Mother of Mothers: A Tale in (Non) Fiction

            The first time my mom and I had a physical fight, we were in Ocho Rios, Jamaica visiting family. I was fifteen years old and still in the midst of a selfish phase that should’ve only involved my friends and I. I didn’t want anything to do with my family but for some reason, they wanted everything to do with me. And so I coined myself, the black sheep, because though I was the most academically advanced, I was still fat, so called “rude”, non-humorous and what’s that word again? Oh yeah!—FAT.

We stayed with my grandmother, a woman standing 54 inches off the ground with a mouth as wide as Dunn’s River Falls. She never shut up, and her husband—not my biological grandfather—never stopped boring holes through his seventy-six-year-old lungs or chugging back Red Stripe beer that would most likely leave his liver a distinct shade of yellow. To this day, I swear, on my mother’s awaiting grave, that they were the cause of the fight. After all, my grandmother birthed her and my grandfather made her the incredibly manic depressive woman she is today. Nothing good ever came out of their mouths. Therefore, my mother was nurtured in a miserable environment. I personally believe my grandmother was trying to give my mother all the woes she missed after escaping to Paris at the age of eighteen. In the meantime, my grandfather looked at my brother and I like we were the product of a broken home; go figure. I'll put aside the fact that we--my brother and I--were born within wedlock. Nevertheless, I stood my shallow ground and would chuckle whenever my grandparents gave me a backhanded compliment.

“Bonnie, ya not fat y’know, but yabambam is wide like fern gully.”

“Ha ha…Oh Grandma, you sure are funny,” I’d say with tight lips.

“Bonnie, Howya look so black. Well at least you’re not a bastard like your mother,” my grandfather would say behind my mother’s back. And I would stare at his ignorance because the old prude was no lighter than me in complexion.

Plain and simple, I couldn’t wait to leave that shithole they called a home. I’d curse myself to sleep every night and my brother would lock himself in the sixth guest bedroom of their melancholy mansion, playing his game boy or drawing detailed doodles. My mother on the other hand had a task of her own. Malicious and just as short as her own bipolar mother, she made it her duty to blame me for everyday that seemed to go wrong in Jamaica.

We went to the Grotto Cave one day and as we were driving through Fern Gully, a storm showered around our poor little Volkswagen like we were trapped in the middle of the ocean.

“The Lord heard you curse me out this morning,” my mother shot at me, as the driver pulled over into the emergency lane, an area that touched neither wall of the Gully in fear of mud slides and falling branches. I was in shock when she said this and thought to myself, “damn Bonnie, you must be really important for God to create this rainstorm just for you.” My mom blabbed on and on about “hearing-and-feeling” parables and I twiddled my thumbs back and forth as she switched back and forth between my abnormal weight and dark skin. I could care less at this point, though and as she continued on, all I could hear myself say was “shut the fuck up!”

My voice boomed within the tiny car and as I exited the humid back seat into the downpour of summer storm, I made sure to kick the back door in with my big fat left foot, just to emphasize her point. I knew all hell would break loose but who cared anyway. I didn’t ask her to buy the god-forsaken plane ticket, or to over feed my when I was one with fried bammy and bread pudding. Nothing good came out fucking Jamaica was all I could think of and now that I was standing in this horrible forest, I could tell my point was solidified.

It was pitch black because the trees hovered high above and bent over one another creating a roof with patchy leaf holes. There was nothing good coming out of the sickening vacation and if I had to hear my mother complain one more time, I knew I’d much rather drown standing up. I sat on top of the car truck; something I’m sure they felt in the car and low and behold another door slammed behind me cueing the exit of an awaiting victim.

“You outta ya cotton-pickin mind gyal?” I heard my mother say as she jabbed her index finger into my nose. I was, of course, taller than her and at this moment could care less if I caught pneumonia so I walked to the other side of the car, ignoring her rude actions. I’m sure you already know what happen though. Low and behold, she followed me and started to hit me like I was a six year-old giant. Her wet hands seemed to enforce the smacks coming in contact with my head and neck and all I could do was get even more upset. Pushing her away, I could see my older brother staring out the window from inside the tiny car and as if he were a child himself, he gawked on with the orthopedic glasses his doctor prescribed him.

