Naturally Selecting Blogs

I have never embraced change. At least change that I didn’t ask for. The only change I welcome without protest is the kind that jingles (or folds) #ComingToAmerica. And, because I live on both sides of every spectrum, though I hate change – I’ll roll with it. I will just be very honest with you about my feelings for said change – while doing it. Because comprehension (or agreement) is not a requisite for completion. This is a consequence of being hella coachable.

photo: Elite Property Research, LLC

What’s the change I’m having trouble with? This. This here blog production. It was started for one purpose, and purpose one alone – running. Only, it’s been about more than running. I did it as a lost bet (kinda) to Alica Keykey or something like that, because I wrote a letter to the Competitor Group that she felt like everyone should read. So I’ve been regaling you these tales from the pavement. I sometimes told you about other things – but it’s been like 90% running, 10% the tangents I’ve so called my life. Then it got to like 80%/20% which you know is a heated debate for the culture, so I began to feel some kind of way. When I got to the C grade, I was like whoa – this is levels of underachieving I’ve never known.

Then I had to think about my feelings. And yall know how I feel about those. Feelings and telling the innanets all ya’business – ‘cause I hate that. I know so many life stories from FB, IG, and tweets that I never wanted to (know/) be that person. It just so happens I have been that person – but it’s on this here blog thing, so you like have to click on it to see it, so it’s kind of exactly the same but not really. Stop judging me.

Anyway, this is going to be about running, and running a bunch of other things. I needed running really bad a few years ago. A few of those boxes of darkness I received had me believing something like #14in2014 would be impossible. And I still need it – just not like I need other things. Because humans change, and need an assortment of stuff, and even when it’s hard – we naturally select. So you evolve whether you want to or avoid it.

After all, it’s not like change is always a bad thing. If you can believe it, there was a time when I *brace yourself* hated wine. Remember that trip to Napa, Pops & MO.m? Yall, all the wine was wasted on a twenty-something who thought she knew everything. Not only was it wasted, I had the nerve to be slightly hung-over after it.

Okay, change is a good thing. I have successfully convinced myself. Today. As I write this. Right now.

I won’t agree with this tomorrow, so bookmark your receipt. 

Opened Boxed of Darkness #andothermistakes

My cousin is a healer. She is a nurse and a lawyer. I admire her so much for this (and other reasons). She has the perfect mix of empathy and accountability, especially in relationships, that she could probably give Iyanla a run for her money. But my cuzzo ain’t got time for that because she is actually fixing lives with pain meds and billable hours. Wait, whoa…I just realized right now that ALL OF HER HOURS are technically billable hours. Wow. My cuzzo is on the come up for real. Yall, my genetic lineage is full of greatness. *insert a Kendrick lamar ‘damn’ here*

But, relationships. She reins Queen above all us peasants when it comes to closure. Again, admiration, and a little adoration. She does this so well because of all her formal and informal training #SheWasRaisedRight. She will heal you emotionally because she really cares. Let you get all of your feelings in order, all the time you need, be all the understanding there is in this dying world, THEN order you to render that which is hers unto her in the form of admitting all the ways you effed up (or having her do it – she’ll let you choose which way to pay).

‘Cause all accounts come due eventually, and just like student loan debt, even if you file for bankruptcy, you still owe bruh.

I, on the other hand, do the exact opposite – because while I was raised as rightly as she, I am no healer. If you leave me, then, well, eff you and the horse you rode in on too #butstilliwalked. Hell I look like closing something already closed? #NahSon

I feel like forgiveness and closure goes as far as me not praying for bad things to happen to you. Also, never ever praying for good things to happen to you. Like why in the world would I do that? What sense does that make? See, if something awesome happens to you after you leave me – Look at God. And, when you reap the awful you sowed after your departure then – Look. At. God. #WontHeDoIt? #OhYesHeWill

Who am I to interfere with the majesty and mystery of the Lord? His will be done. He ain’t never needed my help or intervention.

