To Blog or Not To Blog...

That's some question. In our world of minute-by-minute technological advances, writing letters to friends and ex-lovers or crying over a tattered journal about your latest failed romance have been replaced with us sitting in front of computers and laptops for hours, getting' carpal tunnel and tension headaches (or for the hardcore bloggers, bloggin via cellphone) as we try to share some facets of our lives with...now get this...a bunch of strangers.

To get a letter in the mail these days means 1 of 2 things: a bill or someone soliciting us for a future bill. Seldomly do we receive a handwritten note or a four page letter from old college roommates, the first boy/girl you kissed or even pictures of your siblings latest addition (that only remind you that you're a year older and still single).

Is it because we've become such a rushed and impatient culture, that receiving a simple letter or taking the time out to scribble in a notebook truly appears to be archaic and obsolete...

We text message & email people more often than we call which is really a poor form of communication because you can't hear anger or get a true since of yearning from a text. We've become the untouchables in the simplest sense-avoiding human contact or only tolerating it at a minimal.

So I got to thinking about this today while I sat down to write a letter to my mama. Since I've been in college, this has always been a reliable way to keep in touch. To me, writing a few pages to someone I care about is an important endeavor. It's the one thing that keeps me from being totally antisocial. The letters I've written over the years (and I've written a bunch) have revealed so many things that I couldn't possibly say manage to let slip from my lips. My mama absolutely detests all things computerized and she doesn't have a telephone in her apartment which further reinforces our need for good ole' snail mail.

So as I end this post, I want to encourage everyone to take it back at least once before the new year rears its head, pick up pen and paper or the telephone, and write/call someone you haven't texted or emailed in a while. I think it would really make their day.

Lessons that MUST be learned in relationships...

1. If I have ANY doubt in my mind about a man's character leave him alone.
This summer, I was introduced to what seemed to be "a nice guy" by a "friend" of a "friend"...He was cool-we shared the same taste in music, liked Scarface and he was cute (hella skinny, but still cute). He worked this crazy shift, so I would have to stay up later than usual to talk to him, but I found it worth it; our conversations were always intellectual, funny and worth my losing out on some sleep. We'd agreed to take things slow and thoroughly established that we were just going to hang out and be friends. BUT, there was something that just wasn't right about him and, at the time, I couldn't put my finger on what it was exactly. A month into purely kicking it, I found out what it was: he had a girlfriend. In the beginning, I had had doubts about actually taking the time to get to know him; he seemed too good to be true. Had I only gone with my first gut, I wouldn't have wasted the time that I did entertaining him and some of his crazy ideas (i.e. like R. Kelly is the GREATEST)...

Being BR's Friend

Is proving to be far more difficult than I imagined it would be. He came over tonight and I expected him to be in another mood-happy to see me, glad the new year is right around the corner-but he wasn't; he was still angry at his parents because they told him the truth...He tends to romanticize situations and is the world's biggest procrastinator. His parents wanted to know what he was planning on doing with his life since he's been out of undergrad for almost a year. They wanted to know if he had found a suitable job and/or his progress on grad school and I suppose he should have seen this coming, living and breathing under their roof and all. From what I've known about his folks, they expect soo much out of him and to see him jumping from one ranky-danky job to the next, being stagnant, is a disappointment. Like I mentioned, he came over tonight while MBR/C and I were watching Anna & the King. He looked abit distant and saddened, so as soon as the movie was over, we headed to my room. I felt that he needed to talk so we sat down on my twin and I opened my ears (while desperately trying to keep my mouth closed) as he explained the argument he had with his parents. BR wants to go to an "ivy league" graduate school for Africana Studies. I asked him why and his only reply was "because they have really great programs." You'd think that there was more to it. I really think, well I know, that he looks down on the state provided education he (and myself) received. Perhaps getting into an ivy league will "improve" his undergraduate degree. I don't know. You know, I really don't like people who rag on the schools they've gotten degrees from as if they are just...Shit (and when you think about it, what does that say about them). My college experience has been just the same as anyone else no matter where they went-Princeton, Yale, Harvard. In fact, it's been better and hell of lot cheaper if you ask me, but I'm digressing...BR got angry with me because I wouldn't say what he wanted to hear: that his parents were talking nonsense and shouldn't be worried about their only son's future; that he should continue to get recommendation after recommendation from professors that hated to see him comin for institutions that will have him up to his eye balls in debt and that probably won't accept him fully into their schools (he wasn't Magna Cum Laude or anything close to it). I was telling a friend about this during a heated Iming session and his thoughts were:

To compare Harvard or Princeton to our state funded school is like
camparing a McRib to a Steak from Pauletts: there is no compariosson. Just
because of the name its going to look better. All you're really doing is paying
for the name and networks because I have a friend that went to both a public
university and graduated undergrad from a Ivy school, he said the public
institution was more difficult.

