the end of an era

In the summer of 2004, after my high school graduation I went on a trip to Jamaica, equipped with my discman (yes, indeed the good ole' days when such contraptions were in use), and a Modest Mouse cd, Good News for People who Love Bad News, which I played out throughout the trip (well that record and my Bob Marley Legend cd, when in Trenchtown...). The last song on Good News is called, "The Good Times are Killing Me", and in Jamaica, chillin on those sandy beaches, wading in the clear blue Caribbean Sea, and enjoying jerk chicken I really thought I got the meaning of that song. Indeed, whenever I listen to the album now I still think of Jamaica. But after going up to Amherst College to visit my friends before their commencement, I now know what it means to have good times kill.

Lots of my Amherst friends are now members of the alumni class of 2007, and as we said our goodbyes last week I realized that they have made my "Amherst experience" (the one the glossy viewbook ignores). As we barbequed, went out to the janky Monkey Bar, and windowshopped at Target I realized that this was the last time that all of us would be together as college kids. Our last few days all together were exciting yet tinged with sadness as we all understood that our time together as a unit on our homey campus were coming to a close, indeed the good times are killing me.

Next fall I start my senior year, without the friends, my safety net, who have paved the way before me. Only a year older, but they have made Amherst worthwhile, even when I was getting my transfer apps ready, they convinced me to stay and to enjoy it.

As my good friend Ashley P. packed up "our" dorm (we called it that because our rooms faced each other), I wondered how my life would be different if I'd gone to Williams (our archrival to my liberal arts college folk). Would I have met similar people? Probably. But I would not have met the dynamic men and women who have made me proud (and at times, bitter, angry, elated and frustrated) to call my self an Amherst student. Not because of the school's ranking, the 'herst hasn't been number 1 since 2003 (not that that matters, booooo Williams), but because of the friendships of made there.

Great job class of 2007 at Amherst and to family members graduating from Pace, Cornell and St. Joseph's College. Terras Irradient!!! (read in loud Tony Marx voice)

on my new york steez

remember when folk used to say stello and steez?
I never stopped

Back in New York and taking in the City with a new set of eyes, and I can say that it is truly the greatest city in the world. Diverse, vibrant and cheap - compared to London and most of Western Europe. We all love our homes first, people will rep their hometowns like its Oz till the day they day, whether good or bad but I thank da Lord on the daily that he made me a Bed-Stuy baby.

After a week of being home (not where the boys say allo, but holla), I'm still trying to get used to hearing salsa on the street, old men hitting on me, gbks and American accents. Reverse culture shock is sumfin else, it is relearning your home. Like finding an old pair of jeans in your closet that still fit wonderfully. All I need now is an "I love NY" tee and and a hero sandwich from the local bodega, to really be on my NYC steez

going home

Its unreal.
After almost 5 months in Europe I'm packing up all the stuff in my little broom closet of a room, listening to Ruben Blades (cop Siembra, easily one of the best albums of the past 40 years, salsa or otherwise).

Emotions: happy to be (finally) going home. Anxious about my SOAS grades and what the summer will have in store for me. Grateful for this experience. It would not be hyperbolic to describe it as one of a lifetime.

But I will have to permanently stay here if I don't manage to pack up all my stuff and get to Heathrow on time...

lost in translation

No, not like that wack Sofia Coppola movie...

To the left is a picture of what I left behind- the French Riviera, part of my last mini-vacation before I leave London and head on back to the USA.

My stay in Aix-en-Provence was tres magnifique (that's right, after only 4 days I'm fronting like I actually know the language). I was able to fully capitalize on the extent of my knowledge of the French language: Bonjour, Bon soir, merci, au revoir, oui. My hostess/friend/fellow Trini-gyal (she is actually from the island, me- a mere 1st generation impostor) played interpreter. This was the case almost everywhere I went- I had a travel guide, a friend who spoke the local language. Or at least I was in a place where enough people were English speaking- ahhh the results of cultural imperialism and globalization. All I felt I had to do was arm myself with with a few choice words: Ciao, grazie, dov'e il bano, hola, gracias, adios, you get the picture.

