The Origin of "Break-up"

The word "break-up" must have been invented by a woman. I can picture her - dumped by the love of her life, pacing, crying, attempting to sort out her feelings, to define what is happening to her heart. She clutches her upper chest. She feels her heart pumping the blood that gives her life. She gasps for air between sobs. Then she feels something that has never been defined - her heart breaking. She pictures it splitting in two, the edges jagged like the broken hearts doodled on the notebooks of lovesick teenagers. My heart, she thinks. She then reaches over to her journal and begins to write. Break, break, torn up, broken up, break...break-up.

This scenario repeated itself in my head when Elijah expressed his confusion and need for "time". I was filled with grief, pain, and loss and the wound deepened during our next encounter.

Elijah waited for me outside of my office, sitting on a burgundy swivel chair. I walked toward him, gave him a soft kiss on the lips, and immediately realized my mistake.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm ok," I replied.

Elijah's eyebrows furrowed. He then stroked his head with his hand.

"I'm not doing so good," he said.

I gazed into his eyes, my eyes watering as I noticed his expression shift from somber to guilty.

"I want to be honest with you"

I held my breath.

"I saw my ex-girlfriend yesterday."

I was suffocating.

"I only wanted closure. Nothing happened between us. We talked outside, she cried, told me how she wanted me back -"

"I can't believe this. What are you doing?!" I asked.

"I don't know."

Elijah's hands cupped his face as I held in my tears. He then looked up at me and told me he had to go, told me we would speak later. He lifted himself from the chair, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and walked away. I watched him exit the room before entering my office and breaking down. Between sobs, I packed my things and put on my coat. I wiped away my tears and realized I couldn't wait. I called Elijah.

"Meet me in my apartment. We can't leave this like this."

My legs felt heavy as I walked up the stairs to my apartment. And my heart, my heart was sinking. I made it to the third floor though my eyes were blurred and my heart and head pounded. And then I saw Elijah, walking up the opposite staircase, stepping onto the gray concrete floor and approaching my door. I stood there for a second, keys jingling in my hands. He stood there, eyelids lowered, leaning on the brick wall. I opened the door. I watched him walk into my apartment. I took a deep breath. I could feel it breaking. I could feel that feeling. The feeling of a break, break, torn up, broken up, break...break-up.

The Ghosts of Exes Past

The holiday season brings happiness and the spirit of generosity. Christmas lights decorate fire escapes, wrapped presents sit underneath synthetic trees, and family members gather to chug Heinekens and have a merengue dance-off. The holidays also bring the return of all things - from the twenty-four hour marathon of “A Christmas Story” to the non-stop playing of the burrito song where the boy sings “tuki tuki tuki tuki.” But not all things that return during this festive time are as enjoyable as a good flick and a cheesy Spanish holiday song. There is also the return of the unwanted, like long lines at airports and thoughtless presents. The worst possible return being the ghosts of exes past.

I reached over and flipped open my cell phone. I had a text message from a familiar number, a number I hadn’t dialed in months. Happy Holidays to you and your family, it read. I shot up from the comfort of my bed and dialed the number.

“Hey!” he said.

“Hi. I got your text message,” I replied, lacking his enthusiasm.

“I’m surprised you called. How are you?” he asked.

I went on to tell my ex-boyfriend about my new boyfriend, Elijah. I bragged. Told him how well things were going in my relationship and how happy I was. Told him my family loved my new boyfriend. He went on to tell me about the end of his last affair. How she had gone through his cell phone and was envious of his relationship with his co-workers.

“You were never like that with me,” he said.

I sensed his regret. It felt good, but I wanted no part of it.

“Listen I would prefer it if you didn’t call me. I don’t think you can treat me as a friend, and I don’t want to disrespect my boyfriend.”

George didn’t take it lightly. He had returned with a purpose, and I wasn’t softening as I had so many times before. So he dug up the past, scattered the remains throughout the conversation. I remained unaffected as his frustration level rose, and I bid him farewell. I then dialed Elijah’s number.

“Hey, I need to tell you something,” I said.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I told him everything.