Why in the world would I make you better for another person? So you could be better to them? My name is not Chuck... #AintNoGoodLuckBih That sounds dumb as hell. What about me, fam? I didn’t deserve the better version of you? Sure, everybody ain’t for this one somebody, and you can learn a lesson from every relationship regardless of how it ends, but uh…you gonna need a tutor brah-brah. The only meds I take? My wine club membership...and if you think I’m sharing that with you see: sweet potato cookies.

What’s the point of brining this up now? Well, I tried out my cousin’s advice. I sought out closure when an opportunity presented itself. Presented…because I did not seek such a “gift” out. No sir. No ma’am. No mx. I put that little box of darkness in the closet with all the others and kept it pushin.

This last time my lil raggedy feelings got hurt, I let it go. It was actually how I “welcomed” the New Year. Side Note #1: I have taken SO MANY L’s this year…2017 is a bih. In the most adult way I could (read: teenage way, I am no adult) I helped myself build a bridge through it – acknowledging how I felt and not rushing myself across. Then, I ignored it completely, and folded some cranes in the skies over me hoping to feel something like healing.

He called. Months and months later. Good morning summer and heart ache – there was no sunshine. Called for no other reason, I suppose, than to disturb my attempting peace. The call ended strangely, without ever speaking to elephants in our respective rooms separated by time zones. Days later, I took my pain meds and disturbed his actual peace. I told myself I would ask the ‘what happened’ question and let him answer. Whatever he said, I would hear it, and I would move on. Because that’s closure, right? Side Note #2: I never actually asked my cousin what went into ‘closure’, like the actual steps in the conversation or process. I totally winged it with a glass of Riesling. While I still haven’t inquired about this, I think I know that the last part isn’t supposed to be part of the process. This is why I’m adult-adjacent.

The level of pissedivity I felt on the phone using my free minutes for a phone call I made but would not hang up cannot be described with my current level of literary skill. Where is Terry McMillian? I was a montage of so many emotions that I finally understood what my Daddie must have felt when he tossed that cat into a pack of dogs. I wanted to do awful hoodrat things all alone for the sheer pleasure of others suffering in the most excruciating ways – and live long enough to tell my kids about it, laughing. Because, #EffYoEffinFeelings. At one point in the wasting of my free minutes he brought up my not following up on things I said I would do when he straight up ghosted me. 

This fool wanted me to be like, hey, I know you don’t talk to me anymore on purpose, but um, here is all the stuff (read: benefits of being WITH me and/or calling me with frequency) I said I would give you and do. Have a blessed day that the Lord made. Be glad in it. Yall, the devil comes for my neck and my back and my cell phone reception regularly. How much more shall I render unto ‘ships that have that have long since set sail? I prayed to never know what he was whispering, ‘yonce. But, there I was, right there with you, listening…and praying, oddly enough #fordifferentthingstho.

So, pissed, petty, and full of pain meds I stayed on the line. Eventually, he realized that this wasn’t the best idea so he ended the conversation. I knew when I called this was dumb, but science #TestTheTheory. I guess that’s part of closure, though. One person being adult enough (because neither of us were very adult) to just end it.

What did I learn?

I am better off not praying either way for you and letting God have His way. It helps me enjoy the Riesling so much more than this ‘talking about it’ mess. I will just leave closure up to the experts – like my cuzzo. She got the right stuff in her to do it. Sure it’s hard, and when it’s hard and challenging it’s worth it. But do you know what’s more difficult than that? All the Riesling being gone when the conversation ends. There was only red wine left, yall!!! *angry emoji face*

I never want to know THAT kind of pain and heart ache again.

Anyway, I’ve never been one to mourn dead things – even the things I loved above all others. And…I have, well, you know what I have in me. That and sweet potato cookies are really only good for a party.

So, I should just do that. #GameNightComingSoon

Addiction Is Real #VivaLaResistance #boycott

Addiction is real, yo. No jokes.

