Get Out of the Street

You fucking nigger!

I read these words days later, and they still hurt.

I grew up all over the country, but I managed a pretty long stint in Louisville, Kentucky.  I imagined as I was moving from New York all those years ago, that Kentucky was lined with dirt paved roads and wondered if people still traveled by horse and buggy.  The idea of moving out of an apartment building in the city into an actual house, with my own bedroom, backyard and picket fence was so exciting that I would have traded the luxuries of running water for the outhouse that surely waited for me in my new city.  Louisville, as it turned out, was every bit a metropolis, with concrete sidewalks and gas-fueled automobiles.  Incidentally, using the bathroom outside eventually proved to be frowned upon. 

I live in Boston now. They’ve had running water since the 1800’s.  Clearly, this city has arrived.  I share a neighborhood with Senator Kerry and his billionaire wife and Tom Brady and his leggy supermodel.  I have a good job.  I’m educated.  I buy my groceries at Whole Foods.  I share a dentist with Mick Jagger.  Clearly, I have arrived. 

I went to the beach on Saturday morning with a new group of friends.  I left my apartment at 8:45 to hail a cab, dressed in J. Crew from head to toe. Traffic was thin and I stood in the road giving myself easy access to taxis approaching from either direction. A couple of angry cars honked their horns at me.  One angry woman held her horn for seconds and threw her arms up at me. “Yatta Yatta!” I yelled back mockingly, not taking offense.  I knew I was wrong, but I was in a hurry.  I stayed in the middle of the street until a pretty, well-dressed woman my age in a brand new Nissan blew her horn, slowed down in front of me and yelled with venom that burned like poison, “Get out of the street, you fucking nigger!”

Like breaking a bone, the first reaction I had was numbness.  I stood slack jawed as if I had been slapped in the face.  Emotions raced through me as my mind began to process what had just happened.  I was immediately transported through time and was no longer the beautiful accomplished woman I believed myself to be, living in one of America’s biggest cities in the 21^st century.  Instead, I was back in 1990; an awkward little girl in Louisville, struggling with my identity, starting fist fights with boys who called me nigger. 

That woman, dressed like me, could have been any one of my friends.  She wasn’t a white supremacist.  She wasn’t old.  She didn’t have a confederate flag mounted on her window.  And as far as I know, she didn’t have magical powers. But in the course of five seconds, she was able to strip me of everything that I was.  In that moment, I wasn’t smart or kind, ambitious or quirky, funny or interesting; I was just a black girl, a nigger. 

I got into a cab and tears started flowing.  I had a lump in my throat and my breathing was shallow and quick, trying to prevent myself from sobbing.  As I went to meet my white friends, all I felt was humiliation.  They would know what this woman had called me and they would believe it too.   They would see my brown skin, full lips, curly thick hair, round button nose and they would think I was ugly.  They would see my clothes and think I was an imposter who wandered into the wrong side of town, the white side of town. 

More than that, they had probably always believed, as she did, that I was just a nigger. I felt bamboozled, betrayed by every white person I had ever met.  Because no matter what our background, we were all lumped into the same category and they referred to us this way behind our backs.  They were waiting for me to annoy them, to step out of place, to fail; then they would tell me how they truly felt about me; about all of us.

This woman could have been any one of my friends, but she wasn’t.  She had no idea what it was like to love me or be loved by me, to nurture me, laugh with me, learn with me, be annoyed with me or fight with me as so many of my beloved white friends and family have.  I have been struggling to find a meaning or lesson in all of this, but a social message seems a little boring.  Instead, I’ll share with you some thoughts I’ve had on the issue since it happened:

1)      I acknowledge that all white people are likely not out to get me.  I am fairly certain that this is probably true. 

2)      I imagine she will develop the strain of HPV that turns people into trees.  I mean, I’m not saying I hope this happens to her, I just kind of have a feeling that it will.