I was just trying to be a good friend, you know, listen and offer some form of input. I played devil's advocate, asking him if he'd given any thought to the fact that he may be romanticising some of his grad school plans and that just made him furious with me. I don't understand what he expected from me. Was I suppose to sit quietly, hold his hand and rock him like a baby? That would be pacifying him and he's too old for that. So, for a week or so, I can expect that he won't call until he can find some way to turn this all on me and make an attempt to excited my wrath. I'm thinking...Should I beat him to the punch?

This Christmas...

was the best one I've had in years! Despite all that my family's been through--divorce, evictions, substance & alcohol dependency, unemployment, new additions & rifts among the Cousin Crew--Christmas was really good this year. My sister, Gator, celebrated one year of sobriety on the 23rd. I'm immensely proud of her & her recovery. She's such a different individual now; so much more happier, pleasant, spiritual & optimistic. She's also losing weight (which has inspired me to get back on the workout train that's been derailed for a month now). She's the sister I remember and use to idolize as a child before the drugs, the alcohol and the disappearing. She's on her way towards being a better mother to the 5 children she has; Gator's just a better person and I'm proud of her. I have 4 nieces, ages 1, 8, 9 & 20; 1 nephew, age 12; and a great-niece who's about to be 5 on New Year's eve. In the 5 and 1/2 years that I've been away at school, they've grown so much. Heck, my nephew is in the 7th grade! Time had gone by so fast but I can still remember when they were all infants, cute as ever, barely able to speak and dependent on you. Now they have opinions, can do every tweeny bopper dance there is and wear "Ciara" boots. My nephew is showing an interest in the opposite sex and told me about a girl that he "likes a lot." Just being around them, reminded me of so much that I've missed-birthday parties, report cards, football games, school programs-things that, ironically, I've always wanted to be present for. But this Christmas allowed me the opportunity to make new memories and even catch up just a little with them. One of my nieces likes Math & Science (subjects I've detested) yet reminds me so much of myself. My nephew's favorite subject is English (just like his Auntie) and that's purely amazing to me. I miss them already and can't wait to see/hear from them soon... Every Christmas, for as long as I've been on this earth, my family-immediate, distant, just-related-because-we've-known-you-for-decades-gets together for Christmas breakfast at one of my Aunt's houses. People come in shifts at times, but there's always a house full partaking in the array of Christmas breakfast staples--Sweet Rice (not a fav of mine), Country bacon, Turkey, Salmon patties, Eggs, Sausage egg casserole (something else I stay away from), Honey ham, OJ, Rolls...Breakfast is more than just gettin' yo grub on. It's where the best-of-the-best occurs: the family gossip, the introduction of newbies (new girl/boyfriends, children), the wishes of "Merry Christmas" to folks you know you can't stand (even if they're family), the shock that "Lil ____" is maturing into a beautiful woman and/or the brother may be the next gang banger, the silent votes that Aunt____ needs to give up kitchen duty and sit her tail down. My list could go on and on but the bottom line is that for one day, friends and family stand side by side with heads bowed, hearts and minds open, hands clasped together in a moment of prayer. It's here that we realize how blessed we are to be in "the land of the living" (as my mama has said frequently) and we forget about so much of the petty stuff we tend to hold on to...

I Was this Close...

"Words are the swords we use in our battle for success and happiness. How others react toward us depends in a large measure, upon the words we speak to them."

Wilford A. Peterson

To not graduating this past Sunday and it all started Thursday morning (12/15)...My day began with my body waking itself up 30 minutes before my alarm. I think it was excited about the interview I had that day and the responses I'd hope to receive about my last minute graduation questions (I'd been up till the wee hours of the morning emailing various people from the my graduation liaison LP to some woman with the last Zitkus). The responses I received were unsettling, to say the least. I'd gotten an "I," an incomplete for my writing internship and wouldn't be graduating, according to LP, after all. He'd taken the liberty of processing my application for May 2006 graduation and suggested I contact someone in records and registration to ask permission to at least walk on Sunday. My mind quickly shifted to what-can-I-do-to-fix-this mode, trying to reach the English department head, calling records to make the proper requests. I was all over the place, my mind racing from graduation to the interview that was scheduled for later in the day.