At this point, my mother couldn’t believe I touched her and instead of—in my opinion—being a parent, she reverted back to childhood ways and pushed me back. I couldn’t believe what was going on and just wanted to leave the country at that exact moment, but being the kid that I was I just got the nerve up and pushed her back. And so it happened. This fury of tug-of-war was created and in the midst of what seemed like torrential rain, my mom and I were throwing each other around like two kindergarten bully’s fighting for the last puny kid to beat on. It felt as if we were doing this forever because by the time the driver got out and pulled us apart, our clothes were completely drenched and my mom’s naturally yellow skin was red with fury. Me? I probably looked like a juvenile delinquent. My shirt was ripped, her bun was unraveled, my left shoe was missing, and her glasses were sideways on her face.

I didn’t want to sleep in the house that night. Getting back into the car was a duty within itself. I was soaking wet and my mouth was slurring with angry sobs and curses towards my grandparents and mother. My brother’s jaw was shut tight and my mother glared at me the whole ride home. At this point and time, I felt quite accomplished. If anything, I was ignored for the rest of the vacation; only given meals when food was served but never asked to share in colloquial exchange. For that I was happy. In my book, they could all go to hell. I was fifteen and still finding myself. Sorry if they had missed that benchmark, themselves. 

--HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

So Yuh Wan Fi Be Selfish? Den Be Clumsy Too, Nuh?

A Memoir

It is a typical scenario when you see a little boy or girl run to their mother or father after getting hurt. Whether it is a scraped knee or a simple paper cut, the comfort of a kiss is usually all that does the trick. I had plenty of these moments. You may call it a sheltered household and others may call it a careless household but where do I stand in this case? I call it “me just being plain ole clumsy me.” There was rarely ever a time when I would come home from school without a Band-Aid or an ace bandage wrapped around a body part and like always, my mother—a single parent—would come running with open arms and healing ointment. However you may put it, I’d say that being accident prone made me closer to my mother. Laugh and roll your eyes all you want but this was life. This was me.

            I was eight years old when the habit of being accident prone seemed to stop dead in its tracks though and this, like so many other times was not intentional. As a matter of fact, it came with a sudden blow that I can still sometimes feel to this day. I attended public school my whole life which usually involved the classrooms of thirty-four kids and the nonsensical teachers who could care less what you learned; just as long as they got paid for it. My elementary school held seven hundred kids at the time. Yes, seven hundred bratty, ignorant, pompous kids and there I was amongst them a short, chubby girl with timid eyes and a tiny mouth. To tell you the truth, I could give two shits if all these kids jumped off the roof. My only main concern was to get through a seven hour day with an annoying teacher so that I could go home and be with the family. But one day ended slightly different.

            After emptying my tray, I waited as the cafeteria lady; Ms. Webster released my class into the play yard.  This was routine so the anticipation was high that afternoon. To feel the hot sun on our faces was the goal as of now. To pound the asphalt covered playground and to scream at the top of our lungs was second in line. My stomach churned to be alone, though; away from these loud mouths. I just wanted to soak up sun. Yeah I said it! I would give anything to be away from them. She blew her whistle as my mind raced to the good fortunes I’d find, sliding down the firemen’s pole or swinging till I threw myself over the gate that led to ultimate freedom.

“You guys may go now, Ms. Webster stated in her loud raspy tone. Then up rose all my classmates storming off from their previously seated positions. I wanted to do the same. To run so fast my lungs burned but today I had no fervor. I had no zeal to run or mimic my no-brained classmates. Instead I walked and boy was that a bad idea. Entering the long hallway that led to the playground, I heard what seemed like thousands of kids behind me but I still kept my gait steady. Then as I reached halfway, a bunch of kids pushed my stumpy body toward the corridor. When I woke up, I was in the principal’s office and she—the principle—appeared to be drinking white wine. That pissed me off but then I fainted again only to wake back up on a stretcher in an ambulance with an oxygen mask over my face. I felt so queasy riding in that stupid ambulance. I kept asking myself why I am here but of course there was no answer. I fainted once more though, and after that spell was over, I woke up to find my mother by my bedside. And where was I? Half naked, in a hospital bed.