“Actually, I have to talk to you about something,” he said.

“What’s up?” I replied innocently.

“I spoke to my ex-girlfriend, and I’m really confused about what I feel. I wanted to wait to speak to you in person but I didn’t want to pretend like everything was ok. I need some time to figure things out.”

My eyes welled up with tears. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

“We’ll talk more when you get to Jersey, ok?” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Sujeiry, I’m not getting back with her. It’s not about that. Remember that,” he said.

“Ok.” I replied.

I hung up my cell, cradled my face and felt the softness of my hands, and began to cry. The ghosts of exes past had resurrected. I was prepared to bury them but Elijah wasn’t. He allowed her spirit to haunt our relationship. I could always feel her, lingering.

Crazy Conchita

Deep down every woman has a little Crazy in her. It’s like a repressed personality that transforms pleasant dispositions to nasty ones. Unfortunately, Crazy doesn’t have to wait long to invade our rational minds. All Crazy has to do is follow us to the next local bar on a not-so-good day.

That’s exactly what that bitch did to me. She used to follow me every Tuesday into Coogan’s Restaurant and Bar. Always find me though I would duck behind cars and hide inside building lobbies. At the bar, she would stand right behind me, blending in with the karaoke crooners and alcohol induced crowd, waiting for that fourth rum and coke to run through my blood stream. And then it was all over for the sane me. Crazy, who I eventually renamed Conchita, forced me into the dangers of Drinking and Dialing, and the emotional outbursts that streaked mascara and led bartenders to soothe me with glasses of ice water.

Elijah met Conchita the day before Thanksgiving. I planned to shower him with love and affection before I went home for the holiday, until he forgot about our plans and picked me up two hours late. It was unlike him. I sat in the passenger seat and greeted him with a quick kiss on the lips, then turned toward the window and watched the night spread across the sky as the beats of a 50 Cent song filled the silence. He turned to me and asked if I wanted something from the liquor store. Conchita immediately requested a bottle of Bacardi rum and a 2-liter bottle of Coca Cola.

Elijah and I arrived at his older brother’s home with three brown paper bags. The bottles clinked as he held the bags together in one hand and opened the door with the other. We walked into a spacious kitchen and Elijah set the packages on a glass table. I grabbed the rum and soda, leaving the six-pack of Yeanling and a bottle of vodka behind. I twisted the cap open and the potent smell of alcohol hit my nostrils. Elijah handed me a glass while the soda hissed and foamed. I began to fill the glass slowly, in an effort to measure my alcohol intake, and then Conchita tipped my elbow. The glass was half empty.

By my third drink, my legs felt like mush. By my fourth drink, the volume of my voice had elevated like that of an old, slobbering drunk. Elijah sat across from me, watched as I began to unravel with every sip and refill. But he just sat there with a cold beer, entertaining his brothers and cousin with a childhood story. I lifted myself from the stool and walked over to the table. It was time for another. Elijah looked at me and said:

“Babe, are you sure you should drink another one? You’re already getting pretty loud.”

My eyes narrowed and I poured the rum into my glass.

“I’m fine, and don’t tell me what to do.”

That was Conchita talking.

He turned away from my glare and took a swig of his beer. I stood there, sipping my rum and coke, watching his indifference. He was different. Something was different. Everything then began to blur. I walked toward the leather couch in the living room, leaving behind the voices and laughter. My body sank into the softness of the couch and I began to cry.

I don’t remember how long I was out, but I remember Elijah pulling me from the couch, handing me my coat, and my tripping on stairs after bidding everyone farewell. On the ride back to Elijah’s, there was that silence - that heavy, somber, frightening silence. And in his home, in his bed, there were more tears - apologetic and needy tears. I yearned to be rid of Conchita, but first I had to be rid of my doubts and fears. That’s where I had to begin and I hoped Elijah loved me enough to be patient. That night he was. Elijah held me in his arms and stroked my tear-stained cheeks. And Conchita was too. She took a break and let me be me.

