He Sold me a Lie. tales of my island man

I had a dream this morning. I reckon it was because it's the anniversary of the break up of my ex fiance and I. It was this time we were supposed to elope and start our lives together. As a couple. A married couple. However, he had other plans. He talked a big talk but when it came time he couldn't walk the walk, at all. Sold me a dream, that would never be fulfilled and he knew that. He always said we would be together, get married. We'd tried to start our family, we were trying for a baby. He was the only man I saw myself with. I was willing to prove our love by giving birth to his child. But, he lied to me. After years of being a part. Long distance travels. I had, had enough. I was ready to be with him by any means necessary. Even if that meant sacrificing the freedom and carelessness associated with my youth, my early-twenties.

I was willing to get married and embark on a journey with my love. He encouraged this idea for years, every step of the way. However, when it came down to it, he could never put his ideas in motion. I did though, I did. Filing paperwork, advocating on his behalf. Booking flights, amtrak, hotels. All these reservations, all these files for him in my possession. But he backed out when he saw I wasn't just merely talking trash. I really wanted to be with him. As his wife, his everything. He backed out due to fear. I miss him a tremendous amount. But, I've had to learn to live without him after he deserted me.

The dream was quite startling yet invigorating. For through these dreams has been the only time I get to visit my estranged lover. I still am very much in love with him, and hoping that this was all a mistake of his and that he will get serious and come start his life with me.

The dream began with me being on a mysterious beach. It was dark, very dark. I could smell the waves. I immediately realized where I was. The sand was wet and cold. I felt afraid. I was on an island. I was on his island, in his country. Like the late night beach visits he had told me about. Finally, it was happening. He had always told me about the late night love making the islanders did on the beaches. Well now I was experiencing it. Except it was a dream.

My love picked me up off the beach and wanted me to follow him. He was unusually assertive. I asked him, I looked at him. I said Can I trust you? Can I ever trust you again? There I was in his country, that i vowed never to venture to again. My parents didn't even know. But, I had traveled there in the name of love and desperation.

I felt uneasy but I wanted so much to believe in my baby. He looked at me, those small slanted downward, almond shaped beautiful eyes. And I stopped protesting, I let myself believe him. Yet, I still felt that everything other people told me would come true. That he would lead me to some unknown destination and that I would be set up and killed or something of the sort.

Yet, still I turned off my common sense. Again, in the name of love. You should love and trust your partner I reassured myself. Give him a chance. When he looked at me after I asked him the question, I fell in love all over again. So I let him take me away. He took me away deep into some caves, caves made of sand.

He took me deeper and deeper into the caves. Until we were surrounded by nothing but sand. I kept saying let's not go so deep baby, no not so deep. Cause there'll be no escape, no way out. let's go inside but remain closer to an exit. But he was adamant on getting to the bottom of the caves quickly.

So there we were at the bottom of the cave, but he wasn't done yet he just kept traveling deeper and deeper. The space inside was so tight. The heaps and mounds of sand were on our heads, almost no room. Then I layed down on the cold sand. He made love to me to comfort me. And although we were in deep shit. Although we were lost in the caves with no way out. Just him being there made it all worthwhile.

For I loved him and I trusted in him. Even if we would die together in this moment I still loved him. And, so I was passive for once. And the roles of our relationship was reversed. I the passive one him the male dominant aggressor. The one in charge. It wasn't different from usual times.

The way he made love to me while the caves were still closing in and we had no space. It was crazy, it was risky. While we were making love it was as if he wanted to keep me hidden, hidden from his family like always like it was in real life. Hidden from him community. Which is the excuse he later told me was why he stood me up when it was time for our wedding. They didn't want me with him, I was a disgrace, taboo, an embarrassment. they had given him an ultimatum me or them. He was conflicted. Internally conflicted. but now he chose them. He had allowed his family to dictate a grown man's life.

That was the cause of the decline in our relationship.
He made love to me, I felt shy, uncertain. Stereo-typically like a woman. I didn't feel in control during the sex session. I felt vulnerable, under a spell, docile. He thrusted in so deep, so quick, so rough. I just kept speaking to him in this weak voice. I kept saying baby I don't know about this, no. But still he gave it to me. I loved it. but, i felt this was wrong. Us trying to still be together was wrong. Our relationship had run its course but I was willing to degrade myself all to make it work. There we were once again two love drunk idiots.

With every thrust i looked into his eyes, and he was meaner, he was more stereo-typically "manly". He wasn't the baby I knew. But, still I accepted him. My protests didn't matter. He knew I was still his weakness. He just knew. They all know. I gave in. We were facing each other like old times. He held me on the front, he stroked my inner being. I said I'm not ready, i don't feel up to par. He said it was okay, he entered me, more strokes, I was completely under his control by this time. I moaned and moaned, craved for him, Screaming for more, crying for more. Begging him to keep loving me,

I took every inch of him. But this time the way he made love to me felt more like a fuck. It felt more like the others I had been intimate with. The ones that were only concerned with the physical aspect and no spiritual connection. He felt void even though he was inside of me, deep inside, Like he wasn't really present. Like he was physically present and spiritually vacant.

I kept reaching out to touch him, but it was as if I couldn't get through to him. It was sad. i was sad. He had become like the others. We had become like the others. Those relationships where only the man's desires and requests are honored by the oppressed female. That's what we were. I took him in, let him get pleasure. But, i did it reluctantly to get him to notice me again.

After we made love I just wanted him to hold me and love me. he didn't speak much. Just kept trying to get down the tunnels more and more. He grabbed me earlier in the dream and jumped down the caves with me almost as if he was kidnapping me. Me being in the caves put a stop to my life, and I had been doing so well. Now I was trapped, trapped in the cave. The cave symbolizing our relationship. And how the relationship had held me back and that if I pursued it anymore I would be down and oppressed once again.

In the dream he was selfish. he was cold, uninvolved, unattached. He wanted me by any means necessary, even kidnap. Which essentially is what he had done. Us two at one point we had a way out. Before we got too deep into the caves. I made him stop, I begged him to think about us about us getting out alive. Our little romantic love-making get away in the caves had become dangerous. deadly.