3)      I hope no one ever calls me this to my face without the luxury of fleeing in a car; not just for my sake but theirs as well.  Any one of my friends and likely any one of my blog posts will confirm that I truly am bat shit crazy.  Earrings will come off and Vaseline will come on.  I believe that there are certain situations where a good stomping is not only understandable, but well deserved.  At least I’ve got my insanity plea all but locked up.

Resurgence

I can tell you with absolute certainty that my happiness is 100% correlated to my level of physical fitness. I can pin-point the exact moment it happened - I mean, my spiral into complete and utter despair. Last June after running a 22 mile race (on the heels of a Half Ironman) – true to my obsessive compulsive personality – I got burned out from exercise. It’s taken a year, but I’ve pretty well burned through my supply of endorphins as well. Lately, it’s all I can do to keep myself from mailing strangers anthrax in a strawberry scented scratch and sniff.

Fast forward to present day. I live in a new city; a place, my priest promised, littered with eligible Catholic bachelors of the 6”3, handsome, Cape Cod-summering persuasion waiting to date me. Liar.

My work outs are sporadic at best. I’ve become that girl who was at the gym every day in January and now is nowhere to be seen. A year ago, I would have thrown a Slurpee at someone matching my description, and then shoved them in a locker with sweaty underwear. Now, I walk with my head down trying not to make eye contact with the kool kids.

Replacing my triathlon obsession, I’ve taken to a new hobby: longing for the days of yore. The days when I could wear a dress barely long enough to cover my squat fashioned glutes and know that my legs were killin’ them. Now, they’re just killing me. Yes, men still stare, but now it’s because they’re counting the dimples of cellulite all over my thighs. I know this, of course, because I can read the cartoon bubbles coming out of their mouth. Naturally.

I wake up in the morning and search for a pair of pants that fit. I try one leg on at a time planning my move back to Panama where jeans are fashioned to cut off circulation and camel toe is par for the course.

I sit in my chair at work. I can feel a flab of fat from my stomach hanging over my clothes. It’s humiliating. When I get up to go to the bathroom I have to politely ask my co-workers not to talk about me. Because they, like everyone else on the planet, spend their days thinking about how much weight I’ve gained.

And because I apparently do not know any better, I tried gimmicks. I paid $250 to do a 3 day juice cleanse. With absolutely no fiber, this meant that I was constipated for three days; and ravenously hungry. I celebrated my successful completion with a juicy cheeseburger and truffle fries. In fact, I still have that extra pound I picked up to commemorate the experience. I do not recommend.

What is left? I guess doing what I know best: ridiculousness. I signed up for a Tough Mudder this summer. July 14th in Vermont. Ten miles. Twenty five obstacles. One blog resurgence.

These days, fear of death and humiliation are the only things that seem to motivate me out of bed to run. As you, my readers, are my witness, I will not rest until I have exposed myself in the shortest shorts possible and the cartoon bubble coming out of your mouth reads ‘Now, there’s a girl who does not know how to dress age appropriately.’ Then, and only then, will I know that my life, and by extension the entirety of humanity, will be blissfully happy.

INVISIBLE

Last weekend was my 10 year college reunion from the United States Naval Academy. I love Annapolis, and I love Navy, but after last weekend, I must admit, I am over it. And I am never drinking again.

Kid Rock said it best in "Cowboy" - "Give a toast to the sun. Drink with the stars. Get thrown in the mix and tossed out of bars.” And that’s pretty much how it happened. I’m from Grosse Pointe, so I can’t quite claim to rep the same hood he raps about. But last weekend I was representing the trailer park like an extra from 8 Mile.

I am a pretty confrontational person in general. I never shy away from an argument and I’m not one to hold my tongue… for any reason. So, when a bouncer at the bar I was at started swearing at me for walking behind a restricted area, I told him I did not appreciate his tone. Confusing my general sassiness with the antics of a drunken sailor, he then proceeded to escort me from the bar. He clearly does not know. Get a white girl angry and she will write a sternly-worded-letter to the proper authorities. Get a Latina angry and she will set-your-shit-on-fire. The next time I walk in there will be to destroy it. I think that’s more than fair.