“Don’t move Bonnie”, my mother said through tears. When she realized I was getting up to look around for my clothes, she forced me to lie back down. “You need to lie back down sweetheart. The doctor will be in, in a minute.” I went back to sleep though, not even noticing how concerned she was. Later that night I was told to have suffered a concussion. I kept waking back up because the nurses were trying to keep me from falling into a coma. At this point and time, I did not think anything was wrong with me. Except for the huge knot I had on the side of my head. It hurt like rug burn and as I looked back and forth between my mother and the doctor, I figured I had no place in their chat. Little did I know that the chat was all about me—eight year old me. The doctor had found a cyst in my brain after giving me an MRI. It seemed not to be life-threatening as he put it, and yet they sat there for the next hour discussing my “injuries” and my long term goals as if I were not even in the room.

Whatever happened to mommy kissing the booboo? Or the attention being all about me? In short, I felt like I got ripped off, bamboozled, robbed, laughed at; you name it, it happened. My mother took me home that night without even kissing my newly swollen temple and for the rest of the week, all she spoke about was how much she’d sue board of education for. Who the hell was board of education though? And why hadn’t I gotten my kiss yet. I stayed home from school that whole week; eating nothing but chicken noodle soup and soda crackers like I was battling the friggin’ influenza virus. There was no more sun for me that week or playgrounds for that matter. I was starting to think that this “kiss the booboo” scenario could all go to hell since I’d been robbed of it in the first place. My mother was just too pissed with my school for letting this “happen to me” and the fact that I didn’t understand the whole ordeal didn’t make matters better either.

As the weeks passed, my mom would tell me what actually happened that day. She said I was pushed into the frame of a door where I knocked the side of my temple in. I had suffered a seizure and being that there was not enough security in the school, I didn’t get immediate help. I did not remember any of these occurrences that my mom was listing out to me. I do however remember waking up in the principal’s office to see her lazy behind drinking wine. There was something else I noticed though. I was a very shallow child. All I could think of was myself and a simple kiss on the cheek that parents brainwashed their kids to believe it would heal all mistakes and bruises.

I failed to take notice of the tears my mom had been shedding for me and how this was not the right way to receive attention. Going back to school the following week was in actual fact more difficult for my mother than it was for me. As she released me to my teacher I could feel the static in the air of how incompetent she thought my school had turned out to be and yet here I was singing Christmas carols in my head as though everything was back to normal. After developing the realization that I was being ignorant, I guess you could say I became more aware of my surroundings. I’d walk around with more kids my age which in return gave me a whole new meaning to what I thought “bratty kids” were.

The four friends I made and ended up staying close to after I graduated, turned out to be just like me. Shallow at one point but considerate in the end. I cared more for my welfare now that I had made these friends and had seen those tears swelling up in my mother’s eyes. Being accident prone wasn’t my thing anymore. As a matter of fact, even though I still managed to get hurt along the way, I ended up brushing off the pain. I still have marks to show my incessant need for attention. Like the bonded teeth displayed like a full moon as soon as I smile, or the one inch scar running diagonally on my back. Back then, Neosporin and kisses from my momma were my friends but now wisdom is and the real fact that taints me so much is how messed up my philosophy was. Yeah, you may call it a sheltered household and others may call it a careless household but where do I stand in this case? I call it me just being selfish ole me.

--by Courtney James

AGHAST! (a haiku)

Ten Fingers and Toes

Awaiting its arrival

To a world unknown...

