already filled up with its owner’s infallible opinion.
As always, you know who I blame: Hip-hop. Don’t get this twisted; I’m a lover of a perfect verse over a tight beat. But, I can’t stand to see men and women who haven’t seen half of life’s ups or downs exclaim that they’ve figured this thing out, and then proceed to tell the rest of us where our faults lie. Biggie told us that as long as we go from negative to positive, it’s all good. He didn’t talk about his diamonds and stretch Lexuses just for the sake of bragging and stunting on other people, but if you had holes in your zapatos you, too, would celebrate the minute you were having dough. Here’s the difference- you notice the man who runs the town hasn’t much time for blogging. He’s busy running businesses and jetting from country to country- he has no time for jogging your memory about how great his birthday party was last night.
I’m writing this because I think we still have a chance. We have the privilege of living in a world where access to information and opportunity can come at the click of a button. That is neither an excuse nor explanation for us to talk more and add more nonsense to the atmosphere. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Twitter caps us at 140 characters, do you? (Of course, someone found a way to Twitlonger.) You’re missing. The point. How about less talk, more using our heads now, huh? How about taking our eyes off of our keypads and putting them back on the #goal? You know, those things we aspired to before anyone even knew how to spell hashtag. Let’s step out of the limelight and stop advertising our accomplishments; instead we can be a person so consumed with and humbled by improving ourselves and others’ lives that people have to beg us for an interview. Let your track record, and not your trackball, do the talking. Then there will be no need to leave the spotlight just to come back and tell everyone you’re still the greatest. No, Hov did that so hopefully we won’t have to go through that.
*the dictionary definition of a "twitter"
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Apartment? Check!
The rumors are true. I know, because I started them. Yes folks, after traversing nearly every apartment complex in the greater Hyattsville-College Park-and-Silver Spring area, after run-ins with sketchy landlords and unpleasant leasing agents, after being follow-up called by more property managers than I can count, the search is over. I got my own place!
Now that school and MCAT prep are underway, I'm glad to have some semblance of a routine back, because let me tell you, nothing makes me happier than a day that runs smoothly with a predictable routine. I'm not saying I like things to be uneventful; surely, since I've moved up here my experiences have been anything but typical. But, just like when we were kids, and we were used to changing into our after-school clothes, and having a snack before doing homework, there are certain things I need in my life to make me feel at ease. A major source of comfort for me is having a space to call my own. In this space, I can walk around wearing whatever I do or do not feel like wearing, I can and I will cook at all hours of the night, and finally, I'll be allowed to touch the thermostat. Getting my own place is going to be a huge adjustment, because although I've been home alone many times, I've never alone had my own home. Now, a College Park apartment is far from the home I grew up in, and I'll probably buy the cheap paper towels and save the fancy two-ply stuff for when I visit Weston. I'm still stoked about it, though. I am ending up right back to where this whole leaving-home-for-good journey all started. UMD-College Park will be right across the street, and being in a college town, with access to everything from IKEA to Buffalo Wild Wings all on the same street, is another huge comfort and reassuring element to this move.
I will only be about a 40-minute train ride away from school, too. That may sound like a lot, but considering I've made 40-minute drives to the train, to take a 40-minute Metro trip to school virtually every day since August 23rd, this is a MAJOR improvement. I was hoping to have a Super (Housewarming) Bowl Party, but that might be a little overzealous. For now, I'll settle for a weekend with my dad, who's coming up to help me lug my four suitcases and two trunks worth of clothes into my new spot.
As you can probably tell, I can't help but be excited for this new step. I have a countdown going and everything! I'm taking note of all these baby accomplishments that make me feel very much like a grown woman. Who knows, next time we meet, I may be in my after-school clothes eating a snack...and I'll feel right at home.
Now that school and MCAT prep are underway, I'm glad to have some semblance of a routine back, because let me tell you, nothing makes me happier than a day that runs smoothly with a predictable routine. I'm not saying I like things to be uneventful; surely, since I've moved up here my experiences have been anything but typical. But, just like when we were kids, and we were used to changing into our after-school clothes, and having a snack before doing homework, there are certain things I need in my life to make me feel at ease. A major source of comfort for me is having a space to call my own. In this space, I can walk around wearing whatever I do or do not feel like wearing, I can and I will cook at all hours of the night, and finally, I'll be allowed to touch the thermostat. Getting my own place is going to be a huge adjustment, because although I've been home alone many times, I've never alone had my own home. Now, a College Park apartment is far from the home I grew up in, and I'll probably buy the cheap paper towels and save the fancy two-ply stuff for when I visit Weston. I'm still stoked about it, though. I am ending up right back to where this whole leaving-home-for-good journey all started. UMD-College Park will be right across the street, and being in a college town, with access to everything from IKEA to Buffalo Wild Wings all on the same street, is another huge comfort and reassuring element to this move.
I will only be about a 40-minute train ride away from school, too. That may sound like a lot, but considering I've made 40-minute drives to the train, to take a 40-minute Metro trip to school virtually every day since August 23rd, this is a MAJOR improvement. I was hoping to have a Super (Housewarming) Bowl Party, but that might be a little overzealous. For now, I'll settle for a weekend with my dad, who's coming up to help me lug my four suitcases and two trunks worth of clothes into my new spot.
As you can probably tell, I can't help but be excited for this new step. I have a countdown going and everything! I'm taking note of all these baby accomplishments that make me feel very much like a grown woman. Who knows, next time we meet, I may be in my after-school clothes eating a snack...and I'll feel right at home.
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