First things first, peoples. Let’s announce the joy…
Kerry, my oldest friend who is the original stay-on-the-phone-with-T-for forty-seven hours-straight, talking about boys and nothing (I think they were one and the same–the “nothing” and the “boys”), is pregnant! She got married first (to her lovely husband Irvin who is like a brother to me) and Kyara (it’s awful that she’s like my niece and I’m sure that I butchered her name but Kerry will tell me so and later I will edit it to its correct spelling and none of you will ever know). And now she’s having the first baby. I am so happy! She’s so ill right now though so I’m not sure she can totally take my joy in fully. Kerry has known me since I was nine. She freaked me out by having kidney surgery when we were in sixth grade. I spent more time over her house with her family than at my own (Patrice, the Mom, was NOT feeling that). I had my first kiss in front of her house on East Outer Drive with some dirty hairy boy that I can’t remember. And then Erik and Yettie! The neighborhood boys who cause so much turmoil in our lives (rest in peace Llyod West). AND! Sharriff Evans was Kerry’s love forever with his colored Levi’s (them joints were YOUNG–you could see his booty) and those Addidas sweatshirts (we loved those, remember? A seventy five dollar sweatshop garment made our hormones swoon.) And my love for Chris Love that was never to be. Sigh. And our 8th grade trip to Washington DC by bus (what happens in the 8th grade, stays in the 8th grade). You can’t buy this kind of stuff, man. If you’re young and you’re reading this, trust me on this: like food, people should feed you. If you’re older and you’re reading this, you already know. All this to say, I got more additions to my family coming!
This is Kerry on her wedding day. Isn’t she lovely?
AND THEN…My friend Ben and his wife Calinda are expecting September 1st!It’s in the water! Ben and I go back far to college and after when he used to live around the corner from me and, on summer days in Harlem, you could hear him practicing the sax in the morning. That’s a NICE way to wake up, let me tell you. And he can BURN in the kitchen. He just gets there and makes up stuff. I mean seriously. With a can of peaches, some hot sauce and a old thing of grits, Ben can make gourmet! I miss our yearly trips to the beach. That was some fun business. David, Ben, Beth, me and sometimes Marcella—I’m not sure I’ve laughed that hard on Fire Island—Flaming Island? Uh, right. Ben. I don’t got pictures of us. Isn’t that crazy? Marcella maybe has some of you doing The Butt in the parking lot of the Stamford Aquarium but not me!
The last addition is one I’m not supposed to mention yet but she’s been telling folks all over town HOWEVER I’m not going to say who it is still. She’s my HOMEGIRL though from the D who has seen me through at least four guys who’ve broken my heart (I’m supposed to say “guys I’ve dated” but let’s call a dog a dog, shall we?). She’s doing art everyday mixed in with her business. I’ve had cries on her couch, eaten her food (however long it takes to make unless it’s the sweet potatoes with the pineapple juice and marshmallows on top), danced to Mariah Carey in her apartment, ran from bats in Prospect Park from Wood Harris’s house, got protected from her when some crazy chick called her and told her that because I was hanging out with her man, I was ruining a five year relationship (to which she replied to said chick, “But T’s not in a five year relationship!”), so many stories. Crazy shit. Post partum. Pierogies. Kwanzaa parties. Obiodune as our godfather. Driving down
Woodward without lights on the rental car because we couldn’t find them. And the drama, on and off stage. Her plays have more courage than love letter (if you’ve ever written a love letter, you know how much that shit takes out of you). She is a Detroit Butterfly (even though that’s what Greg Tate called me and her cousin Alexis that one night at CB Gallery). And she’s going to have a small butterfly. And that’s all. I said NO NAMES.
