His name was Jonathan. Qualifying Stats: tall, handsome, educated, never been married, no children, easy on the eyes and oh, did I mention, those eyes! . . .
What can I say, he had green eyes, and he looked at me with . . . well, he looked at me with "that" look. You know . . . the, you look better than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when I only have .50 cents in my pocket and I haven’t eaten all day look. I was at Kinko's copying something, I don't remember what, and he insisted on waiting on me even though he was the manager and I am sure he had better things to do. After several minutes of small talk, I caved in and gave him my number . . . did I mention he had green eyes? After several mid-morning, afternoon, and...
Everyone was dancing and singing, including that black dude who silently disapproved of my date . . .
At a very young age, my mother sat me down and informed me that everyone poops. Teachers, doctors, lawyers, even Catholic nuns do it. “Everyone, even white people?” I inquired in disbelief. “Yep, that’s right! White people, black people, all people”, mom said, as she handed me a wad of toilet paper. “And, when you poop, you gotta wipe your bum clean with this.” Toilet paper, I discovered, was the greatest thing ever invented. I learned that I could produce giant coiled steaming piles of crap as long as I wiped my mess with the magical paper. Safe in the knowledge that I was not the only one who engaged in such a disgusting practice, I was now free to poop wherever I wanted as longed as I wiped my...
Now, everyone calls me Gwendolyn instead of Gwen or Gwennie, everyone except, for my fiancé . . .
During most of my childhood, I hated my name. Gwendolyn didn’t ‘sound’ like a proper name for a black child growing up in the seventies. It just didn’t have any cool or character about it. Neighborhood friends had strong, African sounding names like M’fufu, Neteri Boumba, and Shaniqua. They had hip, ethnic kinds of names; ones where the very utterance would conjure up images of Afro’s, hair grease, and bell bottomed jeans. I was jealous. Those were the names I longed for, and frequently petitioned my mother to legally change my name to one that’d suit my personality. My mother suggested Dingbat, Dizzy, and Flighty as alternatives, but they didn’t look good on a resume. So, Gwendolyn it is.
Now, everyone calls me Gwendolyn instead of Gwen or...
As usual, my period started without warning . . .
At an early age, my mother sat me down and explained that--at a certain special time-- all women bleed. She’d mentioned the monthly ‘visits’, cramps, and the unique absorbent equipment needed to deal with such matters. “It’s natural,” she said. “So, you’d just better get used to it.” I was eighteen at the time. By then I had pretty much figured out that it was unnatural for most humans to live after bleeding for more than three days. Still, I had a system in place to deal with this. Tampons for light days, maxi-pads for medium days, and bunched up toilet paper when I ran out of options. “There will be ‘accidents’”, she warned. “But don’t be embarrassed about it. That’s natural too, and it happens to everybody.” Natural or not, I hated menstruating. I hated everything...