In the end, the department head helped me get things corrected and alas, I graduated on scheduled with friends and family present to commemorate a special milestone in my life...

Thinking about that Thursday, I was relieved, excited, frustrated and high strung all at the same time. The thing that kept popping up in my head was what would I say to my mama or the rest of my family who'd made the trip to see me and that I still had an interview to get through. I had to keep it together or I'd definitely lose it.

Fast Forward

After the interview, I headed back to my apartment. Things had gone quite well and I left feeling that I'd made a wonderful, lasting impression on my possible-future-employer. I wanted to share this experience with someone-- my first thought was to call CP but he's in the process of being written off--I called BR instead. What started as a simple conversation about a job interview that went well spiraled into me ranting and raving about my day. Then it took a turn for something else...

Suddenly I realized my errors when it came to he & I. We had been at a crossroads for the longest, our instincts had helped us build a wall between us (constant insults, back biting, negative gossip with "friends") making it extremely difficult for us to truly be the friends that I'd pushed for us to be when there was so much more there. It's so weird how a moment of sheer insanity can invoke clarity. For months, I'd indulged in making him out to be the devil, the instigator of all the ills between us, when I had helped to create the barrier simply because I was being selfish and got angry because I couldn't have what I wanted: him. And in the midst of one crazy ass Thursday afternoon, I apologized for months of stupidity, confessing the friendship that I missed and asking that a barrier be removed...He said yes.

To Be continued...

Therapy, We All Need...(Ode to BR/C)

It is true: at some part in all our lives, seeing a psychiatrist, "head doctor", "shrink" would benefit us all. People, especially Black folks, tend to look at seeking therapy as a negative thing, equating it, I think, to some sign of weakness or ineptitude...But think about it: What is a theraphist any way? Maxwell Hyman said it was "Someone who will listen to you as long as you don't make sense." I think they are simply thought mechanics, helping people repair the damage done by those that are suppose to safe guard us the most...our families.

Listening to the Dixie Chicks and Madonna...

Thinking about tons of things since classes & exams have been over...What life will bring after graduation...Will I get hired at Girls, Inc. And if I do, how will that work out w/GEARUP & MBR/C's class & work schedule...And lastly, if I was utterly brainless to even entertain the idea of CP & I getting back together.

For the longest time now, people have asked what would I be doing after graduation. Immediately my reply would include how adamant I am about not returning to Memphis, getting a "real" job and going to graduate school after I take a semester or two off. Here's a thought: Isn't it hilarious how with the onset of graduation (it's only 3 days away), everyone keeps talking about "life after undergraduate" as if life is totally altered somehow once it happens. No real miraculous change will occur...My feet won't get any bigger, my rent won't be lower and I won't get a free, new car. I just won't live my life governed by semesters, at least for a little while.

I was IMing an old friend from high school during the wee hours of this morning & we got to discussing the animated version of the Confederate Flag he has posted as an avatar on FB. It seems that it excited lots of people and he felt the need to offer this rant to clear up his stance on the stupid flag (that what I call it):

So, let me get this straight. The Confederate Flag, which flew only after slavery had long been an institution in the U.S., and which today does not have any significant impact nationally (except when it is brought up in debate) is viewed as a symbol of hatred while the Stars and Stripes, which have been officially flying since 1777, stand tall as a symbol of freedom. There is something very wrong, and ironic, with this picture. I know of late there has been a lot of nostalgia for the American flag. Most of the atrocities committed against blacks have been done while the Stars and Stripes have been flying. I grew up pledging my allegiance to the same flag that flew while my ancestors were being enslaved, hanged, and brutally beaten but now I am told not to sympathize for those people who want to display their heritage by flying the Confederate Flag atop their State Capitol, or anywhere else publicly, because it, stands for slavery. I have no problem with the Confederate flag flying anywhere. As far as I am concerned, it stands for the beginning of the end of slavery. When southern states seceded from the Union and raised the Confederate Flag, it forced the powers that be to finally take a realistic approach at solving a problem that for too long had been ignored. I believe that slavery would have eventually ended but it may have been centuries later (for those of you who think it would have been sooner, remember the 1960's, and that was a hundred years after the Thirteenth Amendment abolished slavery).