 I begged him to reconsider. To stay toward the top. Then I noticed there were more exits within the caves. There were caves made of sand. Weak though. Walls made of sand. Light shone through. I saw we still had a chance. But my love, he kept jumping around, shaking the caves frail infrastructure. It was as if he wanted it to break. So the sand started to crumble and it started pouring in, covering the holes for the exits. I said baby! stop! you're destroying the caves. Braking down our exits. I watched in horror as his tall, robust manly, frame, towered over me in the cave. His stature breaking through the thin walls.

Then that was it the sand poured in more and more. I held him, I kissed him, I loved him. I being smaller and shorter, found out that I could still punch my way through the wet crumbly sand and get through to the light. Except my love was reluctant in leaving the cave. There he was down below as I searched for and found a way out. But, I came to the realization that as I climbed toward the top of the slide like funnel like section. I was leaving him down below. I climbed and climbed and then I kept coming back telling my baby, my love, my man. Baby, I'll be back, I'm going to exit first because we both can't fit then you come. I have to leave you for a little while. but, it's for us. It's for the best.

I leave then believe me trust me you'll make your way iout too. I'll be waiting at the top. But he just stayed at the bottom, he was paralyzed with fear, accustomed to our situation of defenselessness through out the years. He just wanted somewhere where we could be together without interference even if that meant us dying. At least we were together, free from prying eyes.

I was faced with a dilemma, do I stay with my love and we succumb to death, packed with sand in this crevice? Or do I go up and advance without him sparing my life and sacrificing his because he doesn't wanna leave? I went back down and stayed with him for a while. I kissed him, experienced him, loved him, consoled him.

I had to convince him that we should live and escape.
You know, now that I'm sitting here analyzing the dream. I wonder if the pouring of sand symbolized us running out of time. Maybe, that this relationship is a waste of time?

Am I worth more? Maybe I'm just like my mother

I'm sitting here, thinking. I can't resist him. As demented he is. As demeaning and belittling he deals with me. I feel I am nothing without him and that I have no willpower. I cannot rise above him and reject his abuse. I've been so conditioned that I crave him still. I still want to believe that he is different. The way he used my soul, dimmed my spark. Caused the light in my eye to be no more. To burn out. I still feel no one else loves me and that I must 'tolerate" the bad in him. Because, afterall no one's perfect. I'm setting myself up for failure here I just know it. But, I've been battered so much, at least this is a small amount. At least it hasn't quite progressed into psychical assault. But, the other rational voice in my head. The angel over my shoulder is saying, shouting, AGC, you know it will progress. He's shown you how capable he is of rage before. You know how it starts. First the put-downs, the demands. the disregard. Verbal abuse, emotional, mental then physical. Remember that time that he expressed his deep-seeded jealousy and envy toward you. He said you thought you were too good because you were able to point out that his mistreatment was wrong. What about all the remarks, the broken promises. The way he abused your body. Made every sexual encounter all about him. Then, he transferred all his feelings into you. The reverse psychology. The way he made it all about you that he couldn't "finish" during sex. Without your fulfilling some sexual deviant request. Some taboo desire, that every time you agreed to you were left feeling void, sick to your stomach and so very guilty. Why, why oh why do you subject yourself to this? Well it's because honestly I'm so used to seeing women around me settling. Settling, disregarding their own desires, hopes, dreams, feelings. They die so that he can live. Just like with my father and mother. She uplifted him all while he destroyed her. It was this crazy, unrealistic quest for love that no matter how hard she tried, how desperately devoted she proved herself to be the abuse only intensified. I feel unworthy of anyone else. I feel like I'd rather be abused than alone another night. I feel pathetic even saying this. I feel like a nobody, a nothing, dead on the inside. Just a sexual object on the outside. He wrote me a message yesterday on snapchat. Boy, that boy is like a private investigator. I blocked him on everything, my phone both numbers, facebook, whatsapp, instagram the works. Yet, he's capable of finding me everywhere when he wants to get a hold of me. Yet, when I need him he's never there. I wish it weren't like this. I wish he didn't always let me down. Just as my father did. I'm so used to letting men tell me these stories and sell me these dreams, just to be let down. I want so badly to believe them, i wanted to believe that we were gonna be together. but, no he only says these "heartfelt" things when he's been drinking or he's cold, alone at night. He doesn't love me. How can someone love you who doesn't even respect you enough to tell you about a sexual infection.

Can a woman raise a boy into a proper man?

The other morning while I was on my way to school. My usual morning routine and route. I was in a rush to French class because I had a midterm combined with a final this morning in particular. Well, while walking out of my development and onto the street, I passed a familiar thing. The food cart, the highlight of most people's mornings around here, their first morning encounter and interaction.

While passing it, or just about to. I stumbled across something I initially thought was odd. It appeared to be a woman chanting or mumbling to herself. How odd and unusual I thought to myself. Perhaps, maybe not too unusual though me residing in New York City. As a resident here for the past 23 years I've seen much worse.

I quickly realized though how wrong I was. This woman was not just another "Wacko New Yorker" she was a woman on a mission. When I looked closely at her I noticed that I had completely ignored the small, impressionable, young body next to hers. So small in stature, so innocent, vulnerable,

I tried to envision their circumstance. Where his actual parents, biological parents were. I stereotyped for a second. My mind pondered. Being that this is New York City Housing Projects perhaps they had succumbed to crack addiction, gang violence, just more victims of double consciousness. Maybe they were very young parents, unfit to raise a tender soul like him.

But maybe it was different. Maybe just maybe this little boy's parents didn't quite fit the stereotype. Perhaps they were hard-working, business owners, college-educated, who died in a freak car accident or something. One may never know, so one can only assume.

Maybe she was a foster parent and had no biological relation to the boy. Maybe grandma was just a nickname because he was too young to grasp the concept of being in foster care. The bitter, harsh reality. His unfortunate fate.

Being labeled as not capable of succeeding. Not only due to his circumstance of having no parents. But a circumstance of his birth. The fact that he was born a black male. The sad reality is that hopes are never high for our men. No associations with positivity only negativity.