--by Courtney James

Attractive in Unexpected Ways: Part3

***

Harlee had a bad feeling when she woke up this morning. Her temples ached like she’d chugged back three White Russians and seven Sex on the Beach’s. Days like this rarely came, but when they did, it knocked her off her feet. Then she looked in the mirror and puffy eyes showed back at her. She had been crying in her sleep again but it went unnoticed this time. Her asymmetrical hairstyle was in a disarray of lengths and directions as if someone had tossed her salad the night before but when she looked back at her bed, no one was to be found. Well it was another new day. It wouldn’t hurt her pride to boss some folk around. Reaching for her phone to call Jaden, Harlee slid off her pajama shorts. There was no phone under her hand though.

Panic set in immediately and as she dropped to her knees in hopes the apple would be safely forgotten on the plush carpet, her brother walked through her bedroom door—uninvited.

“So why in the hell are you wearing Saturday panties on a Thursday afternoon?”

  “Keith”, how did you get in my house?—

“Wait! What did you say?” Harlee continued.

“What do you mean, what did I say, sis? I asked why in the hell are you five days behind on your hygiene calendar? That is not like you at all!”

“No! Not that you twit! And for your info, I was in favor of the color. Last night I was stuck on the color turquoise and voila, my Saturday dungarees just so happened to be said color. Anyway besides that, did you say it was Thursdayafternoon?”

Keith looked at his Evo then down at his sister. “Umm, yup! It’s 1:43pm as we speak, hence the af-ter-noon statement. You okay sis?

“No I’m not okay! I was supposed to be at work for eight this morning. Now it’s almost two o’ clock in the blasted afternoon and I haven’t even brushed my teeth. Jaden must be helpless without me.”

“Harlee, aren’t you the senior editor? You should have all right to sleep in late.”

“Ugh!” she screamed. You’re just like a man, Keith!”

“That I am. Sorry I couldn’t turn myself into a flustered female like yourself.”

“Get Out,” Harlee screamed and before she could get up off her knees to aim a figurine at him, her brother had already shut the door.

“Oh! By the way,” Keith said behind the closed door. “Are you still planning on transitioning your hair back to its natural state?”

“Why?” Harlee asked warily.

“Well I saw this young lady on the train today and her hair was looking well put together while at the same time looking…free. Yeah, free is the word.”

Sigh…”You’re still such a kid, Keith. Always tryna put his hands in random girls’ hair.”

“Hey! I may still be in my mid 20’s but I’m no kid. Her hair just reminded me of…black mashed potatoes.—

“Ha ha ha! What did you just say? Have you been drinking that Four Loko again Keith?”

“I had some last night, but that doesn’t matter. Don’t you remember your own hair? Your hair used to remind me of mashed potatoes. It was gorgeous!”

“Well, sadly no. And if you don’t mind, I’m running late as you can see.”

“Okay, but I’m telling you sis, you’d look great transitioning back. I should’ve gotten that woman’s number too. And guess what, she was reading a classic. Mom’s favorite books. The one she named you after.”

“Harlequin?” Harlee shouted as she roamed around her room looking for her missing phone.

“Yeah. Those damsel-in-distress novels.”

“Ha ha, very funny Keith. Now go make me some tea.”

“Okay big sis. Whatever.”  

It was the fastest, Harlee had ever gotten dressed. Forgetting all concern for a fresh shower, she slipped on the first suit her hand touched in her walk-in; a navy blue tightly altered three piece. Happy about her random selection she matched the ensemble with her matte Manolo Blahnik leather Mary Janes.

Finding her apple iPhone under her satin pillow, she could only do so much as pull the sheets up to the top of the bed and plug it into its charger for the five seconds she’d be in the house. No time for fancy making of sheets and remembering that her car was still in Joe’s shop four miles away, she grabbed a pair of leather gloves to hold the dirty train cart rails with. Those could always be cleaned but germs on skin would have a long-term affect.

“Where are you going? I made the tea,” Keith yelled after Harlee’s racing body as she dodged out the door.

“I’ve got a lot to catch up on, Keith. Sorry I couldn’t drink your luscious Chamomile.” Then she was out the door and through her front gate. 