The Confederate Battle Flag today finds itself in the center of much controversy and hoopla going on in several states. The cry to take this flag down is unjustified. It is very important to keep in mind that the Confederate Battle Flag was simply just that. A battle flag. It was never even a National flag, so how could it have flown over a slave nation or represented slavery or racism? This myth is continued by lack of education and ignorance. Those that villify the Confederate Battle Flag are very confused about history and have jumped upon a bandwagon with loose wheels. Dispicable organizations such as the KKK and Aryans have taken a hallowed piece of history, and have plagued good Southern folks and the memories of fine Confederate Soldiers that fought under the flag with their perverse agenda. IN NO WAY does the Confederate Flag represent hate or violence. Heritage groups such as the SCV battle daily the damage done to a proud nation by these hate groups. The SCV denounces all hate groups, and pridefully boast HERITAGE - NOT HATE. Did you know that at KKK rallies US flags actually out number the Confederate battle flags 100 to 1? Did you also know that The US flag flew over a slave nation for over 85 years! Or that the flag actually flown on slave ships was actually the US flag not a Confederate flag? The North tolerated slavery and acknowledged it as a Division Of Labor. The North made a vast fortune on slavery and it's commodities. It wasn't until the South decided to leave the Union that the North objected. The North knew it could not survive without the Southern money. That is the true definition of hypocrisy. But I see no one getting all emotional over a US flag.

I just had to include this in my post. I was telling him that I think the biggest issue about this flag is the disagreement over what the flag symbolizes; for some it is seen as a symbol of regional pride and heritage; for others is serves as a as a symbol of the institution of slavery which the Confederate government defended, or of the Jim Crow laws and the racial segregation it brought in the Southern States for almost a century later. To end this part of our chat, I just let him know that FB wasn't the appropriate forum to blast anyone out about the Confederate flag...

I Was Remembering When...

It was January 2003, the start of a new semester and the start of me looking at a close friend in a new light. I'd known Will for a while, about a year & 1/2, and had grown quite found of him. We were both were from the same city and he'd even gone to high school with MBR/C. He'd become the voice of male reasoning for me when I couldn't readily talk with my other source(s). Through that , Will had gotten to know me and in many ways, he'd helped me come to know myself, especially with some boyfriend issues I'd had some semesters before, got me really to see that I shouldn't let anyone place rules on me that they weren't willing to follow themselves. He also fed me when I was hungry (he was a great cook & my mouth's watering just thinking about it). I remember feeling very uneasy around him once I'd become aware of my feelings for him. I wasn't sure if Will looked at me "in that way" and that's what made telling him (at first) that I liked him so difficult. I did something drastic-stepped outside the box and just asked Will out on a date; well actually, I just asked him to the movies. We went and saw Final Destination 2, a movie I figured would give me ample opportunity to get close to him; thinking about that now makes me blush because I can't believe that I had those intentions. But you know, he and I never got together. He told me he thought I was a lovely person but that he didn't want to bring me into the mess that he called his life at that time. As months progressed, the semester ended and summer came, he went back to Memphis, I failed to keep in touch, he didn't come back to school to finish his last year and a few months ago, I'd heard that he was getting married...

Will Tookie Die?

At work, I was checking email, reading the latest news in the Black world and came across Earl Ofari Hutchinson's editorial Tookie Must Die. Honestly, I hadn't really been thinking much about Tookie, but he'd been mentally filed in the back of my mind. Just a week ago, MBR/C was trying to get me to sign an online petition to keep Tookie alive; I hesitantly declined.

Stanley "Tookie" Williams, founder of one of the most widely-known and notorious street gangs the Crips, if folks didn't know, was convicted and sentenced to death for the murder of four people and is scheduled to be executed December 13, 2005 by lethal injection. His attorneys have a clemency hearing scheduled with Governor Schwarzenegger on December 8, 2005 (can't wait to hear how this goes). He's become an anti-gang spokesperson and is even a Noble Peace Prize nominee.

Hutchinson's editorial sparked my asking some of my co-workers if they were in favor of the death penalty. Some interesting conversation then followed.