But even so, it was as if this grandmother was determined to detour this little boy from a life of stereotype. He was gong to be different, Perhaps, different from his parents. Not defined by where he lived. He was going to beat the odds and rise up against the low expectations. You see, not only was he Black but he was residing in public housing. Affected my poverty, living in it.

Nightly encounters

1/8/17
Today. Just now. I blurted out something. Something I've been keeping secret for the past two months. It was something I would only dare put on paper sure, careful never to utter it aloud. I told him. I told him what I'd been writing in my diary day and night after our encounters. I told him those three big words.I just couldn't hold it in any longer. I told him,I really did. Unfortunately. I told him I love you. Not once, but over and over, repeatedly 5:50 Am I told him while he was making love to me. Some say that great sex can make one blurt out obscenities that they don't mean. But, the sad part is that in my case I do mean it. It was an intense, passion filled moment having him inside my vulnerability. This man's explored my hidden territory's so much it's like he owns them. He knows his way around my body, my premise. Maybe today he summed it all up as mere "pillowtalk" like when I screamed to him I need it forever, I need you forever. But, I was serious. I'm developing this scary dependency on him. For he makes me feel whole. I admire him so much. He's got me doing things I don't even understand what's happening. I think he knows now how I'm starting to feel,he knows I'm wrapped up in him. Today in the bathroom he was just looking at me.In to my eyes while he touched me. Like he knew he could make me quiver so easily. I'm so very into him. and the sad part is I know how deadly this feeling can turn out but I don't want out.i never want this to end. I'm in love with J. He's the only one that gives me these mind blowing vaginal, full body orgasms like this. He knows my body. I know his too. I know how to go down on him and leave him shaking and trembling like he did earlier after I lead him to ejaculation. Climax, we do it together. The moment, our moment, so very beautiful. Why can't I seem to leave you alone? Earlier I jokingly said you see the spell you put on me? But, again I was actually very serious. He just smiled. Cause that's exactly what it feels like. Like he's some powerful voodoo priest or warlock, magician and hes cast a binding spell of some sort on me that i cant seem to escape from.

My Love of Cooking & How it began

I can remember as a young girl. I was always fascinated with the art of cooking. I had my play stove. It wasn't one with the whole sink, microwave and kitchen windows lol. But it was a cheaper priced one. Even so I felt it was even better than the baby ones with the sink from Fisher Price. You see I was a big girl. I was eight. Unlike the age four recommended age range for the Kitchen set. Although it was a lone stove. It was a real replica of the actual thing. the burners, I can remember like it was yesterday. The stove was a blue color, with hints of grey. Four electric burners with the little swirls.

See it wasn't a wooden stove, and it wasn't mediocre. It didn't have painted pretend flames, or black rings painted around and around and around, like targets on a dart board game. The burners were actually three-dimensional. It was equipped with pots and it was all I needed. I kept my beloved stove so clean. I'd come home and "cook"

I'd go outside in the backyard and in the area and pick what I called "poison berries". The red little gooey berries I found on bushes. Inedible as far as I was concerned. But good for pretending. :)

So I'd come home from exploring the yards with a bag full of twigs, tree bark, branches and famous poison berries. I'd turn on my "stove", turning the knobs to "medium" envisioning a flame lol.
And cook my berries. I unlike usual kids liked putting real ingredients on my stove to cook. Even pine cones.


When I was younger I would spend hours on end in the kitchen. Trying to make my own homemade bread. I would get so much flour and food coloring and eggs and whisk it up, adding milk too and oil. Recipes I came up with myself. I would whisk it until it got this thick, cottage-cheesy texture.

Then I'd line a pan with cooking spray and put my "cake" in the oven. Careful not to forget the sugar and salt. I was onto something lol. But, ultimately when it came out. It was of course inedible. I kept wondering why the dough wouldn't rise. So when I went to the grocery store I spotted yeast rising in a packet. I said aloud hmm. This must be what I need to make my cakes come alive!

I come from a family of cooks My paternal uncle is a pastry chef and caterer. In Guyana and now America.
My mother always had me in the kitchen side by side with her. Baking was one of our favorite mother and daughter bonding exercises. So there we were in our aprons. Baking pillsbury sugar cookies. Sometimes we'd buy the dough in the freezer section that was ready to bake. But I also found great joy in mixing the cookie batter from "scratch". Adding eggs, oil, etc. I remember how the oil once added would trickle down into the mixture. It looked so interesting to me. I'd stare as I watched it fall into the white clumpy mix, the vegetable oil's yellow color joining into the batch.

I'd lick the whisk and sometimes I'd wonder if I'd get salmonella from the raw eggs. lol.
I can remember racing to the baking aisles in the 99 cent store and my local C-town supermarket. I was on a mission to find all the different varieties of sprinkles. Sugar sprinkles, regular multicolored sprinkles.

Every holiday I longed for the holiday themed cookies. Halloween had the orange scary pumpkin faces on the cookies. Valentines day had the hearts and Christmas had snowmen and reindeers.
There was Easter and Thanksgiving too.

When we'd get fancy and buy our stencils and cut tree shapes into the cookies, hearts, you name it.

I watched my grandmother's on both sides mother and father. Cook everything from scratch step, by step. But it wasn't until around age sixteen that I really started to get this real interest in cooking. I started by trying to mimick meals that I had eaten before. My favorites chicken parmesan was one of them.

I'd get spinach and sautee it, then i'd bread my chicken breast, then I'd add tomato sauce and boil my pasta, then add it in. I was proud of myself, I was well on my way.

Day by day my passion for cooking intensified. Once on my own at age seventeen I had to learn how to cook entirely for myself. I would spend hours and hours cooking and cooking. By age eighteen I progressed into more and more sophisticated meals. By then I had begun cooking for my family. I was so thrilled to watch them chowing down on my food.

At nineteen, that's when I knew I had a concrete love for culinary. An appreciation. Cooking became a way to release for me. A way to bond with others, a way to show love through the hard work and dedication I put into my recipes.

I would cook for my neighbors and friends. They were in awe. But, I couldn't understand why cause to me it came so natural. My ability. Yet, still they seemed so stunned.