The comfortable cushion of her Blahnik soles pounced the pavement as she crossed the street into the subway station and as soon as she got to the bottom of the stairs a train was pulling in. Must be sheer luck, she thought. It was empty as well and thank god her purse had make up and a comb to recreate her sophisticated façade. Taking a seat in the middle of the cart, Harlee pulled out her foundation and lightly applied it to her face, followed by concealer to erase the dark circles from under her eyes. When she had neutralized her face and neck she moved on to her hair; something she never had to worry about. Pulling out a foldable bendy comb, she quickly swiped through the asymmetrical bob just three times. Creating a bob was no problem with creamy crack dancing around in her scalp’s follicles.

Wetting her fingertips with a swab of spit, she curlicued the loose strands by her sideburns and smoothed down her edges. And people say creamy crack is a sin. Sorry girls, but it’s my savior. Harlee relished in the thought that she could still do her hair in a few seconds on a moving train, while her girlfriends, mostly natural, had to wake up extra early to do a considerably pleasant hairstyle. She would never get tired of perms.

The doors closed from the present stop and in walked a middle aged man wearing a Starbucks hat. Usually Harlee wouldn’t give him a second thought but this guy was gorgeous. She looked him up and down then saw what seemed to make the day all the more ironic. In the man’s hands laid a Harlequin novel and while she put her comb away, she could only think of sitting there looking from book to man. Checking which stop she was at, Harlee quickly turn around and looked through the train windows. Nowhere close, she thought. Now she’d be infatuated with this handsome, Harlequin reading man. Looking over his physique, she liked what she saw; a medium build and very strong arms. But damn! That Starbucks hat! Please don’t tell me he works there.

“Well so what if he did’”, she heard herself saying out loud.

The middle aged Harlequin reader looked up in her direction, and smiled a courteous set of teeth. Harlee smiled back nervously and wondered why she had bit her tongue all those other unnecessary times. Now would’ve been perfect timing.

“Did you say something,” the man asked Harlee.

“Oh! No… just talking to myself.” Oh God! Now I sound like a maniac.

“Oh. Okay. Ummm do you like Harlequins, Miss? I noticed you checking out the cover.”

Harlee was astonished. His voice was so smooth and subtle. It matched his sculpted face perfectly. Please don’t let him be gay God!

“Well actually, I edit them.”

“Oh really? You work for Harlequin? So can you please tell them to change up the schemas. Everything is pretty much the same except their nationalities and responses.”

Harlee laughed at this. “I am not sure I can promise you that but I do agree with you. I actually got a job there because of my mom. She named me after the house because she was infatuated with them and ever since knowing that, I felt like it was God giving me a sign; a career path.”

The man looked at her for a few seconds.

“So your name is Harlequin?”

“Harlee, actually.” Harlee laughed at this random conversation.

“Hmmm…that’s a nice name, Harlee. My name is David.”

She had two more stops to go and she was not happy.

“Nice to meet you, David. It’s rare that I speak with anyone on the train.”

“Oh! Well I do it everyday of my life, Harlee. Well not everyday but I’m guessing you catch my drift.

“Yes you’re very friendly, if I may say.”

“Thanks.”

Then the awkward silence occurred. Something she always ran away from. So she continued.

“So—,” they both stated at the same time.

They stopped to look at one another then laughed out loud.

“Maybe we can continue our conversation sometime, Harlee”

He is bold, Harlee thought. “Sure, why not,” she heard herself say.

They exchanged numbers and David promised he’d call. Reaching for the apple in her double breasted trench, she began to write a mass email. By the time she exited the station, she’d have service to send it.

To All This May Concern,

Did you all enjoy not having my voice up your asses? Well the solitude is about to end. Sorry! I’m feeling extra peppy today!

   Ronnie: Cancel my 3:00 appointment with Ezra Stokes.

 Maxwell: Leave my key on my dining table. You should know better than busting into your sister’s house.

Cierra: Pick me up two White-Chocolate Mocha’s on your way in; One Frap, one Latte.

Nali: You’re FIRED! LOL.... Just playing. Get Marco on the phone. I’ll be up in 7.