Loving Like Shue

I sat on my loveseat watching “Leaving Las Vegas” and drinking a home-made martini. I took a sip of my green pick-me-upper and winced. The cold had hit my teeth and numbed my lips as the alcoholism and prostitution had numbed the feelings of Nicholas Cage and Elisabeth Shue’s characters. I imagined my drink was just as strong as the vodka tonic Nicholas' character drank and immediately set it down. Then they arrived home from the casino, Nicholas drunk and Elisabeth taking care of him before going out to sell herself. And then she surprised me. Took the dreaded step and said “I love you”. And he said he loved her. It was that simple.

My relationship with Elijah lacked the dysfunction of an alcoholic and prostitute pairing, but it was just as loving. There was a mutual understanding. He yearned for someone to love after his last heartbreak and I needed someone to love after all the disappointments. All that was left was for us to express our love to one another. And after meeting his mami and him about to meet mine, I felt it was on its way.

We walked through mami’s front door on a Saturday afternoon. I was nervous, as this was the first man I had ever brought home and the first that would spent the night. But mami was as wonderful as ever, greeting Elijah with a hug and a peck on the cheek, exclaiming how wonderful it was to meet him and what a handsome trigeñito he was. Elijah was relieved; his mami thought my mami would reject him because he was dark-skinned. But there was only love.

We excused ourselves after greeting my brother. Elijah had to buy a winter hat and I had to replace the upper button of my brown and black pea coat in order to brave the cold months of winter. We were finally outside of the building. Things seemed to have changed so much since I left for Rowan. The building’s numbers - 551- had somewhat faded and while standing there I noticed how worn out the bricks had become. I also noticed Elijah’s expression changing as he scanned the area. As much as he claimed Vineland, NJ was “hood”, the uncertainty, awe, and innocence spreading across his face told me otherwise.

“O.k., I’m going to take you to 181st. That’s where all the shops are. It’s like the Dominican version of Times Square,” I said.

He lifted a strand of hair stuck onto my glossy lips and said:

“Let’s get your button first. It’s really cold out here.”

I smiled. I loved that he thought of me, that he protected me. I looked up at him and noticed his expression changing once again. He starred at me, as he always did when we woke up in each other’s arms, admiring my essence. Elijah flattened the right collar of my coat and tucked in the gold and burgundy-brown Rowan scarf he had given me that morning.

“You know what?” he asked.

“What?” I asked.

He stopped for a few seconds and looked toward the bricks. He was going to tell me he loved me. I could feel it.

“Never mind,” he said.

“Not tell me,” I said.

“I’ll tell you when the mood is right.”

He grabbed my right hand and we turned to walk down St. Nicholas Avenue. I replayed the moment in my head and wish I had said something. I wish I would have risked it all -turned the functional to dysfunctional, the safe to uncertain, the fear to surrender. I wish I would have said I love you. I wish I would have loved like Shue.

Meet My Mami

My mother is a wonderful mami. She scrubs away stains and whitens my whites with bleach, crouched inside our tub; the water swirling around her ankles as if she were washing rags in rivers of the Dominican Republic. She bakes a tray of tasty perni - seasoned with lemon, Adobo, and oregano - to later pack my leftovers inside plastic Tupperware. And she never fails to purchase a 2-liter bottle of Coco Rico - my favorite carbonated beverage – every time I visit. I can always count on her to hide the green tinted bottle underneath the dining room chair so no one else will drink it.

She is the best mami in the world. Not only because of her impressive domestic skills and her selfless ability to cater to my every whim, but also because, like most Latina mami’s, she defends her children even if it means drowning in the depths of self-denial, transforming the naughtiest of sins into acts of sainthood. And like most Latina mami’s she is overprotective, which can be both soothing and infuriating. It feels wonderful when she massages my lower back pain with Icy Hot. It’s an entirely different scenario when, in the middle of deep sleep, she smears my temples and nostrils with Vicks to “open up” my sinuses.

Elijah’s mami was no different. She would stop at nothing to protect him from possible harm. She called whenever he would spend the night, questioning his whereabouts, and scolding him, stating he had a warm bed to sleep in at home. She questioned my intentions as I was five years Elijah’s senior, convinced I would eventually want “a man who was established, with a career and a house.” And this was also the woman who, as Elijah stated once: “wouldn’t speak to you if she didn’t like you.” It was no surprise I was terrified when Elijah asked me to meet his mami...