My name was given to me by my dearly departed father, and I am addicted to professional football. My addiction started at the moment of my birth. Knowing that the professional football season was almost upon the land, I decided to depart my dearly infirmed mother during the pre-season, as to not interrupt the opening of the football season. Knowing that my father would want to have some company for the first Dallas Cowboys game of the year, I came to the earth in time to have full control of my senses to enjoy Sunday morning, afternoon, evening, and Monday night football. We would spend a few decades doing football together. Even to live long enough to see Thursday night football. #BecauseWeAreAblessedPeople #FootballAlmostEveryDay

Even at my birth I have been sacrificially selfless, putting the needs of others before me. I am the epitome of humility. Try it sometime.

Am I making fun of addiction? Absolutely not. If I go longer than a week without being in a mall the internal functioning of my organs go into survival mode. Let me not get the notification of my wine shipment – woes be until the next person I see after that missing email. And if you wrinkle the packaging on my sweet potato cookies, be assured, it will be my genuine pleasure to arrange the meeting for you and the Master. #Hawkeye #Creasy

Addiction is real, yo.

Which is the point of giving up football this season. We’ve spent so much time talking about what Colin has done, and what the NFL did to him in retaliation, we haven’t been talking about all the people murdered in the path of the debate. He just wanna be out here fully human and exercising his rights to live and throw a football, but that’s too much to ask. I wouldn’t hire Blaine Gabbert to throw trash away (and I despise taking out the trash), and you’re defending the NFL? Just, no. If Blaine is on your FF team, then you intentionally decided to come in last place. You didn’t even draft him. Which. Is. The. Point.

nflkneeldown.com

So some of us other humans have been faced with the non-alternative facts that we’re standing for a flag that is kind of actually doing nothing about the killing of other humans like us and maybe we should do something. And, since protesting, speaking out, and donating to worthy causes hasn’t seemed to fix it yet (keep doing that tho, fam) we decided to set our gaze in other places because the homey sat – and kneeled.

In the process, we managed to wake up, drink water, and mind our own non-watching NFL business on Sunday. That was not good enough. Because so many of you out there, woke up, sipped tea, and came up with all the reasons why this is stupid I bet Kap ain’t missing no games… and how we won’t make it But you gonna watch SportsCenter & play in your Fantasy Football league tho… May all your blowouts be sweated out in the winter and your line ups look like Dre’s from the #ChopShop episode. The man is a professional football player. That’s like me leaving higher education and not following the disaster that is devos to title ix. It has been my entire life – for my entire adult-ish life. The contradiction and hypocrisy is key. We are humans. Humans are walking contradictions and hypocrites. Don’t believe me? Look in your mirror. See...there you are - witcho’human self. Looking all mammal and what not.

Kap just want us to be fully realized and regarded as human beings – because there are some people who get to do it (read: YOU know WHO), and others who don’t (read: probably, YOU). Humans do things that are contrary to living a full and healthy life (read: drinking three swirls) and get to live the next day to maybe decide better. Shouldn’t we all be able to live in such a way? Also, this is me telling you NOT to have three swirls. Like, do the opposite of this thing and some other stuff I do. But if you decide to protest for you, that’s cool.

Kirby Lee - USA Today Sports

So, what? Why does that matter? Why do you care if I half-ass a protest anyway? There is money to be made in some FF leagues…and you have no idea how long Around The Horn & P.T.I & me been in this thang! Those are my real life TV friends that don’t know me at all. I love them, yall. We go way back like my Cadillac. You half-ass your workouts all the time, but you don’t see me out here in these innanet streets discouraging you. You miss the point of the protest completely because….Some. People. Are. Still. Dying. Some people are still being harassed by the police. Some people with hella scrilla-scratch that look like me get pinned down on Las Vegas streets. And you’re out here using your energy to criticize me? Trash. You’re basura, bro. Like la ordure I wouldn’t pay Dan Orlovsky to throw out...the back of the endzone. This is what this dude is KNOWN for. Remember that? How did these dudes make NFL rosters before Kap? #NahSon #ImWithKap #SoManyQuestions #ThatIhaveAllTheAnswersFor.