So I leave and go to a different bar but I am feeling incredibly emotional… because (!!!) I am intoxicated. To calm myself down I immediately order and down a vodka club soda. Drinking more is always a good idea. Then I become even more emotional. I run up to the bathroom, go into a stall and begin to sob. If Rosario Dawson could shed my tears she would win an Oscar and never have to make a movie about a run-away train again. My sobs are the most pathetic sounds you will ever hear anyone or anything make. Worse than a whimpering puppy. Pathetic.

A sympathetic girl in the stall next to me asks in her kindest voice, “What’s wrong, sweetie? Is it a boy?”

“No! It is not a boy,” I cry. As if any boy could ever make me feel as horrible as I feel at this moment. I mean, obviously this kind of pain can only be from getting kicked out of a bar by a short, ugly, uneducated bouncer. This is the absolute worst life has to offer.

We both leave our stalls and the sweet girl happens to be the new wife of a guy I had known in college. We look at each other and say nothing. Awk-waaaard. She turns and leaves. My sobs resume.

Later that evening, I manage to get control of myself and fall completely in love with a boy I had a crush on during my days as a Midshipman. Being the vixen that I am, I get him to walk me home. So we proceed to make out in the middle of a dark street. Classy, I know. I made a mental note to buy a dog and walk it in front of his apartment until he falls in love with me too. Because that’s not weird at all.

I walk into my house (alone), armed with butterflies in my stomach and stars in my eyes. Then I find two guys laid out on the couches and another on the floor in the fetal position with his pants around his ankles. Any sober person would take pictures and a video. Instead, I kick off my shoes and fall into bed.

The next morning is just painful. My eyes are swollen from crying. My head is throbbing from drinking. My very soul is exhausted from acting like a 21 year-old. I head out the house and find a mysterious stain on the rug in place of the drunken guy with his pants around his ankles. My housemates and I will later learn that it is a $5,000 rug with papers to prove it. The owner of the house is a West Point grad. What kind of a douche bag leaves a $5,000 rug in a rental house? I don’t know how they do it in Upstate New York, but in Annapolis leaving a $5,000 anything around sailors and marines is never a good idea.

I go to brunch looking as well dressed and manicured as a homeless person. So naturally I would run into the Mrs. Old Flame from the previous night in the bar bathroom. Hot.

I honestly wish the story could end here. As if it needs to go any further…

I sober up and leave Annapolis. Obviously not having gotten enough of the city the previous 3 days, I head to Cantlers with my best friend and her husband. Not having liked my last Annapolis impression of hobo-couture, I don a super cute J-Crew dress and 4-inch peep toe heels. Fabulous, right?

We sit by the water and enjoy cold beers. The waitress comes by and tries to save herself a few seconds by recklessly reaching over my head with a tray full of Old Bay Seasoning. She trips and dumps the entire tray directly on top of me. I am frozen in shock. It's like an episode of I Love Lucy. I stand up and it is as if I have crabs in my hair. My face is red from the seasoning. My dress is smothered in crab sauce. I smell like crab. Kid Rock said he would paint the town red. Well, I did that and got myself painted red in the process.

Dress ruined, smelling like the main ingredient of she-crab soup, I head into town feeling annoyed and mischievous. I have a few more drinks (always a good idea). It starts to downpour and my friend and I wait in a corner shop while her husband gets the car.

I see two athletic handsome men who clearly go to the Naval Academy. In the sexiest voice I can manage, I say, “Hey boys, are you two Midshipman?" I'm just trying to see if I still got it with Old Bay Musk. They turn around with the look of pure joy in their eyes. They are two boys, we are two girls. They think it’s about to go down. But my friend turns them away and tells them to keep walking. Their shoulders slump a little.

And then it hits me. Karma, like me, is a bitch. Maybe I should stop laughing at homeless people, stealing candy from children, and playing with 20 year-old boys who don’t stand a chance. Because this is exactly what happened to Britney. A couple of drunken mishaps, trysts with unsuspecting boys, run-ins with Old Bay - and her career was over. If I shave my head, someone please organize an intervention.