About 3 of us agreed that we were against the death penalty, giving different reasons for our views. I personally think that the death penalty is unnecessary for a couple of reasons:

1) Putting a person to death for crimes that they've committed doesn't erase the pain, anguishgish that families endure for their lost. Death to the killer doesn't bring back the killed. Their crime still stands as is. In most Western nations, retribution isn't stated as a purpose of the criminal justice system.

2) Man can not judge another, can not assume the power of God to grant death to others.

3) Our court system is as crooked as ever; it's fallible; it's a fact that there are some people facing the death penalty who've been exonerated, sometimes only minutes before their scheduled execution, while others have been executed before when there was evidence clearing them of their alleged crimes.

4) Over 95% of defendants can't afford legal representation and end up being represented by court-appointed attorneys who either don't care or whose credentials aren't worth a thing, giving the prosecution an unfair advantage.

CHECK OUT THIS SITE FOR QUOTES ON THE DEATH PENALTY. They really will make you think: http://people.freenet.de/dpinfo/drinmatesfamilies.htm

Then there were the 2 (well, more like 1 and 1/2) that favored the death penalty expressing that it prevents offenders from ever returning to society, keeping them from harming others, and that the death of the criminal, while it may not provide full justice for the life they took, is the closest form of justice.

I've heard other reasons for the support of the death penalty such as "People who have committed the most heinous crimes have no right to life" or even that "The death penalty shows the greatest respect for the ordinary man's, and especially the victim's, inviolable value."

From this conversation, we all segued into what influences in a person's life leads them to prison in the first place, the life that inmates live (whether it's luxurious or not) and it ended up that some people had to step out of the office for a cigarette break.

Just in general conversation, people's opinion on whether Tookie's life should be spared is split. To my knowledge, he has been rehabilitated;Tookie will not become a productive member of society, but he's gained an education and attempted to make some amends for his mistakes through the publication of his children's books that advocate non-violence and alternatives to gangs. In 2004, he helped create a peace agreement between the Bloods and Crips in California and New Jersey. Even the President (if it actually counts for something) wrote a letter commending him on his social activism.

I can't help but wonder what will happen to him. By allowing Tookie to be executed, what will America be saying about it's own prison/justice system? Hutchinson touches on the notion that people are attaching the millions of ills and crimes committed under the gang that Tookie helped to establish, but that's crazy; how can one man (other than Jesus) carry the punishment for what dozens and dozens of others have done? Many people are rallying, actively campaigning against the execution, especially in the celebrity arena, from Snoop Dogg to Jamie Foxx to Danny Clover and even, Mrs. Chicken of the Sea, Jessica Simpson. Petitions have been spread around in the nation and to date, over 32,000 people have signed online petitions calling for Schwarzenegger to squash the death sentence.

Bliss, Ignorance is

Bliss, Ignorance is

hit it dead on the nail about the slightly less intelligent folks everybody knows. Think about it...there's always that person in your family, circle of friends, cubicle mates...that's just stupid as hell; it seems that every week it's something else. I have a few "Friends" that fall into the stupid people category: BR, J from SD, MM...they've all got these warped perceptions of reality. For instance, BR believes, adamantly that there's still a revolution going on that Black folks need to flood the streets and kill Whitey over; J from SD sincerely wants to have a job that she can wear nice clothes to. She also wants a $5o0, 000 home and some luxury car but doesn't feel that she needs to work for it; MM has faith in the thought that Turtle Head will one day be her man (cause he's just sooo confused) although all he wants to do is be a man-whore, not her man. I tell you, stupid people are just everywhere!

I was doing a little Reminiscing and thought about...

laurenbyrne's Thinking Woman

*Ms. Bonnie. You know how we've all heard it said that prostitution is the oldest profession in the world. Although it has been universally practiced, also universal is the condemnation of the prostitute. So negatively viewed, it makes you wonder why anyone would freely choose such a profession. One Memorial Day weekend (some years back), I went home to Memphis and capitalized on the chance to find out (from a reliable source) what prostitution is really like, or at least I attempt to. Ms. Bonnie, a friend of the family that I have known for quite sometime, had just retired from twenty years of “selling the goods.” She is a nice woman, pretty and intelligent. She graduated from Duke University with a Bachelor of Science in pharmacology. She had always talked about her “other life” openly with my mama and those who know her intimately and I wondered if she would talk to me.