•             

Attractive in Unexpected Ways: Part 2

***

The 1 train was right on time…as usual and Jaden was blazed up for a great day ahead. Her boss hadn’t called this morning to bark orders into her husband’s phone. The phone he paid for every month to be disrespected by a forty year old business woman with no life besides her editorial career. At least the anxiety levels would be low and the production levels would be high. Well, on her part at least. The moving train did not seem like it would stop but sure enough it did allowing Jaden to take one good look at her reflection and standing there glaring back at her in the dull metallic was a baldheaded black goddess.

“Baldheaded?!” Jaden screamed out loud as she realized her nighttime satin cap was still stuck onto her head. One hand filled with a cup of hot java and the other occupied with her Kindle did not make this episode any better. Think quick, she said to herself.

The doors to the train glided open revealing the melodic dings it made at every stop. Jaden ran into the first seat she saw and removed the cap when java and kindle were safely out of her hands. Folding the rinky-dink piece of material she had cut from an old pair of stockings, it laughed at her through its sheer wrinkles. Had anyone seen this drastically embarrassing episode? She thought to herself. Then she looked up to see a wooly haired girl gawking her way. The girl’s hair looked like a bowl of black mashed potatoes. Her eyes were curvy with no help from Cover Girl or E.L.F and a white blossom sprung from the back of her left ear like it was meant to be there.

 Jaden gave her a smile and rustled her own semi-wooly hair as the train pulled off. The new growth from her post-perm was already giving her problems. Shedding unwanted strands during the day, revealing an atypical struggle for the everyday black female and making it impossible to create a style from was her norm now. Why could this mashed potato girl have an intelligent mane without even trying while Jaden had been fighting with her own mane for years—since time could tell?

Ryan adjusted the flower behind her ear as she looked up at the grown woman rushing into the train, face done, but hair wrapped. Was this the new fad of 2010? she thought. Didn’t African American women care for their hair like she did? Ryan’s Harlequin was closed by this time. She wanted to see what this lady would muster up in the time it took her to leave the train.             Slowly, the metal box rolled away from the station as Jaden fussed with her hair. Ryan just kept looking at Jaden’s rough roots growing insubordinately with its creamy crack ends.    

The strands were jet black with a burgundy patch in the front. The ends fell to her shoulders while the roots shrunk to her scalp. Taking her wide tooth comb from her purse, Jaden was grateful to know that she was far from her next “seat” neighbor. All the better. Now she could stretch and pull her hair any which way she wanted without disturbing the person or people next to her. Ryan could take it no more. Which woman had the gall to comb her hair in the train? Let alone transitioning hair. Hmmm, Ryan thought. Then it snapped into Ryan’s mind like a light bulb. Satin cap? Embarrassing look on her face. It was a mistake! Yes! Just a regular mistake done by an everyday black women. Then Ryan put herself back in check.

Ryan smiled at Jaden this time around. Knowing what she did was a bold move; she couldn’t help but believe that this girl with the mashed potato hair had once been in this situation as well. Then Ryan spoke up; something she would not have done if she didn’t already feel comfortable with this female, two-toned, halfway natural stranger.

“Having one of those days?” Ryan said with a smirk? Then she continued before Jaden could answer. “I was going to do the same thing this morning till I passed my mother’s mirror on the way out the door.” Jaden felt at peace.

“Well humans aren’t perfect, right?” Jaden chuckled.

“Nope, I guess not,” said Ryan. Then she stayed silent as if the conversation had been cut off with an announcement from MTA. It was like those once-in-a-lifetime moments you had with a stranger on an elevator. Jaden did not know this young lady and yet, they were laughing it up over simple errors of the strong independent female culture.

Ryan took her Harlequin back out to read while Jaden gave herself an informal pompadour right above her forehead. Pinning it down with the hairpins from her nightcap, she ruffled the back of her half kinky, half straight mane and put the Office Max rubber band, dangling from her wrist, around the end to create a very loose bob. Job done, she said to herself. And she didn’t even need a mirror. Then 116^th street appeared through the windows of the train car with its florescent lighting and colorful two-toned tiles and it was her turn to get off.