Aside from all of the antics of that weekend, the truth is that no matter how much I love my school it is tough going back. As a brown female, that school made me feel invisible. And last weekend I was transported back in time 10 years. All of the mids, back with their Ricky-Bobby-Smokin’-Hot-Wives all seemed to fit in in a way that I never could. It is tough for me to see that. They call Academy grads "Ring Knockers." I earned my ring not with a great piece of ass, but with four years of busting my ass.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t care about fitting in. I think it’s a natural emotion and pretty common among most well adjusted people. But sometimes, you find yourself at a Rick Perry fundraiser and it’s OK not to belong. The things that made me different at the Naval Academy are some of the things that I love most about myself. So maybe in Downtown Annapolis I am an invisible girl who gets tossed out of bars and doused in Old Bay Seasoning. But outside of that town I am a fabulous woman who falls on dates and does the robot in dance clubs. I'm okay with that.

Annapolis, I love you. But honestly, you give me angina. IHTFP and will need every second of the next five years to recover for our next reunion. See you then snitches.

PS… A bottle of Malbec is not “drinking.” Just sayin.

I WANT MY BABY BACK, BABY BACK, BABY BACK...

CHILE!


My sister, Amelia, was born 20 years ago today. I was the baby in the family until she came along and ruined everything. My sister is single-handedly responsible for my dislike of toddlers.

Louisville, Kentucky Circa 1993

My sister, a screaming 2 year-old, pounds at a glass screened door willing her parents to return from a night out. I try soothing words (she can’t hear them over her screams). I try The Lion King (who doesn’t love Hakunah Matata?!). I try a cookie (good girl – never too young to start thinking about your hips). None of it works. Finally, I walk out of the front door and leave her alone to cry after me. But in my defense (!!!)… I only walk around to the side of the house; I don’t actually leave. And it’s not like I give her Nyquil. Or vodka. Or duct-tape her mouth shut. Or smother her screams with a pillow. Give me a break - I was only 14! If it makes you feel any better I don’t care much for teenagers either.

Grosse Pointe, Michigan Circa 1999

I’m home from college and for whatever reason, happen to change clothes in front of her. The girl looks at my body and screams bloody murder then runs out of the room. (I will have you know that this is the first and only time someone has seen me sans clothing and runs, thank you!). Apparently she noticed the new belly button piercing that I got during my spring break trip in Miami. She does not yet realize that there are worse things one can pick up on South Beach. Honestly, what a drama queen! We obviously have nothing in common.

Seriously, for sisters who share DNA and grew up with the same parents, it really is surprising how different we are. I’ve met Rosario Dawson in person. Besides wanting to follow her home like a lost puppy, I kept thinking, how do I look more like this complete stranger than I do my own flesh and blood sister? Perhaps I was right all along… my parents found Amelia in a dumpster, felt pity for her and brought her home. It certainly would explain why she is a vegetarian and I eat steak rare enough to ooze blood down the side of my mouth, using only the back of my hand to wipe it clean.

Amelia would rather join the Peace Corps than walk a day in combat boots. She cannot do the robot. She cannot quote Top Gun. She wears a D-cup. But before you think she is a complete loser…

Valparaiso Chile, Present Day

Amelia is a junior in college, getting a double major and minor in Spanish. She is studying in South America for the semester. I could go on and on about her accomplishments, but you know how I hate to brag, even if it is on behalf of my smart, gorgeous, cool, quirky, loving and amazing sister.

Despite our differences we love each other as much as any sisters could. I would rather walk through fire than see her in pain. And no matter how old she gets she will still be my baby sister who will remain almost but not quite as pretty as me.

Amelia Teresa, aka Smelly Mellie

I would like to congratulate her on her birth, on this the day of her birth. And may her first drink tonight be paid for by a masculine Chilean.