At work, I had the privilege (read: other duties as assigned) to give out 49er vs Panther tickets for this recent game. I put the call out to the students. One student in particular, conflicted, asked me about the tickets. Hey, are you still protesting football? Yea man, it’s so hard *neck scratch*, I didn’t realize how many other things I would have to stop doing. I can’t even watch sports shows because it makes me want to watch the games. I know…it’s just we had that conversation in training, and I really want to not watch, but you said the tickets were free, fam. I don’t know what to do. Sweetie…I have no reason to judge you. If you want to go to the game, it’s cool. Go and have fun. It’s not like I never went to a professional football game before. You have to find your own way to do it. Just like I need you to drink your water and mind your own business, I’m gulping these smart waters and crying real tears – alone.

Because that’s the other point. I have always known there was something not exactly okay about professional football. I avoided it, because we never want to face the things we love with a critical eye. The paradox of education is precisely this - that as one begins to become conscious one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated. #JamesBaldwin #BecauseWhenYouKnow #dobetter. More than that, we never want to leave them because we can’t imagine our lives without them. Our lives will always be less, we assume, so we might indulge a little less, but we never let go completely.

A friend of mine got drafted some years ago. I remember being super excited for him at his draft party. Laughing about our college days just recently passed. Speaking fame and fortune into his football future. Eventually we got to a conversation about the combine – because that had to be the dopest thing ever, right? About how he was “labeled” with a number. Because it makes sense to replace a name given to a person with all the love people have in their world with a number. It’s easier to replace a whole human with a whole digit, yall. Every part of his body, his grandma prayed over daily, measured. Once pride filled gazes from loved ones turned into gawking scouts with clipboards. Made to perform athletic feats at the sounds of whistles and starting stopwatches. Being examined, critiqued, timed, and debated behind is running down the field back. 4.4 seconds locked in an eternity. Hoping, perhaps, to be good enough to be “selected” when he was and still is one of a chosen people already. To do all the things he just did, in all the ways he had just done them, in front of millions, week after week, to be criticized because he makes millions (if he was “lucky” to) week after week. This sounds amazing. We should watch the product of this all day Sunday, Monday night, and Thursday night – forsaking all other activities.

Patrick Risha CTA Awareness Foundation

This is what I had to face. And so–the–eff–what it took me forever to see myself for what I was doing. People who smoke, drink, do illicit drugs, and a whole host of other things face the mirror too late (for some) too, and we welcome them back to the road to recovery. I have so much joy for people who choose daily to live their lives as a better version of themselves. The same can be said for us choosing to give up football. Sure, watching sports isn’t a death sentence to a fan, but if CTE is proof of anything, it’s that football IS killing somebody(’s son).

Sunday felt strange. It was my first day without professional football. I had all those impulses I had before – who am I watching the game with? …where am I watching the game? …dear God if you bless me with my perfectly smoked portion of wings and bar nachos, I will be satisfied. …what beer am I gonna waste today? #iMissYouSoMuchNaShaun #YouTooKRD #YouSoLoyalToMeAndMyBeerOrders. After all of that, I went for a run.

It’s also the first time I won’t be able to talk about football with Daddie. And, if i'm honest, him not being here makes it a little easier to do. Guess I’m just getting started with having more firsts. #MaryJackson #HiddenFigures #ShutUpTAT

She got a name, then he walked away...

Every Father's Day, without fail, someone posts to some social media in the internets, the following question (in varying syntax and leveling degrees of mastery of said syntax), All these songs about mothers…where are the songs about fathers?

One year I replied with this one. Mostly because poor grammar upsets me, and my unconscious ability to be petty amuses others. AND any father worth their fathering is not somewhere looking for a song.

He’s looking for the remote. Or a kid to bring it to him.

I digress.

