A few years ago, my friend marked her 32nd birthday by crying all the way through it. Not because she was worried about aging, or because she didn't feel like she'd accomplished enough or even because she was having an Eat Pray Love moment. It's because she spent most of the day responding to texts or calls that sounded like this, "Happy Birthday girl! So... did he propose??!" It probably didn't help that leading up to her birthday, various family members and friends had asked her if she was expecting a ring.
If you can picture a scrawny, wild-haired 9th grade girl in oversized shorts, panting on the sidelines of the shiny basketball court, you can conjure up an image of me over a decade ago, wondering how in the world I ended up there. I was at tryouts for the JV basketball team, despite never having played a single day of organized basketball in my life. I naively believed that as a track athlete, I had the kind of athleticism that just needed to be guided by a firm but caring coach into excellence (like Blind Side!); the coach disagreed. Coach Murray gently told me to "Practice and maybe try again next year." Since she was also my geography teacher, it certainly made things a little awkward during 3rd period, but she was right. I had no business out there; so why was I?
I have written this post in my mind probably a dozen times, and each time I mean it a little more. This post may be better titled "The Evolution of My Attitude toward Football." But before we get into that... a couple stories for you.
My freshman year of high school, I was in the marching band. More specifically, I was in the drumline. Before you conjure up images of a young female Nick Cannon wow'ing the crowd, I should clarify... I played the least glamorous (but very necessary!) instrument of them all - the cymbals. There were two incentives for doing this. 1) I had a crush on one of the snare players, Jay Free (I mean with a name like that - how could you not?) and 2) Being in the marching band made me a part of something big - something very big - our high school football experience.
In high school, one of my favorite classes was U.S. History. My teacher Mrs. Putnam treated our class like story time, sitting perched on her stool discussing wars and elections as if she'd been close personal friends with America's historical figures.
Last night, I made about $950 while sitting on my couch. How did I do this you ask? By watching Cash Cab! Sadly, I was unable to collect any of the funds as I was not an actual contestant; I was merely a viewer who overturned a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios when I leaped up to shout "Fiddler Crab!! A fiddler crab is the crustacean named after a musician that you may find on the beaches of West Africa!"
A few months ago I was kicking it with my friend and her mom called. She grabbed the phone and started yapping, then she said, "OK go ahead and put Dad on before you hang up." I felt an unidentifiable pang in my chest and later came to realize what it was. Envy. Her parents are married, live in the same house, and she can handle her parental duties in one phone call. Sadly, most of my peers and I cannot say the same.
North Carolina is pretty awesome, specifically Charlotte. It’s pretty. They have several Cook-Out locations. Gas is only priced at half past ridiculous. My mom lives there, and my niece is only an hour or so away. But it seems like someone sneaked a couple bigotry roofies in everyone's sweet tea.
North Carolina is often viewed as a “purple state” because it is home to a fair share of both Democrats and Republicans. In 2008, North Carolinians voted for President Barack Obama and went Blue for the first time since Jimmy Carter’s administration. But yesterday, the country was reminded of just how red North Carolina can be.
About three months before I graduated from college, word on campus spread that the commencement speaker would be America’s Favorite Giver Away of Things, Ms. Oprah Winfrey. Interestingly enough, the response from my peers was mixed. Many were excited, others were nonplussed, and some were even angered. “How dare that woman who doesn’t give back to her own people speak at our graduation? I’ve never liked that ole mammy looking woman.”
I've only allowed one other person to guest write on this blog and that was a ghostwriter, so you know that this must be good. I'm not a sports expert myself, but my good friend known as ManoftheHour, knows EVERYTHING about sports. I asked him to deliver something of interest to a sports reader who makes his or her way over to my blog. Even I, a sports nitwit, could follow it. Enjoy!
It's 2011, a new year, which means, the opportunity to celebrate all our favorite holidays again. But...my most recent post and the comments have informed me that some people hate certain holidays. More than I hate coconut, domestic cats, and bad hair days. Which ones are they?
As the child of two parents in the Army, I've lived in several states and overseas. I went to high school in the booming metropolis of Boiling Springs, a suburb of Spartanburg, South Carolina. (Sidenote - we were just in the news!) I went to college in DC, spent over a year in Los Angeles, a summer in Chicago, a summer in Philadelphia, and visited a lot of major cities in the U.S. (Minneapolis is extremelyunderrated by the way.)
I recently read an article that asked the question, "Do We Still Need HBCUs?"
If you had asked me this question prior to 2003, I would have boldly proclaimed, "No! We's all free, now!" Thankfully, I know better now. How did I go from AntiHBCU to Faithful Howard Alum and Donor? Glad you asked.