The first time I met Ms. Bonnie, I knew what she did for a living. It wasn’t because she dressed in fishnets, a black mini, pink halter top and knee high boots. Ms. Bonnie didn’t dress in that stereotypical fashion at all. She wore colorful tees and dark denim jeans or shorts on the weekdays and simple, pretty dresses on Sundays. She often wore her brown-spiraled tresses down or in a ponytail pulled through a collegiate ball cap. I knew what Ms. Bonnie did because she openly talked about it. She was a “working woman” she would say with a pride that those who were just meeting her for the first time might consider misplaced.

Never ashamed by the career path she had freely chosen, Ms. Bonnie always held her head high, although family and close friends tremendously disapproved.

“To come to grips with the fact that you’re a prostitute isn’t easy to do. My grandma used to call me a ho to her friends and a whore to our family, as if it made a difference,” she recalled with a sigh. “It hurt like hell at first but I got over it. I always did.”

Ms. Bonnie is a petite woman, about 5’4 with a chestnut complexion and large deep-set ebony eyes. She has a youth appearance that fools the eye into thinking that she’s much younger than thirty-eight. She tells animated stories about life in general that make you laugh uncontrollably but it is the stories about her own life, especially her twenty year experience as a “lady of the night” that offers an intimate portrait of Ms. Bonnie.

“When I saw that movie Pretty Woman for the first time, I laughed at the shit cause I knew it wasn’t real,” Ms. Bonnie chuckled in between taking bites of a Mitchell’s burger. She ordered a burger with everything and I’d just bought some gum and a blue Fanta.

Ms. Bonnie and I had just stepped through the doors of Mitchell’s corner store and out into the blinding sun of Memorial Day weekend. Mitchell’s is a mom and pop store that has sat at the corner of Chelsea Avenue and Pope Street for decades. The building is an awful shade of purple now and its color changes seasonally. This corner is just one of the many corners in the Douglass community that Ms. Bonnie used to frequent on weekends for almost twenty years.

“You know when Richard Gere first meets Vivian and he’s in the expense car?” Ms. Bonnie asked me, as we started to walk down Chelsea Avenue, a lengthy street lined with churches, big and small, vacant lots and buildings and a few houses and duplexes here and there.

I nodded at Ms. Bonnie because I knew exactly what scene she was thinking of. In fact, I knew that entire movie, scene for scene because it was one of my favorites.

“Well sugar, it was plenty of times that I was standing on these streets hoping for a car like that to roll up to me,” she said as she pulled an onion from her burger and tossed it on the ground. “I just got the usual in their beat up Caprice Classics and old Ford trucks.”

Chelsea Avenue runs through the neighborhood I lived in for seven years. As we walked, Ms. Bonnie asked me how my classes were going, if I was getting close to graduating and commented on how difficult it must be for me to be away from my family for so long. It seemed as if she were the one giving the interview and not me. I answered her questions but I knew that I had to take the attention off myself and place it on her.

“Ms. Bonnie, I don’t want to keep you out here all day walking around the hood. I’m sure you’ve got barbequing you want to get to, so let me get to asking you some questions. I have to know, how could you spend endless weekends out here for twenty years?” I asked. I waved my right hand around at the open space the surrounded us.

“Sugar, that’s a good question. Nice place to start. Well, let’s see. Most of the time, I did it cause I needed bus fare for the trip back to school, for books, even groceries. But then there were times that I just wanted to get away from the responsibilities I had at home,” Ms. Bonnie replied. She took a bite from her burger, chewed a little then swallowed.

The “responsibilities”, as she explained later were those she felt that her grand mother, Odessa, had placed on her. Odessa was a stern woman who had expected Ms. Bonnie to make perfect grades, go off to school, get a degree then make her way back home to support Odessa and her sisters.

Born August 10, 1964 to Jesse, a neighborhood mechanic and Silvia, an elementary school teacher, Ms. Bonnie was the oldest of four girls. In the next three years, each of her sisters was born, the last being brought into the world only to see their mother slip from it.

“For a year or so after my mama died, my daddy did his best to take care of us and keep us together. He did everything from combing hair to hemming dresses to helping with homework. If there were a problem with any of us, he’d stop working on a car and hurry to us. But it wasn’t enough, I guess,” said Ms. Bonnie. “My sisters and I got sent to live with Odessa while my daddy went in search for a better job, so I was told.”