“I love Harlequin’s, by the way,” Jaden expressed. “Always seems to take me to another world.” Then she exited the train without another word.

Ryan sat where she was and smiled in Jaden’s direction as the coincidental day went on. First her hair attracted a particularly handsome stranger, and now another’s was sparking up conversation she’d never think to indulge in. Jaden exited the train feeling lighter than ever. Sometimes you just needed an imperfect moment to bring out the joy in life. Exiting the station, she decided to stop for a Chai Latte at the local Starbucks. Zoning in on the Starbucks logo, she imagined having flowing hair like the black, white, and green Siren painted below the Starbucks sign. She thought back to all of her transitional friends and realized that they really did have unique hair texture. Oh Lord, if this transition doesn’t work out, ill shave it all off—I swear! She said to herself.

She reached the front of the line in no time and before she could take her order, the cashier was asking for her name.

“Jaden Taylor”, she said in a clear voice.

“Is that one name?” the middle aged worker asked.

Jaden could think of nothing to do but laugh. Her day had already begun in a burst of energy so why not go with the flow.

“Oh! No it’s not but I just like saying it as one name,” Jaden explained.

“Well okay… Ms. Taylor.”

“Yeah,” Jaden added.

“One grande Chai Latte for Jaden Taylor, please,” the cashier spoke out loud. Jaden could tell her loved his job. This man, standing at an even six feet like her husband with a more than defined medium build, was adding to her day.

“Will that be all Ms. Taylor?” the cashier asked.

“Yeah, that’ll be all.”

“Ok, that’ll be $4.10 please. By the way, you should help my sister out with her hair. She’s been dying to learn how to do those bumps you women do.

“Oh this?” Jaden asked, touching the puffy pompadour.

“Yeah that thing. I don’t know what’s so hot about them but yours looks really cool. Especially with that color. “

“Thanks,” Jaden stated before heading over to wait for her Latte. I don’t even know this man! She thought.

I can definitely dig his humor thought. Picking up her Latte was the bonus. Removing its cap, she headed to the do-it-yourself station and added a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg. The rustling of leaves caught her ear and the whistling of the wind gave her goose bumps. This was always her favorite time of the year; a time when she got an extra hour of sleep and slept in late on the weekend with her hubby and an extra fluffy comforter.  Heading down the road to her job would now put her day into retrospect. She was at a job she loved, in a city she loved, with the man she loved and now all she wanted was her hair to catch up to this recurring  rhythm.

Attractive in Unexpected Ways: Part1

The train rocked back and forth as Ryan’s eyes zoned in on the withered pocket protector. Her eyes formed a monotone line and her hands stayed clasped together on top of her heavy school tote which awkwardly shook in her lap. There was always a myth about those pockets protectors. She only thought socially challenged people used them but as she spread her lids wider to view the owner of the geek squad accessory, she didn’t feel so monotone anymore. Instead, her tote felt heavier, her Harlequin novel; like slippery plastic, and her hands—numb. The young man was staring at her with handsomely intent eyes.

His dark smile hovered in front her as he got out of his seat and wobbled toward her to pick up the flower that had dropped out of her hair. Her mashed-potatoe-hair was what her mother called it. Soft like clouds but portrayed in its inverted light. She didn’t know what was happening until he showed his face again, this time just a few feet away with the flower in his palm.

Did this ever happen on trains? She thought to herself as she stared. Her high cheek bones flushed red as he flashed white teeth. She didn’t say thank you as he handed her the fallen accessory. Instead she removed a headphone and smiled as well. His pocket protector was tilting her way now and spread across its folded base were blotches of ink; blue ink that resembled a fountain pen’s slip up. Ryan kept smiling. Nothing more. She just kept smiling.

“Aren’t you going to put that back in?” the pocket protecting stranger voiced. 