He turned the knob and I imagined being greeted by a Columbian amazon woman since Elijah reached a full six feet. But there was no one but me and Elijah. I stood in the small first floor foyer as he bent over and took off his sneakers one by one. He then placed them among fuzzy gray chancletas (slippers) and two pairs of mustard Timberland boots. I gripped the bottom of the thick white columns that towered over me from the above floor and leaned against the wall. The columns were supported by a metal rail as I was supported by the wall.

“Should I take my boots off?” I asked.

“No, that’s ok. I just take them off to be comfortable,” he replied.

I looked down at my feet and then at the collection that lay to my right. It seemed everyone felt comfortable barefoot.

Elijah grabbed my hand and I followed him up three short steps. We then stood there, waiting. In the background was the sound of running water. The shhhh coming from behind a mauve colored wall, next to a dining set. I scanned the open space as we waited. There were four plush chairs surrounding a wooden center table. A majestic area rug, with hints of gold and red, lay underneath. We were then in silence; I longed to hear one more drip.

“Mija!” yelled Elijah.

“Ahora voy, papito!” she replied.

My hands felt clammy. I placed them on my jeans and slightly began to rub them up and down. Elijah’s mami emerged from behind the wall.

“This is Sujeiry,” Elijah said.

Her big brown eyes traveled from my heels to my face then back. I wished I had taken off my shoes. Her toffee colored arms lay across her chest. She was small framed like me - must have been about 5 foot 3 inches - but she was still intimidating. I smiled, embraced her and planted a kiss on her left cheek.

“Mucho gusto,” I said.

“Igualmente,” she replied.

She asked where I was from and what I was studying. All things she had learned from Elijah. But I was elated she was speaking to me. The conversation, mostly compromised of small talk, ended quickly. Elijah then grabbed my hand and we walked toward his bedroom. She stood in the hallway, watching me as my heels clicked against the hardwood floors.

Elijah and I lay in bed watching Stewey hit his mami on the Family Guy. I looked at Elijah and asked,

“You think your mom liked me?”

“I think she did.”

He planted a kiss on my lips, unwrapped himself from my legs and went to use the bathroom. I lay on my side, hoping he was right, when there was a knock on the door. A few seconds passed and his mami peeked her head in.

“Tienes hamber?" she asked.
(Are you hungry?)

“Si, gracias.” I replied.

“Te traigo un plato ahora,” she said with a smile.
(I will bring you some food)

She walked away, closing the door behind her, and I knew she liked me. She seemed just as wonderful as my mami.

An Unexpected Ambush

In past relationships, I sought to win a man’s heart through the use of special tactics. My strategies were well plotted as if I were a trainer in a military boot camp. But unlike my fellow military comrades who attempt to accomplish their goals through the art of humiliation, I always began my ploys with the art of seduction. I cooked up great meals – rice and beans with chicken or cheesy saucy lasagna – and greeted the man in question with sexy see-through lingerie to later drop and give him twenty. If this ploy didn’t work, my impatience would soon take hold, transforming my generous spirit into an uncontrollable anger. Just like a drill sergeant spewing commands, I would yammer and pound until splotches of pink covered my caramel-colored complexion and the man under attack collapsed.

My mentality was no different when I began dating Elijah. Though we were spending every weekend and most weekdays together, I wasn’t convinced I had won his heart. Though he held my hand and kissed me in public, I was filled with doubt as he had begun to throw his own tantrums – occasional rants about his ex-girlfriend. His biggest explosion occurred while we were driving back to his home on a Thursday night. His hands gripped the steering wheel and his voice rose with every syllable, with every detail of their break-up exposed. My insecurities immediately kicked in and I decided it was time to begin my mission.