Now, for the part about where I’m supposed to be. One can’t help but wonder after all these lovely baby announcements (not to mention me talking to Yvie the other day for almost two hours and wondering where three years went for me because hers was spent on Corey, Indigo and Phoenix! That’s JOY!) where the hell I’m supposed to be at this stage. When I was younger, I had really huge ideas about my 30s. I was supposed to be famous filmmaker/novelist/playwright by now. And married. And maybe pregnant. I’m behind on all the countries I wanted to visit. I think about this very very childish timeline I had (because I really believe you have no control over the amount you learn when you learn it—you control how open you are) and I think, then what was I supposed to do? And I have no idea. So maybe my life decided to do its own version of space filler. Spend some time in LA and get your hustle grinded into a fine powder. Eat Indian with Vasanti…and Alice (one day)! Watch Harlem sprint along the beach on the PCH.Go back to New York and spend a lot of money on rent for a year. Get married. Get pregnant and move to Philly. Write a third novel and have that get picked up. Finally be able to pay on a mortgage. Take a tour of Europe and Africa. Spend a summer on the Amalfi Coast (since my Dad didn’t believe it could be more beautiful than the Caribbean). Hear some stories from Treva. Travel with Marcella and Ari while Yaze watches _______________ (we have like four names for babies and no babies). Be free spirited with Jen for a week some place luxurious. Make a film with Ka’ramuu. Make a film with Bea. Have some real dim sum with Jean and Cyril. Do something I’ve never done before with Kristin. Have coffee at Eve’s house with Clare and Patrick and Lulu. Chomp Yvie and Jenn Mattern’s kids’ cheeks! Go to the Oyster House again with Giulia, Kei and Angela! Have Ella take me to the Haitian bakery again. Attempt to go for a run with Amada. Drive to the mall with Kerry and our kids. Go for a drive with my brother. Have wine and cheese with my Uncle Mitchell. Eat Ninge bread. See my mom’s face after my labor. Watch Ben’s kids with Calinda at one of his gigs. Go to a picnic in Prospect and see Craig, Tyren, Maurice, Pierre and Jamilya, Mums, Jasiri and Fat, Ekere, Alexis and all of our next generations while we listen to Roy Ayers since Carolyn Butts brought him there. Cuddle with my baby, Yaze, forever. How could I have ever come up with that timeline when I was thirteen? It sounds so unknown and clueless through the ears of a kid but let me tell you, as an adult, that sounds like a dream! If you spend your time like money, your whole vision of the world changes. (That’s for my girl Karen Kitz-Clancy who may or may not have started this whole baby craze thing about two years ago—she’s the one who pulls out little things I say sometimes and makes me really see them again).
If I could get rid of any phrase in the world, it would be “supposed to be” because that is the wackest most powerful phrase ever. We get ourselves so twisted around this phrase because of its power! We buy into it! Like it was a stock option! I will have four hundred shares of “supposed to be”. That’s crazy. Don’t set yourself up that way, man. That’s the best way to fall down. Believe and see it because you want to, not because somebody else said you should. And I’ll end with that Kanye-ism.
(she exits…but then comes back.)
Next week, I’m posting what my girl from GRADE SCHOOL, Killer Kamilah Levens, said about life. No, forget it. I’m posting it now.
life is hard man. i always thought that i would live in the south, in an all black community. that was very small. with small houses that had gardens with rows and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables. i would cook and eat and garden and sew quilts and listen to music all day. work somewhere that was light, relaxed and calm. if i felt like it. trade stories with dear friends all evening. have sex all night. and still wake up refreshed. and i could wear whatever i wanted all the time. whatever was comfortable, and wear my hair in two french braids. i would have a porch that was huge enough to live on. with a swing. all my favorite books and magazines. and the sun would shine most of the time, the rain would be warm and gentle. the nights would be quiet and very still. and thats about it. my perpetual dream. i do not want to be grown anymore. life is really really hard.
I told her I would post her email and she said that would be fine. I’m posting it because I think we all feel that way sometimes. And we can’t pretend that we don’t or else it gets bigger and that’s how people go crazy and where Janice Combs’s wigs or turn into a Paris clone and repeat dumb phrases, or just flat out stop caring about our health like Aretha (yeah, I said it—look at a picture of her and tell me otherwise). As my man (I mean my real man, Yaze, not “my man” as in “my homeboy”) said, be the voice in your head.
(she exits again, throwing the mic down, raising her hands in the air…THE END)
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I READ IT!
I’m fucked up, I know, I know. I got you to start blogging and then I didn’t even read it.
But baby, I only wanted you to stop blogging to me!
Just kidding. My baby’s the shit, super-talented if you haven’t noticed, and I’m just a self-absorbed musician-fuck happy to be tagging along.
Love you like cooked food,
Ya to the m’fing Ze.
Comment by Nyaze — February 9, 2006 @ 1:41 pm