Last night, I went to a going-away party for my friend Kenyon. The e-vite said 10pm - I didn't head into the bathroom until 9:45. And I luxuriated, too, like I didn't really have anywhere to go ... giving myself a fierce pedicure to rock these sandals like they're supposed to be rocked and shaving my mug. I don't shave often, so I figured I'd take this opportunity to turn my camera on myself. *grin!*
Everything happens for a reason.
I'll probably talk about this some more when I get over this immense sadness, but the bottom line is that two more Black men are dead. And there is another Black man still living who is responsible for taking another one's life.
*sigh*
Since I was visiting the Upper West Side for a Fairway moment, I decided to go looking for the memorial plaque commemorating Seneca Village, the Black settlement that conveniently disappeared to make room for Central Park.
I found no memorials, plaques, markers - nothing. It's almost like Seneca Village didn't exist.
I was living in Fort Greene at the time, before gentrification sucked all the marrow from the bone. I had been sharing a lovely duplex apartment with my cousin and another roommate on Clinton Avenue, right off of Myrtle.
I don't even remember what I was doing that day, but I was on the G train headed for Manhattan. I saw this man and he captured my heart from the very first glance. He was tall and thick (the way I like 'em!) and he had the most sparkling innocent smile that took my breath away. I had to do something quickly besides gawk, so I wrote my number on a business card, took a deep breath and walked over to his side of the car. I gave him the card and he blushed so adorably. I said "Please call me." and he said "I will." When we got to his stop and he turned to say goodbye, I felt both assured that he'd call me and defeated because he'd never call someone like me. My heart was racing.