At the age of twenty my cooking skills became greater and I began to idolize Chef Gordon Ramsey and Marcus Samuelsson. I begun my mornings with shows like Top Chef, Chopped, MasterChef, Kitchen Nightmares etc.

Cooking became my life. I was always in the kitchen. My friends longed for my dishes.
I would dream about competing on those shows, judged by the greatest. But, now I would like to make it a reality.

Last year, and idea came to me that I wanted to start a youtube channel. In which I would upload tutorial and instructional videos on my cooking process and technique. Well, January of this year I stopped making excuses and went ahead and did it. I have a cooking page, youtube channel. I started a catering company in which I cater small scale events. I even plan to start doing instructional classes at events soon. I have my business cards and all.

So far I've catered two events and even have been receiving requests. I'm very excited to be embarking on this journey.

Response to Spike Lee's Do The Right Thing

1.   

    Given the neighborhood that Sal’s pizza parlor was located and the residents that he was serving do you think that the demands that “Buginout” made were fair in requesting that pictures of African American celebrities be put on the walls of the pizzeria? Explain in detail.

      

      I think that it is a fair request that Buginout wanted to see the population Sal was serving’s portraits displayed on the walls. However, the way he went about getting his point across was a bit extreme. “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.”

        To disrespect someone in their own establishment is offensive and uncalled for. Yes, I am an African American and I do support the whole Black power movement and understand Buginout’s message he was trying to communicate. But, still I feel he did no go about it in the right manner. I feel that Buginout could’ve potentially made progress had he not taunted Sal the way he did. The fact that Sal’s pizzeria predominately serves the African American population he should be grateful and appreciative of them because after all without the customer there is no business.

2.       Where do you think Sal’s frustration really came from and why?

             I think Sal’s frustration really stems from the fact that he is trying to maintain loyalty to his fellow Italians/ Italian Americans which would include sharing the same toxic bias, prejudice, racist mindset and ideologies as them. Yet, still maintain in good standing with the Blacks he serves in the community. This causes Sal to face an internal conflict.

The fact that Sal serves the Black neighborhood and actually has a bond with its inhabitants can potentially damage the reputation he has with the Italian community. I believe Sal feels conflicted because as an Italian immigrant he feels a sense of familiarity in the injustices faced by Blacks in their struggle for acceptance and equality in society.

Nativism in the early 1900’s played a big role in the hardships faced by Italian immigrants. Earlier settlers like the Irish although once in the same predicament showed no remorse for the later Italian settlers. They felt threatened by the Italian’s arrival, thinking that it would jeopardize their standing in America by drawing attention to immigrants once again after they had overcome. Americans were no better seeing them as dirty and problematic, using them as scapegoats.

Sal’s eldest son Pino is a prime example of the racist mindset that has a negative influence on him and puts pressure on him. He is very ignorant and a walking contradiction. A memorable moment in the film was when he referred to Blacks as niggers and Mookie pulled him aside and asked him who his favorite artists and sports players were. Every answer was of a person of African American decent.

Mookie then asked him an important question “Do you wish you were Black?” Pino responded with laughter. I think that the problem with him like many other Whites/ Caucasians is that he wants only things that he finds desirable from African Americans. This would include style of dress, hairstyles, accomplishments i.e. celebrity status/fame, music, body features i.e. big butt & hips or full lips etc.

 This can be seen today with celebrities like Kim Kardashian i.e. surgically enhanced large buttocks,                  lips, hips etc. This phenomenon is known as cultural appropriation. 

Pino is infatuated with the “positivity” surrounding or associated with Blacks but not the undesirable experiences faced i.e. slavery, segregation, police brutality, discrimination, racial profiling etc.

               There was another scene where Sal and Pino had a talk in which Sal expressed his appreciation for the Bedford Stuyvesant community he had served for over 25 years. He said he was proud to know that he watched the kids of the neighborhood grow up on his pizza. 

           Pino was concerned about what his other Italian friends thought of him, as he was allegedly the laughing stock of his group of friends because he worked at a business in a “hood” part of town. However, the problem with Pino is that he is not able to relate to his father Sal because he did not witness or go through the hardships that earlier generations of Italian migrants had to face. Therefore, he is not able to empathize with African Americans because he cannot make the connection between Blacks and Italians. He finds no similarities. Pino’s friends’ remarks put pressure on him.

Toward the end of the film when the town had torched and destroyed Sal’s shop they made their way across the street to the Korean fruit stand where someone shouted “Your time has come” Referring to destroying his shop as well. However, the Korean kept shouting “I black, I black like you, I black too!”

This can be interpreted in different ways. Some might not be able to comprehend his statement because they may think he’s referring to his outward appearance being that of a Black person. But, I got a deeper meaning from this scene.

I think this scene actually symbolizes is that every group of immigrants have faced a struggle. From Italians like Sal across the street to Koreans like Sonny. They’ve all experienced the struggle to belong, the hatred and discrimination expressed toward them.

I feel it represents a class struggle as well and the division of the lower classes. Yes, it consists of minorities but Caucasians as well. People of the working class all face the same problems because they are being forced to abide by the “state’s” (ruling class’) rules. The fact that this class does not realize their similarities keeps them at a constant disadvantage because instead of uniting they’re feuding.  They don’t realize their suffering is not caused by other minorities but by the ruling class. They are all being exploited and oppressed.

There is also significant division and tension amongst Latinos and Blacks. This is illustrated in the movie in a scene where Radio Raheem comes onto a block with some Hispanic kids sitting on their stoop with his stereo boom box blasting his famous Fight the Power tape. The Latino boys were already listening to a Spanish station on their radio. But, Raheem proceeded to try to drown out their music with his tape. This started an uphill battle between the two groups of whose music could be louder. At one point a Latino kid can be heard making derogatory remarks against Raheem referring to his as Black and making fun of his appearance.

The fact that there is separation between Blacks and Latinos leaves no room for progression because after all Latino or Hispanic is a mere ethnicity where as Black or Caucasian is an actual race. The African diaspora is widespread throughout the world due to the colonialism by French, Spanish, British, Portuguese, and English colonizers.