But, I love this song. Before I loved it, my father had to help me. Remember that time my Daddie did that awful thing? When he left me in Westwood all by myself (yes, I’m this dramatic, still) to go make a life and be great or whatever it was? Yea, that. He left me with roommates. A caucasian and mexican girl. And because I like my mexican people from my neighborhood in the bay area (who are the southern californians anyway? they smell like avocado – not that this is a bad thing or I know what that is at this point in my life). HOW CAN YOU LEAVE ME WITH STRANGERS?!

…anyway, because caucasion people listen to different music, my roommate worships the devil.

Daddie…I think my roommate worships the devil? Will I go to hell because I live with her? It’s not like I picked her. What? What are you talking about? She listens to weird music. I think it’s on MTV. These white guys are like bouncing around and making strange sounds with instruments and whatnot. I am not sure what this is, and I don’t want my soul to burn in that place *because even though we’re preacher’s kids, we don’t use that h-word…around him* I’m sure it’s not that. Well, what are the people saying in the song? They’re saying…well, he’s talking about…Daddie their hair is like these weird colors!!!!! Baby, just relax. You’re going to have to give different things a try. I don’t think she worships the devil. If she did, I think you would be more certain of it. Just relax. If you don’t like it, don’t listen to it. But I don’t think you even know what it is…

Daddie – A Gazillion; Me – like maybe 5 or 6. I mean, I’m not a complete idiot…sometimes I got a W. But I certainly took waaaayyy more L’s, like not listening to the song.

So I took his advice. I listened. It was awful. Until I listened long enough to hear what they were talking about. Oh…this is about his father; he must have been a great guy. Oh, he left you? Uh…my bad. You were scared? Uh….okay, not exactly devil worship, but it’s not that bad.

 

Our fathers are nothing alike, but I love this song. There's this one part..., ♫♪ …daddy gave me a name, my daddy gave me a name…then he walked away… ♫♪

Same thing happened to me. Only, it happened much faster for him. His dad gave him a name, he closed his eyes, his world disappeared, and his daddy was gone. My Daddie gave me a name, then 18 of the best years a daughter could have, took me to Westwood and walked away…to the parking lot, to drive back to the Bay Area.

My Daddie gave me a name. On that day, when the one who (earthly) made me provided me that protection, he also shared the story of my name. And everything it means.

At Wheaty’s graduation taco party, we were all making introductions. As such, I extended my hand and told a man my name. I was sitting next to my Daddie. He looked up from his taco and made that eye contact that feels like a finger is being pointed at you and said proudy-matter-of-fact(ly), I named her. That’s my baby.

…and like a few of the other people here at this party, but yes Daddie, I’m your baby.

He says that he and my mother (before she became a turncoat) were talking to each other one of the nights they were anticipating my arrival. He loved the sound of names that sound like mine, but he wanted the “na” because, lucky for me, that's what he liked. And he even decided the middle name. But mother wanted the extra “e” in my middle name…so he signed off on it.

Mother needed his approval for my name. He had to sign off on it, or it wasn’t going to happen. The name had to please him. It had to be the name that he liked. Loved.

Being the first born third, I have always felt some kind of way about my gender. I’m a girl. I was born female. I’m a woman, because that’s the adult version of girl, but Daddie called me his baby, and you read these blogs, so you’re thinking what I’m thinking – she’s technically got "lady parts", but beyond that, the jury is out.

My father is the first son. Because of that, he carries the name of a great man. Exactly that man’s name…with a Jr attached. Because Papa was the original, and Daddie was that fire remix. My father’s brothers? Just about all have a fire remix walking around here. One got a sample outchea somewhere on someone’s playground. I have always wondered, would he have felt differently, better-differently if I were that remix. If I could carry three stacks behind my name, be a remix of Daddie – a sample of Papa. Be the legacy in title and task.

I have felt less because of this thing. Even more so in thinking about meeting someone and loving someone, and wanting to do that forever thing with them, and my name changing. I don’t carry his first name, and if married, I might not even carry his last name. It would be forever lost.

