You're Supposed To Write This

Okay, okay. My title is little dramatic. I like dramatic titles, sue me. But honestly, I read an advanced copy of “Buck” by M.K. Asante while at my job. I always rummage through the mock library for new literature. I never really look for anything in particular, just something that catches my eye. This particular book stood out to me: it had no cover artwork. It just said: BUCK A Memoir MK Asante And other less important book sale date jargon. There was no forward. No epilogue. No opening dedication. No author bio. At this time, I had NO idea who this Asante fellow was. Everything was just TK (which is “to come” in editor lingo). What in the absolute hell is this book about? All I know is that I have an affinity for memoirs and books about urban life. “MK Asante” sounded pretty ethnic to me, so the book seemed like a win/win. So I grabbed the book off the shelf, flipped to the first page of the first chapter and skimmed. I couldn't even make it past the first

I've never been a fan of the rain. As is the story of many black girls, my initial disdain with precipitation came with the responsibility of maintaining a fresh perm. Hued women of all ages would turn into Usain Bolt to avoid having their slick tresses make contact with H20, and no one was above making a bonnet out of a corner store plastic bag. As my days of creamy crack fizzled away with age, so did most of my efforts to shield my curls, but my hate for storm clouds hasn't lessened in the slightest. Now, many of my young adult counterparts equate a passing storm with prime time for cuffing. For me, it's a bad luck omen. A vacuum for news of death, to be specific. I still remember the first day I noticed the trend. I was walking from a tutoring session in Washington, D.C.'s Adams Morgan. The air was chilly and I had a strong craving for a hot chocolate from Starbucks to warm my stomach. As I waited for the light to change, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was my