Then, when I got to the airport in Marseille I swaggered into the Departures terminal like a seasoned traveler. Went through security, and walked up to the gates and waited. And waited. And waited. And looked around to the screens that list the departure city, airline and departure time. My flight wasn't listed- anywhere. So after a lot of pacing up and down trying to find the answers to my dilemma, I went back down to the airport police, to the brave Frenchmen who stamped my passport.

After a few exchanges in which I tried to explain that my French was extremely limited, one of the passport control cops went with me to find my gate. And they say the French are snobs! This guy was really nice, even as I struggled to understand and replied in Spanish sometimes (it is a Romance language). He eventually lead me to my proper departure terminal, in a totally different part of the airport. And when he left I couldn't for the life of me remember what was the word for "thanks a lot" in French. So merci beaucoup, friendly officer, wherever you are.

This is why one should always get to the airport early.

crepes, waffles and croisants

Kanye said it best:
"I'm better than I've ever been and everywhere you've never been"

I'm at the end of my "tour of former colonial powers" and maxing in Aix-en-Provence, France visitng my friend Alli. The postcard perfect weather and delicious crepes have me seriously considering making a move over here. But that is the same thought I have whenever I visit places that aren't London, since the food and weather is inevitably better. Well not in Brussels, aka London part II. When I went it was windy, cold and rainy. But the Belgian waffles more than made up for the less tha receiving weather. I managed to have one every day of my trip there. When I get home I'll have to call 1-800-Lucille Roberts at the rate I'm going. And I'm going home in a few days...

Stepping off that plane in January into London was a gamble: how would manage in a different country, would the homesickness be too much to handle, who would do my hair? Amazingly I had a great time. The months flew by and every time I talk to my mentees the one peice of advice I can honesly give them is to study abroad during their college careers. Yes, escaping Amherst has revived my spirt and given me peace of mind (no exaggeration, the 'herst can be a drag), but being abroad was more than just running away from the Lord Jeffs. I found out that I can live alone, survive in a new city, do my own hair (still working on that last one).

Tuesday is fast approaching. While I am looking forward to getting off at JFK and seeing the fam, friends, the bf and even taking a trip back up to AC I'll be looking back to London.

its been a long time

I shouldn't have left ya'll without a dope beat to step to...

you know the rest.
But for real, I (still) have finals to knock out (with the Lord's help). So expect updates this weekend.

In the meanwhile, check this out
good hip hop is still presente

i am not my hair

After 2 years of flirting with the idea and watching my sisters and moms switch teams leaving me the last hold out with a perm kit, I've decided to give up the ruse. The jig is up! My hair has to be beaten into submission by Motions, Dark and Lovely or Affirm. Hell I've even tried to get my hands on some Soul Glo during bad hair days brought on by London fog.

I'm fixing to go from Dorothy Dandridge to Angela Davis. I'm growing out my perm after 10 years. My relationship with the creamy crack is coming to a close.So I throw my hat into the fray of the debate over black hair. Right now it feels like a scene out of School Daze, dancing along to the "Good or Bad Hair" song.

I've been labeled - "that" black girl many times before. The one with the light skin and long hair. In London with its high population of people of mixed heritage, people assume that my daddy is from Country Cork. Unlike at home when people front on their backgrounds, lots of these people really do have Indian in their family (only they are from the subcontinent). But at home when I was younger I got a lot of this -
Ooooo she think she cute (well I do, but for more than just my skin tone thank you).She stuck up. Or my favorite, when people either tell me I'm not "really" black - my reply to this is to take a look at my moms then ask a white man what he would label me.
Will my natural look prevent interactions like this?:
Random person: "So what are you? I mean where are you from?"
Me: "Brooklyn. But I've been living in Queens for about 8 years"
Random person: "No, no. Where are you really from. Like your parents".
Here is where my answer changes. If I'm in the mood for a discussion over the fact that black folk come in all shades I'll tell them the truth. Or if I'm tired of the absurdity, I'll be like -"OOO, well you know. I got a touch of Puerto Rican, Sri Lankan, Romanian". Just let the imagination run wild.

Don't get it twisted, I'm not looking for authenticity. I just want to be reacquainted with my hair in its natural state.

We need to have a national Black women's meeting over the politics of hair and skin color. I'll bring the macaroni and cheese if someone else donates free jars of grease and silk head wraps.