You're Supposed To Write This

Yesterday, millions of inhabitants donned their favorite red, white and blue attire. Star shirts and striped socks. White linen shorts and dresses hugging rolling hills. Red lips puckered to cameras: "Happy Fourth!" Eyes raised to the flag, fingertips to brows, in salute. "From sea to shining sea." I took no parts in this. My celebration consisted of my allegiance to family and food. I stuffed my face with ribs, burgers, roti, curry, Mac and cheese. White plates, blue drank, red solo cups, my own patriotism. Why show respect to a country that doesn't have its stuff together? One that makes me mourn just a few hours after a day of celebration because our neighborhoods aren't safe enough for our bright young minds to exist in? I didn't know Omar Sykes personally, but family is family, and I grieve all the same. He was a Bison and I could assume the following: He was a black man defying the odds against him. He gave a damn about his education. He lik

When I brainstorm, it’s as if I’m about to birth a child or something, and I get very particular about my creative tools. I need a clear area, five bright lights, a post it pad, about three notebooks (seriously) and two ballpoint pens. While this makes it harder and harder to shimmy away from my “bag lady” persona. I find that reverting to the pre-technology era leads to more organic (okay, just better) ideas. I remember when I lost my planner in May of 2012, I was a wreck. For the two years preceding that, I’d been scribing my life to the minute – it was technically an appointment book – and scribbling ideas in the margins. Every time I started a new journalism class or internship, I was gifted a reporter’s notepad. I must have gone through at least seven of those. My life changed when I received a blank, line-less moleskin for graduation. Let me tell you, I was ecstatic. From then on, I decided that I would carry it everywhere, so that if I had a sporadic thought, a pitch, a lif