So I did what any guilt ridden daughter would do. Spent my entire life leaving things at Daddie’s altar (the night stand by his bed) to purchase his non-existent grief about this. Awards. Perfect grades. Complementary reports. Certificates. Good behavior. Recognition. I wouldn’t even ditch school on Senior Ditch Day – nobody anticipates you to be there, and it’s kind of weird for the teachers when you show up. Remember when I told you spent part of the 8^th grade in CST? I got a Computer Literacy certificate. My Daddie had it in a folder near his bed. Without a scratch or blemish. If I can’t carry your name Daddie, I am going to make sure I do right by this one I got. This was how I “fixed it”.

Daddie, though, being smarter and having sight beyond sight knew that this might happen (maybe). So he did something better than pass on a great name. He created one. One that every time he heard would fill him up with so much pride, that every time he heard it, the world would stop. Like my High School graduation. The story? It was hot as a bih on the Menlo-Atherton High School football field. So Daddie and his other Daddie homeys were standing under the bleachers doing Daddie things. When they called the name of the child represented by the Daddie group, they would come from under the bleachers, listen to the speech, or clap at the awarding of the degree, and go back under the bleachers. Because, we love kids, but shade too.

He probably said the same thing at my high school graduation. When I made my approach to the stage, and gave my stunning and inspiring speech, using my inspiration at the time – Tupac, because #HellaResist. I named her. That’s my baby.

This is all postulate though. How can I be sure of these things now, anyway? Much like Everclear, ♫♪ …I never understood you then, and I guess I never will… ♫♪

Oh…and if you’re looking for a song about fathers, check this one out. 

I promise, it’s a winner. 

She was loved yall...

I recently submitted an SA Speaks for our regional student affairs conference. What’s that? Well it’s a like a 10 minute speech/conversation/talk that offers presenters and participants an innovative look at important topics and a means  to spread ideas about how we can change the student affairs profession and transform learning in higher education…because professional development. I’m still waiting to hear back about it.

What’s the topic? Glad you wondered. It’s about my last day as a student affairs professional. I know what you’re thinking, you quit? Nah, I haven’t. But I have thought it over, and over, and over…but there is no other way I could imagine my professional life – at this point at least.

When I first decided, intentionally, that I would become a Student Affairs Professional, I had all the hope in the world. All of it. I mean, before Barack Obama was like a thing we all terribly miss now, I believed it would be me who would inspire a man/woman like him. That something I did, via all this housing and residence life work, would help some young person (of color) achieve something so great that it would be a first…like the first black president. I told myself that I would be a difference maker in the ways that people like Pops made a difference for me. Crazy, right?

My first words were words of hope. They were dreams for the generation to come. My words these days? I hope you do come into this office talkin’ crazy, I *hand clap* Hope *hand clap* You *hand clap* Do... Because all hope is gone. Why have you forsaken us Lord? After 10+ years, I have almost perfected the what I’m gonna say on my last day, so much so, I’ve submitted an SA Speaks.

My last words are hopeful. But not in the ways my first words were.

A few months ago my Daddie called me. Out of the blue. Well, out of love, but you know what I mean. Probably one of the most random calls I have gotten accustomed to getting because my Daddie was awesome about calling just because. He had a mission though. He wanted to tell me about my life.

He said one day, he was leaving the house. I, just figuring out how to run in my little legs chased after him to the door. He told me that I couldn’t go with him, because my hair wasn’t combed and I wasn’t dressed. Because, clearly as a child I didn’t understand stay ready so you don’t have to get ready…Lord bless me in my ignorance. At that point, I eagerly went over to my mother so she could do my hair and dress me up. She hooked a playa up. New fit. New hair. I was outchea in these streets shining. Yeah.

Only, this was their clever plot to distract me while he left to the store. How could you leave me Daddie? And your accomplice? I should have known that I couldn’t trust her. Because, birth! I was fine in her uterus, but she persisted and pushed.

Anyway, payback is a BIH because I cried the entire time. At the door. Looking for him. He said I wailed something awful because, well, he heard it when he returned.

It broke his heart. So he made me a promise, before God, the Angels, and that turncoat I call a mother… I’ll never be the reason you cry again. I will never make you cry again.