Ms. Bonnie later learned that her father had found a better job, a fishing gig, down somewhere in Louisiana but that better job cost him his life only after working there for six months. So Ms. Bonnie was raised by her grandmother from the age of seven to eighteen when she left to attend school at Duke University.

“Odessa was this huge woman. She had to have been at least six feet tall. She was very dark skinned and her voice was deep like a man,” Ms. Bonnie let her own voice drop a few octaves lower so that she could imitate the voice of her grandmother. “Growing up with her wasn’t easy cause she was strict. There were no boys, sleepovers, jeans or tennis shoes. I had my own room but she took my door of the hinges, so I didn’t have any privacy. There was no such thing as a curfew. In Odessa’s house, you had to be in as soon as the sunset. I used to say to myself that I couldn’t wait to get out of her house so that I could be normal because I felt that there was nothing normal about the way she raised me and my sisters.”

In the fall of 1982, on a full scholarship, Ms. Bonnie entered into Duke. She wanted to be a HPLC (High Performance Liquid Chromatography) chemist for a food science laboratory of some kind.

“I just thought that if I got my degree and made some money, I could get my sisters and take care of them myself and not have to worry about what my grandmamma had to say or what she thought was the proper way to raise children,” said Bonnie. “My grandmamma, lord rest her soul, she didn’t know how to show affection to us. Well, to me mostly. And when she found out about what I was doing in my spare time, and ounce of compassion she ever had for me went right out the window.”

Weeks into her first semester at Duke, Ms. Bonnie immersed herself into all that the campus had to offer. She attended recitals, film showings, and lectures. She participated in the student government and volunteered with several community service groups in the city. As the holiday’s loomed near, Ms. Bonnie dreaded having to return to Memphis, her grandmother’s house and her rules.

“I got so used to the freedom I had at school. I could come and go as I pleased, hang with whoever I wanted to, and Odessa didn’t have any say at all because I was in one place and she was in another. Most importantly, it became certain that Odessa didn’t care about me as a person. She didn’t write or call me to see how I was. From a letter that my youngest sister wrote me, I found out that my room had been turned in a mini library so I knew I didn’t have a place to rest,” Ms. Bonnie said as she looked across the vacant field in front of us. “There was no home, I felt, for me to come home to.”

It was during her first Thanksgiving break from Duke when Ms. Bonnie tried prostitution. She recalled a time in her life were the last thing she wanted to do was go home to Odessa’s house. As she began to tell me about her first time, her eyes glazed over as if she wanted to cry but no tears spilled down her cheeks. Quietly, I sat and listened as Ms. Bonnie told her story.

“I didn’t know that the university was going to close down my resident hall during the break. I was counting on staying there in my room and not having to go back to Memphis, even if it was just for a few days. The bus ride to Memphis took hours and during that time, I thought of a million things to do to keep me from going to my grandma’s. Engaging in a sexual activity for payment wasn’t one of them. When the bus pulled in the Greyhound station, sadly, I got off, got my bag and I headed for a pay phone. Originally, I was going to give my grandma a call and let her know I was there, but instead of stopping at the row of pay phones, I kept walking towards the automatic doors of the terminal. I remember walking down to this restaurant at Union and Main named Hughey’s and that’s where I met my first customer.”

Ms. Bonnie’s first customer, and certainly not her last, was a thirty something white male named William she met while sitting at the bar. She remembers he had long dark hair braided into a ponytail and was wearing a faded Kiss t-shirt that seemed too small for him and stonewash jeans. Moderately attractive was William or Will, what he’d told her to call him once he introduced himself to her. They talked for twenty-five minutes while he drank three Coors lights and Ms. Bonnie had a cherry Coke and fries. She doesn’t remember whose idea it was to get a room at the Days Inn just around the corner, but that’s where they headed before Will could even motion to the bartender to give him his fourth beer.

“It never crossed my mind Will might have been some kind of lunatic luring me to my death. He talked a lot, was very articulate, quite kind and cute. I noticed how cute he was when once we got into the room,” said Ms. Bonnie as a slight smirk crept over her face.