THE ANTHOLOGY

I have Tribe fever. So does the rest of the country it seems. I haven’t seen the documentary, but there have been too many nods to Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest lately not to rekindle my long-standing love affair with ATCQ.

I’m not a jealous person. In relationships, I feel like the man I’m with is with me because he wants to be; other women have little bearing on that. Jealousy seems like a wasted emotion. But “jealous” is the only word befitting of my feelings for other people’s affinity for my band. A Tribe Called Quest is mine. They are my precious.

I spent my summers ‘back in the day on the Boulevard on Linden.’ While Chaz Michael Michaels was summering in Cape Cod, I was with my brother on 229th Street in Queens. I was the only girl on the block, as always trying to fit in with the boys. While I loved Barbie and Jem with the passion of the girly-est of girls, my summers were reserved for riding bikes, playing war games, jumping fences, climbing trees and (when we could scrounge up the money) walking two blocks to Linden Blvd to buy some Jamaican patties and coco bread. So you see, “Check the Rhime” was obviously written for me.

I left New York in the summer of 1988. I moved to Kentucky. There was no more diversity in my life. The rest of my adolescence was completely surrounded by Becky’s and Todd’s. And they did not like me or my ‘black hair and fat-ass thighs.’ So when ATCQ shook the hip-hop world in the 90’s, they reminded me of a time when I fit in. Their music made me feel like my brown skin and full lips (which Becky made fun of every day) were the standard of beauty, not shame. In a school where New Kids on the Block was the standard of cool for girls with blonde hair and blue eyes, I found a standard of cool that would come to transgress race and time.

ATCQ sort of fills my quotient of cool. I mean, I do not have a single dance move past the year 1992. I believe the Running Man is both an excellent workout and an effective way of expressing one's feelings of joy when an awesome song is playing. Additionally, the snake is such a natural movement that I imagine Bach did it as he was composing the Cello Suites. But when I left New York, all those many years ago, it was like my cool injections stopped. Forget the girl who peaked in high school. I leveled out at the age of nine. But at least I don’t need lip injections.

So go ahead and throw on your copy of The Anthology. Replay “Electric Relaxation” one or two or ten times. But remember, they don’t belong to you. ATCQ is mine.

BURN THE WITCH. BURN HER!

I feel like my life would have been better served having attended the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (as a witch, not a wizard) rather than The United States Naval Academy (as a midshipman, not a goat). I hate to rag on my Alma Mater, but the ability to cast spells and transfigurate would be way more useful to me than knowing the General Orders of the Sentry or being able to kill a man with my bare hands (which I have done on occasion as part of Seal Team 6-126). For example, I could have stopped all of my body weight (mid-fall) from landing squarely on my bum when I was rollerblading this morning simply by chanting: “ARRESTO MOMENTUM!” Instead, I know things like ‘Set Condition Circle Zebra’ and ‘Red Over Red, the Captain is Dead.’ I don’t even own a boat.

When I fall, it is equal parts embarrassing and a relief. I don’t really have to explain the embarrassing part except to elaborate that every time it happens I am in the middle of thinking, “I am sooo cute…” in my short shorts, high heels, tight jeans, etc. (It’s like I bring these things on myself, really.) The relief comes from being able to restart the clock, lengthening the time until my next fall or accident. But when Hermione Granger restarts the clock she actually gets to travel back through time. Life as a muggle can be so unfair.

I ended an era last Friday, sobbing through the last of the Harry Potter films; wailing as Severus Snape was violently murdered and then later (yes, this is a world of magic) confessed his love for the boy who lived. The crying I did at the Naval Academy was not quite as cathartic.

I think there is a little bit of magic in this life, though sometimes disguised. Lately, I have been unable to maintain any semblance of a diet. Obviously, this was some form of unconscious divinity, preparing me for the extra “cushioning” I so desperately needed during my fall this morning. It’s just that as a witch I could chant “LIPO-SUCTIONOUS” and instantly return to my ideal weight. As it stands, I am not allowed to eat anything but iceberg lettuce until September, when I will gather with my classmates for my Naval Academy reunion (since being skinny is the only thing I will have going for me). I mean, I still have some sequencing to work out for my Cold Fusion formula and my cure for cancer is still pending FDA approval. So until then, I’m relying on my looks to get me through unscathed. It’s just that if I could turn someone into a toad or even perform a cruciatus curse on just a couple of ever deserving tools, it’d be a lot cooler.