Daddie pretty much kept his word. The next time he left me somewhere was UCLA in 1990 and 8. I thought the world ended when he told me he wasn’t staying in the triple room with me and my roommates in Hedrick Hall. HOW CAN YOU LEAVE ME LIKE THIS?! DON’T YOU LOVE ME?! I’m so dramatic. I have lived my life in his footsteps. In 1990 and 3 he was moving back to Texas for reasons I never care to know or understand. It was shortly after a major surgery. He told me that he was leaving. I replied,  I’m coming with you. I left every earthly thing I kid could leave. I never thought twice about it. Daddie had to purchase my plane ticket at the airport counter in San Francisco. Remember when that was a thing? The summer before the 8^th grade, I moved to CST.

I started to tear up on the other side of the phone, PST. I almost lost all composure. He knew it was more than I could handle – because he knows my silence, so he quickly got off the phone, as he would expertly do. I love you, I’m out. I called my best friend. My best friend told me to go see my father.  

While those weren’t his first words to me, they carried the sentiment of his very first words to me. He attempted to explain just how much he loved me, the second he saw me, he says. We were in a hospital. Those were also his first words to the township of Hooks, Texas at the time of my birth. Yall, the man drove around the town announcing it. Aside from the fact it’s a small country town, we are literally related to like half the people – everybody pretty much already knew…but announcement. I’m not exaggerating. This actually happened. In real life.   

Daddie’s first words to me were his very last words. The man is so detailed he even had the nerve to speak them from a hospital. He was always particular and specific that way. Daddie told me that I would never understand just how much he loved me. And because the man is like waaaayyy smarter than me and knows soooo much more than me, he is absolutely right. It was a Friday night. I had a plane ticket to CST that Sunday evening *red eye*… We had daddie/daughter shenanigans planned for that Tuesday.

I’ll see you in Fort Worth! You darn right! Is Mommie coming with you? Nah, I told her I was babysitting the granddaughter. She ain’t gonna wanna come for that. I’ll see the baby on Monday, and come on Tuesday. Wait, so you just gonna leave Mommie? You seriously told her that? *laughing hysterically* You darn right…if I can get away with it!

I can’t fathom how, in almost 4 decades, he feels the exact same way he felt on that first day. I can’t figure it out. I’ve been in a profession I love for more than 10 years and I got some feelings I don’t think they would understand. They’re hopeful feelings too…but not exactly in the same way they first were. And I actually do love the work I do. But, feelings yo…the feels.

I wonder what it must have been like… To live a life, where the happiest you thought you could be, the loveliest ways you thought you could feel, would be the exact happy and lovely you would feel at the end of it. This is what I am talking about! I honestly believed it was improbable and impossible to be loved this way. After all, I’ve been told I was loved, but that changed. Every. Single. Time.

Save, one. Daddie was genius, yall.

If you will allow me to pray for you, I will pray exactly this thing. That a person will love you something like the one perfect way I was loved. Because it was complete. The beginning and ending of it was perfect, though the man was not.

He seemed it though. #perfect

She Has Fake Degrees... #ShowMeTheSealSoWeKnowItsItsReal

Have you been to my office? If you have then you know there is a large paper medal on the wall because I got the MVP of Student Staff Training #Spring2015…and what else? A bunch of thank you cards and other pieces of celebratory paper. The piece(s) of paper(s) you expect to see aren’t there.

Yup. There are no degrees on my wall in my office. And in the span of my full-time professional career, they’ve never been on my wall because…

…them joints is fake, yo.

Let me explain *in my Kevin hart voice* …

In 2000 and 3 I graduated from the University of California at Los Angeles. Just in time to NOT have the terminator’s name on my degree #BlessGodInThisBuildingSaints. It was an exciting time. Let’s go back to Ackerman…

I was so happy! I called home. Well, prior to the exciting call home, I made a huge scene in Ackerman buying the diploma frame. Yea, I want that one at the top. Very top. Yes, the best one you got. I just graduated homey…you better believe this piece of paper is hanging in style. Hello…this is me? I need better than your best.