With colonialism came the African slaves adapting to their masters language but still keeping parts of their own culture. This resulted in an infusion. Thus the Latino ethnicity was born. Hispanics derived from Africans and the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Latinos though, fail and refuse to identify with Blacks. However, the ironic part is that Caucasians will not claim Hispanics as a part of their race. They will be considered Spanish speaking Blacks.

3.       Do you think that the situation with the police could have been avoided?

Yes, I certainly believe that this incident in particular could have been avoided. However, I do feel like sooner or later an event of a similar nature may have taken place. The police had it out for minority kids during this time. There was a great amount of hostility between police and minorities. In the movie there was a scene where the camera was sort of interviewing people close up. The police had a lot of derogatory and highly offensive things to say about minorities.

With the Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood undergoing gentrification there was a lot of tension between old residents and the newcomers. There was a scene where a White guy on a bike was approached by Buginout and others. They had an exchange where they expressed displeasure in the recent White migrants to the area.

There was another scene where a White man in an open top car was driving through while the youth were playing with a Johnny Pump (opened fire hydrant). The man advised them not to wet his newly bough vehicle however the teens being their mischievous selves wet the car anyway. They told him he didn’t belong on their side of town. The man then summoned the police.

Buginout was living up to his name and doing exactly that Buginout (overreacting, causing a scene). Bringing Radio Raheem into the equation didn’t help at all either, it just added fuel to the fire and didn’t help him get his point across. Radio Raheem was a horrible candidate because he uses his large size for intimidation and fear. His size provides him with a false sense of superiority and confidence. Radio Raheem believed he was invincible.

His stereo constantly playing the same Fight the Power tune over and over speaks volumes (literally). Radio Raheem represents the fight to gain respect and justice by Blacks.

Buginout’s request seemed plausible, but you can’t expect to get results when you’re disrespectful. Saying Blacks should “boycott” Sal’s was a bit much because he did not approach Sal in a respectful manner to begin with. Sal could not grasp or comprehend his request because he was angry and when you’re angry you’re irrational and when you’re in a heated argument one’s only concern is getting THEIR point across. No one is willing to hear the other one out.

Threatening to shut down his business was highly confrontational and you can’t expect someone to hear you out if they’re not in the right frame of mind or mood. Although Sal’s pizzeria serves a predominately African American population, Sal is still of Italian decent.

Imagine the look on the Chinese restaurant workers face if you went in and demanded they place Blacks on their walls. It is not an African American food restaurant it is an Italian one therefore I would expect Italian to be on their walls because it is their culture.

Buginout going into Sal’s when it was supposed to be closed was out of line. He had been previously told that he was banned from the restaurant and entered anyway and harassed Sal. Instead of having a civilized conversation with Sal he decided to cause a scene and challenge him in front of customers. Of course Sal will defend his honor by responding with violence because he is trying to assert his authority and stand his ground. Sal had nothing to do with the outcome of the police murdering Radio Raheem.

How was he to know how the police would handle his situation? He was threatened and trying to protect himself. Had Buginout been serious about his cause he would have done better planning and approached Sal in a manner where Sal would actually understand him. He decided to go about it in a chaotic manner and this is the end result.

The Unlocking of Memories: Dedication to those we loss

I was channel surfing one day. And I remembered a very fond memory. A pleasant memory was refreshed in my mind. A stop-motion/claymation show came on. Then I said wow, I remember making show box collages with my mom . We were so creative. Due to my mom's vast shoe collection, we had more than enough shoe boxes to do our projects with.

We would take a shoe box, and cut it open, using just the backs. We would get modeling clay, the cheaper brand rose art or the local 99 cent store one. Clay was my life. lol. It's such a great way of expressing yourself, so artistic. So what we'd do was make people and animals using this clay as our compound.

I'd be there rolling up the clay into a ball for the head, little black lines for spikey hair or small circles for afro resembling curls textures. We'd flatten out the clay ball and stretch it out and cute it for the clothes. Or sometimes we'd use construction paper or even toilet tissue and paper towel rolls for clothing. It was amazing. Bringing inanimate objects to life.

Now that I think about it, my whole family is very artistic. Were composed of artists, musicians, writers, dancers, the works. My dear, sweet late maternal grandfather would spend hours on end, perfecting his model airplane collections. He had a huge collection. Some mounted on his wall, some displayed proudly on his bookcase.

This man, now he was talented.  A former Navy Seal he had quite the eye for detail, finger dexterity and a passion for his craft. He also had a keen knowledge of technology and computers, very tech-savvy despite his old age.

He had such patience, such skill. All things necessary to practice what he did. The paint brushes for his planes were so fine, so small, maybe the size and weight of a fingernail.

Grandpa never treated me like i was just a mere child. He never placed limitations, constantly challenging me. We played chess, checkers, mancala, card games designed for adults etc. We watched documentaries on the civil rights movement. The History channel being his absolute favorite. We spoke about the paranormal, life after death, religion etc.

My grandfather was an intelligent and very wise man. I could always turn to him whenever I needed advice or encouragement. His calm, steady tone and collectiveness even while under pressure or in times of intensity both intrigued and fascinated me. Grandpa took me to lectures, ceremonies, and our own little journeys. Prospect park was my absolute favorite destination he would travel to.

Prospect Park had many hidden maze like areas. underpasses, things made of brick. So many sights to take in. But my favorite was the pond area. That was where we would feed the ducks bread. Watching them float and swim serenely, calmly. It was so tranquil, so beautiful. Then we would join them. There were paddle boats we could board. As we swayed across the water i reflected on my life. living in the moment for once, free of panic and fear. For I was with my beloved Grandpa.



It's times like those that I wish to hold onto and never let go of. It's time like those I wish I could reel back in and experience again.

Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream, meerily, meerily, meerily life is but a dream. Well, at least that what I would sing as a child, can't remember the exact ending.

My Grandpa always taught me to go above and beyond what people expected of me, as a child. He told me that as a child my abilities would be limited and underestimated by adults around me. He taught me to maintain my individuality, and to write the rules to my own story.