Looking down into her hands laid the lonely white faux blossom. He was still smiling and so was she. Shoving her soft wooly mane behind her left ear with her right hand, she replaced the flower without another slight movement. He traced her hands with his eyes then went back to his awaiting seat. The rest of the train ride seemed awkward enough. It was as if he was staring past her but at her at the same time. What could it be, she questioned herself. 96^th street pulled into view and she knew it was time to break the silence. At least voice her thoughts. But what would she say?

Heaving her school tote onto her right shoulder she carefully got up out of her seat and held the metal bar of the train car. Rambling thoughts went in every direction of her mind. That was very thoughtful of you? …ugh! No!. Hmmm…how about ‘I would’ve been lost without that flower’. She shook the thoughts into the back of her brain. Nice pocket protector? Then she chuckled at the sound her voice would make after expressing the short alliteration.

The train stopped with a screeching halt and she felt for the faux blossom just in case it had dropped again. Then he got up as well and exchanged his brown leather briefcase into his other hand; the right one as well.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly without giving the words a second thought.

“I’m Keith,” he stated with an outstretched hand and a warm smile, this time not so dark. “I like your hair. Doesn’t look like you…restrain it.” Then he laughed a chuckle that she could never compare to that of a Geek Squad affiliate. It was quiet and raspy. She smiled again.

“Am I suppose to restrain it?” she asked as she grabbed his waiting hand in a firm shake. “I... I like your usedpocket protector. Never seen one this close before.” Then she smirked up at him. An insult for an insult.

“And my name is Ryan”. Time to let his hand go, she kept repeating to herself but he didn’t seem to think so. His hand as well as his eyes still held hers.

They exited the train together and parted ways. He ran up the stairs and she crossed the platform to transfer to the already-in-the-station 1 train. 

Was her hair that much of an attraction? Hmmm…nah—couldn’t be, she thought. Then she reached for the forgotten her Harlequin, now tucked under her left arm, to complete the contorted story of banned heiress Gabrielle.  

The “F” Grade Getting the Ex?

In a recent news report, school officials at West Potomac High School, located in Alexandria, Virginia, opted to drop the traditional “F” letter grade. Instead students who do not do well will be given an “I” for incomplete. This will allow them to learn the lesson over and replace the ‘Incomplete’ grade with a more promising letter grade be it an “A”, “B”, “C”, or “D”. The controversy surfacing around this new policy has been an option for colleges in New York for a while now. At The City College of New York, our grade policy consists of the tradition A-F rubric. However, we, as students, have been given a few exceptions. Entwined into our “F” grade policy the following apply:

1) “F” grade policy: If a student gets an “F” in a course, it will not be counted in their overall GPA if the course is taken over and the student receives a “C” or better.

2) “Incomplete” policy: Like West Potomac High School, this grade will give CCNY students a chance to retract the mistake they made in any class. This grade gives them ten weeks into the following semester to redeem themselves.

3)  “W” grade: As explained in previous CCNY article, The Big W: How to Know When to Withdraw, students opt to withdraw from a class if they know they are bound to get an unwanted grade in it. This grade holds fewer consequences than an “F” grade because it does not affect your GPA.

4) “WU” grade: This grade stands for Withdraw Unofficially. If the student refuses to attend class, the professor will take it that the student withdrew from the class without getting the formal documents from Registrar. This grade has the same consequences as an F grade because it will affect the cumulative GPA if the class is not retaken.

During a time when we have all of these “failure grading options”, the “F” grade policy would not hurt to be dropped. If the “F” grade policy was dropped, college students would not have the pressure that exists now. The fear that goes along with getting a failure, does not mesh well with the average stressed out college student. What we fail to realize is that there are other ways to dodge an “F” grade (as shown above).

Dropping the “F” grade policy would also lessen the chaos students have when it comes to getting their final grades. Because there are so many options, dropping the “F” grade would make explanation lighter on registrar when students go to them for advice.

West Potomac High School has decided to give their students the chance to redeem themselves. However, colleges across the nation already do this. If the dropping of this grade policy does have an effect on high school students, it’ll be the same effect it has on present college students.