When I Grow Up

As graduation rapidly approaches, I find myself bombarded with questions about what’s next.

“What’s your major,” they say, with wide eyes full of expectancy.

“I don’t know,” as I confess my confusion about the near future their faces change from expectant to sympathetic.

I am a Writing Major with a dual minor in Psychology and English. When I came to college, I had dreams of being a dance major. Dreams that were quickly doused by a practical mother. She was convinced that the life of a dancer was not a steady one, and lead me to the more practical occupation of an educator. I love kids, I enjoy developing relationships with them, and helping them be mature and responsible blah blah blah. Long story short, for four semesters  I was an Education major, which I hated. I was so bored, so bored. The classes couldn’t hold my attention, so I skipped them. I thought about transferring and majoring in dance somewhere else, but my mom always encouraged me to be practical. Fast forward past another two semesters of having no major at all, I changed my major. She wasn’t too happy, but at that point I was ready to get out of here.

Now here we are, 38 days away from graduation day and I know what I would like to do. If I had my way, I would teach at a performing arts school, but that has nothing to do with my current major. I love to dance. I’d do it for free, but don’t tell anyone.  I have no idea how to even begin in that field. I’ll start by applying to grad schools. M.F.A in Dance here I come.

And They Keep on Coming…# 2

An attempt at a poem. No prompts, just random lines from my journal.

The Audition

1 and 2 and point and flex

A number pinned on my back

3 and 4 and flex and point

In a room with 24 other numbers

5 and 6 and  plié and stretch

24 perfect buns

24 pointe shoes with perfect bows

7 and 8

and then there’s me

Writing Prompts

This is a writing prompt from one of my English classes that produced a decent poem and some good material for an essay. I wanted to share.

***

Each of us has memories of Sunday afternoons. We think back to a particular time in our lives when Sunday and the routine of the afternoons were as predictable and as precious as air. Go back in your mind to one of those Sundays.

The year: 1988

Your age: 10

The setting: Chicago

The season: Winter

The weather: Snowy

***

Definitely, Next Time

Clouds cover the sun

Clean white snow stuck to the window pane

It’s pushed up against the curb, making mini mountains

Passing cars splash in black slush.

Searching on the tips of toes

Wide eyed up and down Cambridge Street

My hair is pressed, clothes creased,

Shoes tied, coat zipped, gloves dangle from my pocket

My mother stands in the doorway behind me

Arms crossed,

Waiting

The clouds move

Sunlight splashes on the walls

4:00, 5:00, 6:00

Sun sets behind the city scape

The lights of the city flash on

waiting

all dressed up and no one to see

Sleepless in Statesboro

It’s 4 a.m. and I can’t sleep. I don’t know if it’s because I’m nervous about my play or simply because I simply get restless sometimes. Tomorrow–well today–is opening night for the production of For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf by Ntzake Shange. I choreographed the show and I have a role in it as well. It is the first time I have choreographed something and have practically been given full creative control. The Director allowed me to find my own music and incorporate movement how I saw fit. This is also my first time choreographing for my peers for an event as big as this. As always, I am wishing I had more time. I never think my dances are finished. I wouldn’t trade this anxious feeling for the world though. I love dance because it is consistent and nothing else makes me feel the way I feel when I am dancing.

Shange’s poetry speaks to women everywhere. When I auditioned, I read the book and realized I have been at least 3 or 4  of these women at some point in my adult life. I didn’t know I’d fall in love with like I did. At first, it felt weird to stand up and admit these things (the poems range from abortion to childhood love). I felt like I was telling on myself when I auditioned.

This is my random 4 a.m. rant. A peak into my internal dialogue. I figured if I couldn’t get the internal conversations to stop tonight that I might as well give them a space to play.

Surprise!!! I moonlight as an A–hole

If my weekend were an essay, that title would be the thesis. I encountered a series of very uncomfortable events that left me wondering if all men behave this way. I had a few experiences with a special breed of a–hole this weekend. It would be hilarious/unbelievable if it happened to any one else or on a sitcom. Let’s just say I was fooled by a Colgate worthy smile and some witty remarks. Shame on me.

I dated a guy for three years. He moves to 2500 miles and a 3hr time difference were of no assistance to the health of that relationship. Until very recently, we were attempting to be “friends.” How people manage to be friends with the person who wanted to marry them escapes me. Any way, I asked my “friend” if I could borrow some money about 2 weeks ago (Being a full time college student with no loans and a minimum wage part time job is no fun.) It was rent time I had just spent about $350 on books and I needed money. I couldn’t ask my parents, so I asked him. He gave it to me, and of course I intended on paying it back.

I got my paycheck just as Re-pay day rolled around and I am a dollar short. 4 quarters. 10 dimes. 20 nickels. 100 pennies. This man flips out! He says “I’m not being rude but you borrow $___, you  return $____.” All I could say was you’re kidding me. It’s a dollar. So very long story short, I borrowed a dollar from someone else.

I was really shocked because this guy is supposed to really care about me and he sh-t a brick over a dollar.