He taught me the importance of independence and self-love. We read chapter books, college books, textbooks, encyclopedias. With him there were no age based limits. Which is what I loved about Grandpa.

Grandpa was so very resourceful. He's the one who got me interested in survival kits. He gave me various knives (Not good for a child lol) that had a bottle opener, corkscrew, screwdriver and other things inside in case I would ever get stranded.

He taught me how to cook from scratch, not ready-made. Potato wedges were made by leaving skin on and cutting up potatoes and frying them. "Wait until the oil gets hot", he would stress. He fueled my love of ceasar salads. We'd take turns cutting the iceberg lettuce and croutons.

I remember the way he's soak his dishes in water before washing them. (My mom absolutely hated that lol) you'd see the debris floating grossly lol.

"I wish I could reach out and touch you again.

I miss you, it's been a painful ten years without you Grandpa, I need your advice, your embrace."

Grandpa was my original thunder buddy. When there would be a storm, mainly in the Summer. When the house was dark, during these times we'd leave the lights off and let the lightning light up the house for that spooky effect.

We'd use this time to tell scary stories.

I wish you were here, I miss you tremendously. Grandpa you were my best friend, my father I never had, my mentor, teacher, brother. You mean the world to me.

You know, growing up i used to think that my age was grown, a full adult. Until I actually reached the age. 23 still has a lot of growing up to do. I may be matured physically but I need more life experiences. As I reach these ages I realize I have a lot more to do. A lot more maturing mentally, spiritually. My age to those in their forties must be equivalent to being a "teen adult" lol. the teenagers of adults. Cause were so brand new to this. You know, they say your brain isn't even fully formed until age 25.

Now for Grandma, my paternal Grandmother

My Grandmother's worse fear was me becoming "forceripe". A term used predominantly in the Caribbean to describe a fruit being forced to ripen. if you were to eat this fruit anyway ignoring the fact that it wasn't ready. You be in for a pleasant surprise when you bite into it, as it would be tough and bland. It could've been seemingly edible, but you knew deep down it wasn't. Well forceripe is a girl that's beyond her years prematurely, she's "fast". Dabbling into adult matters, may be sexually active, or dressing provocatively etc. She's being "eaten" before her full development. She wants to force people into thinking she's "ripe" when she is not. 

It was for those reasons above that she never let me wear any nailpolish except for clear. If I were to wear red polish I would be forced to quickly take it off with acetone then I'd be lectured.

Grandma too would take me to Prospect Park visits to feed ducks and eat. She had arts and craft projects for me to do as well. She'd have me go out and pick up the most crispy, fresh leaves fallen from the trees. The Autumn before the leaves withered away and got ugly.

It was the preferable time in the season where the leaves were still beautiful hues, bright red, oranges, yellows, mixtures. All vibrant, beautiful, straight, genuine, natural beauty. How magnifique! 

So I'd get colored pencils, freshly sharpened along with paper. And I'd place the leaf underneath the paper and color over the paper. This would cause a stencil like affect. The leave now in it's color pencil, traced form was now on the paper. 

She always encouraged my creativity. having me take up the piano and violin. She bought me many 100 piece art sets, easels, paint, brushes, sketch and trace pads, etc.

"I inhale, Ahhhh, exhale, & with each breath I take, i'm closer to you. Through memories, you're living. Through memories it's a new beginning. Forgetting enemies, no sinning. For it's you that I aim to please, I will always believe. your love will reign supreme." signing out -AGC

Way Back when: The Old Brooklyn

Brooklynite at Heart

Ravaged by gentrification; stolen & forgotten memories

Way back when around twenty years ago  Easter was the highlight of my life. It was that thing I looked forward to so much. It was like my life revolved around it. Back then my only big decisions were deciding where I would go on that day. What event I would attend. If I would have enough time in the day to visit all my favorite places as there were so many different venues. So many Easter bunny appearances.

Would I go to Empire Skating rink's skate with the Easter bunny. Or would I go to Fun Time USA's event? or the famous central park Easter egg hunt? or Coney Island?
At Empire skating rink skate w Mr.Bunny night I can remember chasing behind him, well trying to at least cause I never ever did learn how to skate lol. His pink fur, his tall stature. He was quite the dancer too.          

I can remember the arts and crafts room being my absolute favorite at Fun Time USA. Making sand sculptures. These were made by filling up these plastic vessels. The vessels came in many different shapes/molds. Teddy bears, seashells, etc.
They ranged anywhere from dinosaurs to butterflies and ducks. You filled the mold with different layers of sand. \each layer a separate color. Pink, purple, green, yellow, blue. Until you got a rainbow. At last that's how I designed mine.  I didn't want to conform, to be stagnant like everybody else.
Grounded, unable to explore. I wanted to break routine because I was different. Even at that age, I dared to be different.

FUNTIME USA
 The room smelled of fresh paint. Not unlike a child's Kindergarten classroom. Another favorite activity of mine was the painting of blank ceramics. The glass molds were white ready to be painted to life. There were ducks I remember specifically, sparrow birds, flowers, then there were the words for our parents like best mom or love.

It brought me such joy to bring these animals to life. I painted bluebirds, woodpeckers, then the normal brown sparrow. It was such a bonding exercise for mommy and child. Around Easter time we had of course Easter eggs.

The women who were chaperoning the section were always so soft-spoken, patient and welcoming. I wonder where these women are today. They were so nurturing almost like second Mommy's to us kids. So calm, so positive, so passive and cheerful. They're the women I strive to be like today. Future me's I would think to myself as I idolized them.

I can remember the anticipation that would overcome me at the thought of each years Easter basket. Would it be a doll this time? two, three. one barbie, one baby doll? jellybeans, starburst, nerds, skittles? blowpops? You see my mom made mine custom. Which meant a lot to me. She took her time gluing grass, placing eggs, etc. It was a child's dream come true.

Rummaging through the grass 2 uncover the treats was so great

Around Easter time you know as the shelves at Rite Aid and all your local convenience stores are filled with Easter Egg decoration kits.Those little pill like tablets resembling sweet-tarts. Except they aren't. Vinegar was the secret ingredient. Vinegar was what caused the dye to transfer onto the shell of the egg. Me being greedy and not wanting to waste, I would eat my boiled eggs afterward. lol.