I think my clumsiness is perhaps due to an inner ear infection. The Navy doctors obviously missed this. The examiners at Hogwarts would have spotted and treated my major malfunction with a flick of their wrist, making me as graceful as a Veela. Harry Potter, I’m gonna miss you so much it hurts. Almost as much as my scraped palms and bruised tailbone.

“REPARO!”

Nope. Still hurts…

THE BOAT SCHOOL

I graduated from the Naval Academy with Nine Hundred and ’01 of my rock star classmates ten years ago today. Growing up I never wanted to be in the military. But at the insistence of my eldest uncle, the lone Jarhead in my family, I visited Annapolis on my college tour just to shut him up. Then it was all over for me.

I fell in love. The deepest, purest, most unconditional love – with the Naval Academy. Annapolis is among the most amazing cities in the country. And the Yard is deceivingly beautiful. The Academy, steeped in tradition, honor and camaraderie, is physically, mentally and emotionally challenging. Ridiculously hard to get into. Free. And (at the time) 87% male. During my visit, there were ruggedly good-looking men everywhere. Men playing lacrosse. Men running around The Yard. Men in uniforms that showcased their broad shoulders, washboard abs and perfectly shaped gluteus maximuses. Smart, ambitious men who would grow up to be generals, senators, astronauts… and investment bankers. This may come as a surprise, but the 87:13 ratio did factor into my decision making process.

I came home from my college tour singularly focused. I was going to get into the Naval Academy and I wouldn’t let anything stand in my way. To remind myself of this, I took a permanent marker and wrote U S N A in large print on my bedroom wall. Yes, I have been bat-shit crazy my entire life.

4 Years by the Bay

You will never believe or begin to fathom the atrocities that a Plebe endures. So I will just say that it’s worse than prison. It’s worse than tasting donkey sweat every day for the rest of your life. It’s worse than getting bit by a monkey, catching the plague and bleeding out of your eyes until the moment of your ill-timed death. To summarize in terms John Paul Jones would use, in a word being a plebe is horrible, unfathomable and inhumane.

After you’ve been a plebe, everything else seems easy. But the truth is, I was always a bad midshipman. I either laughed or cried whenever I was yelled at; neither response was tolerated. I broke every rule. I was a horrible runner. I was goofy, a dreamer, stubborn and worst of all, liberal. I stood out in every possible way. Despite my personal hardships, I knew every midshipman was suffering with me. There were days of tiny victories: spontaneous pep rallies in T-Court, splashdowns on 6-4, Chili con carne and Cannonballs with hard sauce for noon meal.

Shared pain unites every Naval Academy graduate. But it was so much more than that. We learned how to be selfless on the most basic human level, knowing that in time some of us would give the ultimate sacrifice for our country. We shared bonds of patriotism that were infectious: America. Fuck yeah! And we leaned on each other to survive.

Apple Juice. Orange Juice. Assorted Cereal. Fresh Fruit.

Ten years. It goes so quickly. I’m gearing up for my reunion in September where I, along with 4 of my lucky classmates, will become Flip Cup Champions. Yes, it’s true that I have no idea what Flip Cup is, but if you know me, you know that will not stop me from winning. Just sayin.

Really, I am excited to be around people who get it. My classmates know what if feels like to be in the middle of a deep sleep and woken by the sound of a clanking metal trashcan in front of your door. It feels like Armageddon. They know the pure joy of a 1MC announcement cancelling drill due to rain. It feels like the greatest moment of your life. And they know what it feels like to throw their covers in the air in front of the President of the United States and become commissioned officers. It feels… most favorable.

Here’s to you, mighty class of Aught One. We started together. We finished together.