Then he rang it up. I didn’t have money for three weeks. Daddie actually had to send money from Texas for California groceries…because hungry. I was embarrassed that I even needed money for food – until that time, I was able to take care of all my financial needs that financial aid didn’t cover #BraidingHair.

Anyway, as I wasn’t saying, I called him. Mom answered. She was sooo happy for me. So much so, that she stated that I should Go to Kinko’s… Yeah, Make a copy… Yeah, Then send the original… *ummm…where is this going* …to her in Texas. That, if I ever wanted to come home ever again, I would need to do this. I obeyed. But she got the coldest side eye ever given in the game though…through the phone. Because I wanted to go home, because fried cabbage yall. Both degrees are on the wall in their home. And a whole heap of other awards and such. I know because this past week (or so) I hung them there #TheyMoved.

Have you seen the color copy version of your degree/seal on your degree from Kinkos? It's orange... It's not even the same orange all over the seal. Because the photocopier, and the lights, and physics! Bro, this joint is as believable as the current sitting united states president. Like, we know it’s real, but it looks fake AF. Exactly.

Why would I put this on my wall at work? So I haven’t. It’s just not a thing. And, of course, this is all my mother’s fault. What does she want with it anyway?

But, as time deals with most things I made my peace with it. As a new professional, I began to realize that though I work with many people, some of which have many degrees, they are quite dumb. AF, homey…dumb AF. I started to take solace in the empty walls. My brain isn’t empty, and I use coherent sentences. I have the innate ability to swirl the king’s English with slang and contemporary vernacular, that honestly…the degree didn’t teach me to do. My intellect is more than what that piece of paper says I know. So…I’m good.

But I wasn’t. At a student leadership retreat, I had to share a piece of me…because vulnerability can be an important part of your leadership. Yes, all those aforementioned reasons are the reasons why my degrees are on bookshelf in my office. I know that I am smart, but I don’t always occupy that space. I am sometimes very insecure about what I know, to the point that I probably give the appearance that I don’t know anything. Like this guy last week told me how the Plan B pill works. Aside from the fact that this is something as a woman I would probably know because vagina, I was a Physiological Sciences major. Though I don’t work in my major, I LOVE science, because three swirls, remember? But nobody would know that was my major, because bookshelf.

I regularly get the feeling that I didn’t earn my degrees. Because, Daddie. Dude is smart as heaven…and a little hell – he ever tell you what he did to that cat? He would be an awesome person to have on a trivia team because he knows about the oddest, craziest things, usually from personal experience. He remembers dates like you wouldn’t believe. Why do I know that I was born at 10:16pm on a Tuesday? One year he called me at exactly my birthday. To the minute, yall. He even factored in the time zones because that was CST that I was born in, but it was PST he was calling to...so he called...twice, so it was 8:16pm PST, then again at 10:16pm PST. Everything I know is because of him. What he didn’t teach me, he prepared me to learn. And every bit of knowledge I engaged him in, he expanded upon – for my good – for my name to be on those pieces of paper. How can I take credit for everything that HE did. Doesn’t really seem fair at all.

As we were driving around in my Daddie’s truck, I was talking to that lady about degrees hanging from the wall. How I sent the originals, but all my sisters punked out and sent copies. But why they get to come home when you told me I couldn’t? Sure, I get the wealthiest portion of the fried cabbage, but nothing else for my obedience!!!!!

She said, your Father wanted that degree. I just passed the message. Then she looked at me and shrugged like, so you mad or nah? I leaned over the driver’s seat in amazement. All of these years those degrees have been on the wall, he never revealed this. And because, although hard-headed, she is a good wife, she kept his secret. She kept it until I needed to know it.

Today, this very day, there are two odd looking degrees on the wall in my office. I am more proud of them than you could imagine.

I have exactly what I earned on my wall.

...and Daddie has exactly what he earned on his.