 Everywhere I went took place in the festivities. School and all. At school we'd have a race where we'd roll our plastic eggs as hard as we could and whoever's egg went ahead of the other won a prize. So there I was rolling my egg, I was called to participate in the race. I watched my egg and even doubted that i'd outdo the other. Then to my surprise. Bam! it scrambled across the floor so quickly I was in shock and disbelief. wooooo I won! go me! go me! I screeched.





 
Perhaps one of the fondest memories of them all will have had to be when I would be on that f, q or d train then
we'd arrive at Coney Island Stillwell avenue the dispatcher would say. But before then even at the stop prior West 8 St
New York Aquarium I'd be able to spot the rides. Round and round I'd go spinning in circles on the train poles
The train poles were such an adventure to me. I can remember saying in my little voice "excuse me sir,
I would like to use this pole, and I don't wanna hit you." They'd laugh and say it's all yours.

And I'd spin and spin and spin around until I thought I'd pass out. Then I'd spot the rides, I'd always have
my knees on the seats while I looked out the window. "Mommy, Grandpa, the rides, the rides, the rides! Look!"
It was such a beautiful sight. I'd be riddled with anxiety and joy.

old stillwell avenue station

When we'd come out I'd be running to the old shops on the curb. The sellers were all lined up and ready.
We were bombarded on the curbside with inflatable hammers, automatic fans, windmills, stuffed animals,
all sorts of trinkets and gadgets. Bubble blowers, Souvenir t-shirts, photographers. Italian icees, snowcones,
slushes. They had it all ready. And our parents just couldn't resist our cute little rosey faces when we'd look
up at them with a desperate "pleaseeeeeeeeeeeee mommy?" in that squeaky adorable voice.

Then the best memory of them all. Little ol me'
mini AGC. Five years old. Hair braided in perfec
plats. Embezelled with seashells & gold beads.
My famous Spring denim jackets with the
sequined and gemed pockets. Vibrant, lively,
witty, quirky, curious, funny me. Quite advanced
for my age range. My little payless flats or my
famous jelly shoes.

There I am 1999 Summer, racing to be first on line for the Wonder Wheel. My mother and I had to wait
for our favorite cart to roll back down. It just wasn't the same experience without our favorite color. :)

Ah there it is Mommy and I's famous red cart

So there I was Black barbie in hand. (which was cool because she was a limited edition, she was very chocolatey brown, and I embraced her and loved her very much. I was so happy that my doll reflected my family and who I was for once. She rode with me, I strapped her in with mommy and me. (She was afraid too, lol, dolls have feelings too ya know.)

And we were off, all the way to the top, then we swung, back and forth, back and forth. But I was calm cause I knew my mommy and beloved doll were right beside me.

What a joy it was to go Easter egg scavenger hunting. I mean, there were so many pleasant surprises inside those plastic eggs. Ranging anywhere from candy to money. They'd count down on your mark, get set go. And us kids would spring out across the yards, trying to find things on the list. Making our own paths. Following directions to find these eggs. I however wouldn't always find the things on the list. I would instead try to find as many eggs as I could in order to just take them home. I filled my basket and just had a great time. I can remember going up to different kiosks and getting eggs filled with different things in order to add into my already full basket.

FORWARD: SIGNS

Everyday as I'm going over the bridge approaching Manhattan and departing Brooklyn. I play a little game. I tell myself that there's a race against time. For me to spot and observe as many things as I can before disappearing underground.

I usually tend to spot the same old things time after time. The same old stores, same old graffiti. But, this time was different. This time in my desperate quest, my search for sights, I struck "gold".

I saw something new. A word, etched into a tan bricked building. No, it wasn't the usual graffiti. In fact, it wasn't even graffiti at all. The word FORWARD clear as day, was spelled out using the bricks in the building's composition and design.

I'm always a firm believer in signs. And this instance was no different. I believe it to be just another sign from above.

FORWARD: As in move forward with your life. Do not stay grounded, advance, as you have been progressing in life this far.

Dream four: held against my will by a monster in disguise

So this morning I had yet another bizarre ream. I vaguely remember but what I do remember is very startling. i was in a moving vehicle. but the person behind the wheel wouldn't stop the car. i grew frantic, i sensed something was wrong. with urgency i planned my escape. but it was like the driver was able to sense my growing suspicion. i tried to remain calm an to keep my knowledge of his sick motives hidden. but still he picked up on it. i noticed the mans expression change, his entire demeanor. his face looked so very sinister, like either he was deteriorating, or simply maybe  his true form was struggling to come to the surface and be exposed.

 His face looked like it was forming craters, like his face was a mere costume mask, designed for movies of some sort. a performer, a villain cast in a movie, a zombie-like, Freddy Kruger look-alike. i cant quite recall just how i had ended up in his vehicle. perhaps he was a cab driver id had encountered on my many travels. you see, I'm addicted to cabs. i take them constantly, i take mostly uber cabs that can b easily tracked, my journey shared with my friends and family. if its any other cab I'm sure to give the drivers id details, registration and license plate, make and model of the car. but that's real life.

Maybe this time unfortunately i had forgotten to do these things, to take these precautionary measures. what a wrong move that was. now, i was paying the consequences. when the driver noticed his true grotesque form was seeping through the cracks of his costume and mask. i tried asking the driver where he was going, alerting him that maybe he had been mistaken, that he was going the wrong way. i knew h was evil, he had ulterior motives. But the naive part of me, the hopeful, optimistic part of me was hoping, wishing he'd recognize his mistake and turn back around. i tried to force myself to focus on the "good" in him. The good aspects that every person must have. right? wrong, maybe some people lack that goodness.


 All my life I've given people who hurt me excuses. I need to let them take responsibility, ownership of their devilish deeds. i was telling the costume man, as I'll now refer to him as that he was going the wring way but as i was i discreetly had my hand on the handle of the car door. i told him one last time that he was going the wrong way and he just ignored me. I could feel him listening but ignoring. but I was no fool, i knew he had indeed heard me but he had other plans. I then knew that he would never stop his plans. That's when i put my own plan in motion, my escape plan. i jolted open the car door and jumped out. onto a busy, crowded street. it may have even been a highway. there were so many thoughts and feelings running through my mind. fear, apprehension, uncertainty.