“He was talking a mile a minute, asked me if he could help with my bags, took them and placed them in a corner. He asked if I cared if he turned a lamp on, asked if I wanted to watch some television, even asked what side of the bed I preferred. I was getting tired so, I mumbled another sure to him and took my tennis shoes off, got on my side of the bed we were sharing that night. The minute my head hit the pillow it dawned on me that he paid for my soda and fries at the bar, paid for the room that I’d be staying in for the night, and he let me have the side of the bed that I think he was accustom to sleeping on. I started thinking that he might want something in return, but the only money I had on me was bus fare back to school. I started thinking fast and the next thing I knew, I told him that I appreciated him getting the room and that I didn’t have any money to give him but that I didn’t see a problem with giving him something else in the form of compensation. And, well, you know what happen after that.”

“So you mean to tell me that there was no coercion of any kind on this Will’s part?” I asked in disbelief.

Ms. Bonnie started to laugh and I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at the memory of her first time or my reaction. “He didn’t threaten me or nothing, Sugar,” Said Ms. Bonnie. “If anything, I had to coerce him.”

My mind wandered as Ms. Bonnie continued her story. I expected to hear her relay a narrative about some bizarre, painful and disgusting ordeal with a sadist or something. The Will that Ms. Bonnie spoke of seemed like a normal, regular guy, not someone shopping around the streets of downtown Memphis for a girl to pick up. I had my own romanticized thoughts of what prostitution was like. They evolved around performing all kinds of sexual acts, no matter how life threatening or perverse, for the cheapest amount of money and then having to take that to some pimp that laid claim to you, who would in turn give you nothing at all.

Ms. Bonnie looked at me, started to shake her head and then asked me, “It’s not what you expected to hear, huh?”

It took me a minute to answer her. I was attempting to arrange all the thoughts in my head in hopes that I would remain tactful as I began to express my disappointment in the things that I’d heard.

“Ms. Bonnie,” I began as my words mumbled from my mouth. “I kind of thought you’d tell me about sacrificing your body and your emotions for a man’s pleasure, about the violence you faced, having to fight for your life in a less than glamorous profession. You just described to me something you seemed to enjoy. I just don’t understand that.”

What I did understand and could sympathize with Ms. Bonnie on was that feeling of not having a home to go home to. I knew what it was like to dread holidays and taking that long, butt numbing Greyhound bus ride to Memphis. I often felt that there was no room for me at the inn. Of course, selling myself was never an option that I could ever accept. I went home with roommates instead or stayed in my apartment alone, but I never thought of prostitution as a way to avoid making the trip.

“No one ever does, Sugar. Folks claim that they really want to know, want to understand why I did this for twenty years, but they turn up there noses, contort their faces into awful looks when I tell them I’ve had sex with over forty-five men, given close to about one hundred hand and blow jobs and that I was okay about doing it, except for about three instances, but ultimately I was cool about it. I think folks can’t handle my form of truth since it doesn’t necessarily coincide with their own.”

The truth that does not coincide with Ms. Bonnie’s is that “prostitution is an act of violence against women which is intrinsically traumatizing” (Baral 405). A study of 475 people in prostitution from five countries (South Africa, Thailand, Turkey, USA, and Zambia) showed that 62% reported having been raped in prostitution, 73% reported having experienced physical assault in prostitution, 72% were currently or formerly homeless and 92% stated that they wanted to escape prostitution immediately. Women in prostitution often suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder that is a psychological reaction to extreme physical and emotional trauma. Sixty-seven percent of the women in prostitution from five countries met criteria for a diagnosis of PTSD. This rate was similar to that of battered women, rape victims, and state-sponsored torture survivors. Moreover, I shared these findings with Ms. Bonnie. She was quiet for sometime. She bit her lower lip as she seemed to be contemplating the things I had said.

“Contrary to popular belief,” began Ms. Bonnie as we took a seat on the porch of an abandoned house where she used to wait for customers. “All prostitutes, street walkers, whatever folks want to call us, aren’t poor, crack head, alcoholic, women who’d been sexually abused and scammed into the business. Maybe those statistics makes up the majority but, I’m talking about the few of us who made the conscious decision to what we do or what I used to do. I am not emotionally messed up in the head. I’ve never been dependent on a pimp. I wasn’t feeding a cocaine habit or any other habit for that matter. I did use this as a means to escape parts of my life that I didn’t want to experience and that’s the honest truth. Folks may find it hard to believe but it’s never been about what other folks believe, but about what I know to be true for me.”