 But before i jumped out i knew one thing and that was that i was getting out of that car. No matter what came afterward. As i tumbled onto the street my fears only intensified. i had to face my fears now. my skin scraped the road, my bones cracking, flesh tearing and bruising. just as other vehicles began to approach, as cars do on a street. my fears intensified. torn and nearly crippled, debilitated and disabled i began to think now a car is going to hit me or run over me, and I'll be dead. Just then I abruptly awoke.

This week's dream interpretation: Vulnerability & defenselessness

This morning I had a dream, actually it were many dreams. One in particular that really stood out to me it basically can be considered a continuation to the dream just a day prior. Or maybe it was actually a span of a few hours apart. The first one I feel might have even been real, as my apartment looked exactly the same. Except I was sleeping and I felt some kind of draft. So in my actual apartment I have the study area when you first walk in through the front door then to your right the kitchen vicinity. Then there is a door separating my bedroom from the kitchen/front door area. So imagine a studio with a separate kitchen. It's called a one room studio. Try to imagine a one bedroom apartment minus a living room. Yup, that's me. Now back to my dream.


 So my door separating the room from the kitchen was open and I felt a draft. I awoke to find that my front door was also wide open. Which is quite unusual. I never would leave my front door open. In fact i actually have this routine, this obsession with checking if my front door is locked multiple times before i rest. So it was quite unusual for me. given that I am very vigilant, and quite the safety freak, safety obsessed, safety conscious young woman living on her own. Skeptical of all the sketchy tall big scary men and drama filled women I see in my building. So basically what I am trying to get you to grasp here is that I am already skeptical and afraid so there's a low chance I would go to sleep with my front door wide open. So the draft caused me to awaken in the dream. As I was asleep in the dream as well. And I woke up to a freezing, draft, wind blowing so hard it kept the door wide open, it swung. I was afraid, I felt out in the open, very vulnerable.

Now for my interpretation.
Perhaps this dream signifies my feeling of constant vulnerability and fear living alone.More likely it signifies my feeling of still being controlled, trapped in a sense by my abuser. Although I've moved I still feel she has say in my life. Due to the various nightmares and flashbacks I suffer till this very day. So far it's been about five months since I parted ways with her. But the road hasn't been smooth. In fact, it's been very tough. A difficult one. But slowly but surely I'm getting there. When I first moved I was haunted constantly by unpleasant images of her, plagued by memories, Good ones that I missed. Bad ones that I hated. I was riddled by anxiety day by day, controlled by fear.

 Afraid of the change, the transition. petrified that my living situation would worsen. But, now I see that all of that was my pessimism getting the best of me. All those what ifs, are put to rest because I am living in the now. I am no longer letting my imagination run wild. throwing things out of proportion and scaring myself into being bedbound. The agoraphobia, I combat by challenging it. By, going out, venturing outside of my comfort zone, if even just in the area where I live. At least I am outside. At least I am proving to myself that everything I thought would go wrong is not going wrong.

Now onto the best part. the second dream.

This dream was quite a symbolic one. As it featured one of my close friends, from teenage years. A friend that I've had visit my new apartment as well as my old one. I friend I trust, a friend I hold dear to me. One I've kind of swept under the rug sadly due to my busy lifestyle and skepticism of relationships and friendships in particular. One of the very few females (one of two) that have gotten the privilege of visiting my apartment because at this point in my life I am very selective regarding my friends.

Well in this dream she was at my apartment when I noticed a fire had broken out. I was immediately set on escaping whether or not I had to run through some of the blaze. Because of course I figured some of my body being singed versus dying entirely due to my entire body succumbing to flames was a better way to go.

After all, it wouldn't hurt to simply try. The worse that could happen is that either way I died. Well in this dream. She was of no help to me at all. She was a distraction, and someone who made the situation much worse. I was able to maintain calmness even in a situation of such intensity. She, however went into a complete and utter panic.

I knew we should try to escape the apartment as the flames were rising behind us. I was trying to move forward out of my bedroom and toward the front door. I just wanted to get out of the house. She actually kept closing the front door and fighting with me to stay inside the apartment. I kept opening it and then it would shut. It was as if she was deathly afraid of the outside.

Like she was so content with the familiarity of the apartment she couldn't fathom leaving and being forced to face anything outside. I however, could "smell" freedom in the direction of the hallway. But still she just kept closing the door. We were trapped at this point because of her. Flames were taking over the apartment and now the front door handle felt hot to the touch and there was a thick fog in the hall with some rays of light orange and red. Now it was too late the fire spread to the hallway.

If this wasn't bad enough then she wouldn't let me pass her at all. She just kept blocking me and screaming while holding the door almost clawing at it. Like a cat, arms at the top spread out while she screamed. It was then I knew we were going to die. I was going to die because of someone else's actions. Because I had allowed someone else to interfere with my life. I was ready to actually murder her in order to get out. She was a problem at this point, a burden I had to eliminate in order to survive.

So, now for my interpretation.
This dream to me is based on true events in my life. It visits that feeling of being grounded in one spot this whole time I had been residing with and interacting with negative individuals. I was never able to advance. I had put my dreams on hold and pushed their feelings to the front of my life. Constantly negotiating, accommodating them and everything they had wanted. All while ultimately forgetting about myself.

I had potential in this dream to survive but the uncertainty and low level of maturity of the girl in the dream sabotaged me. It resulted in my death. I was trapped. Being trapped in the apartment may symbolize the stall in my career I had suffered while remaining friends with people that weren't on the same wavelength as myself.

This dream serves as a reminder that I can no longer allow someone else's choice to stay at the same low point in life affect my ability to advance. It is unfair. I deserve better. To stay in communication with someone like that will result in me dying not literally but maybe in a spiritual sense. Like my level of motivation and drive will be lowered drastically. If I surround myself with positive like-minds I will benefit greatly.