The next morning, Elijah had woken up early and had left me sleeping. I took advantage of his absence, grabbed the hot pink nighty from my night bag and waited for him on his King sized bed underneath blankets and sheets. I shut my eyes when I heard footsteps approaching the door. I turned to lie on my back, adjusting my body to the most “come hither” position. The door opened and closed. The steps grew closer and I then felt the right side of the mattress sink with his body weight. The mattress creaked as he leaned on his right side and lay beside me. He then gently traced my face with his fingertips and whispered,

“I am so happy you’re here.”

My eyes fluttered opened and there he was. Still stroking my face and simply watching me with tender, loving eyes. I looked away, overwhelmed by the intimacy and intensity of the moment, and faced the ceiling. His touch, which had disappeared as I pulled the cottony covers to my nose, found me again. I managed to face him and surrendered to his gaze. We remained in bed for hours and I allowed him to show me how to love without trickery.

Living Out Clichés

“Life is full of surprises” is the cliché of all clichés. The world is full of them, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. I’ve heard them all, while wiping cheeks stained with mascara and tears. Those expressed with a hint of determination and a dash of embitterment like, “there are plenty of fish in the sea” and the always profound “shit happens”. And others that soothe, providing a sense of perspective like, “it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”. But “life is full of surprises” is one of the few overly-used phrases that continues to prove its validity. Why just a few days ago my friend Chloe received her unexpected surprise. Her boyfriend informed her that after almost a year, his bitch-of-an-ex-girlfriend would be relocating from the sunshine state back to the empire state. But not all of life’s surprises come in form of a bitch slap. My cousin Kayla was recently engaged after a nine-year courtship with her baby’s daddy. He popped the question when she least expected it - at the point in their relationship when she had convinced herself it would never happen.

I’ve also experienced my share of surprises. Random emails from past boyfriends. Running into men I had permanently deleted from my cell. Six-degrees of separation with an ex and a new beau. But there is one event that I choose to replay in my mind almost daily. It is a moment I choose to remember as it also reminds me of yet another infamous cliché – “things happen when you least expect them”.

There I was, sitting atop the hardness of a blue seat, waiting for the Rowan Camden shuttle to take off and bring me to Rowan University’s main campus in Glassboro. The shuttle doors flapped shut and the driver turned around, exposing his pale skin and silvery hair. His thin lips moved slowly as he counted the number of students with his small blue eyes, beginning from the back of the shuttle bus and moving toward the front. He finally arrived at my seat but his gaze soon continued on, shifting to the young man sitting in the seat above me on my right.

The young man was dark skinned and tall. His hair perfectly curled and styled. The bright stud that hung from his ear shimmered as the sun peered from behind the clouds, setting its rays on the stone through the glass window. He sat there, his defined brows crossed and forehead furrowed, as he dialed numbers on his cell phone. I looked away, though I was surprisingly curious. He wasn’t my type but there was something about him. The shuttle took off and I watched the red bricks of buildings fade before encountering a traffic jam on Route 42.

“Fuck!”

My eyes strayed from the car bumpers and black asphalt and set themselves on the young man. The fuck had come from his mouth. He shut his cell phone and turned his body to face me.

“Excuse me. Is there usually this much traffic?

“I don’t know - this is the first time I take the shuttle.” I replied while observing him.

He curled his fingers around the metal rail in front of him. His shoulders tensed up as he stretched his neck in an effort to get a better view of the road.

“I don’t know if I have the patience to deal with this,” he said.

“Well, I really don’t have a choice. I’m from New York - I don’t drive,” I said.

He smiled, exposing his straight white teeth, and asked, “Are you a transfer student?”

“No. I’m a grad student in the writing program.”

He glanced back at me, brows raised now. He grabbed his green and black backpack and slid into the seat next to me. We were now face to face. His eyes - slanted downward and the color of coffee beans - were gentle, though his body language exuded strength and confidence. He seemed to be perfectly balanced between the masculine and feminine.

“How old are you? he asked.

“26,” I said.

He smiled again, like my being 26 had increased my chances, and said:

“Wow, I thought you were 20, 21 tops. So where are you living out here?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve been commuting to and from New York for the past week and just going to my assistantship in Camden. It’s a long story. Today is my first day of class.” I said.

As I spoke, he pulled out a piece of yellow lined paper from a notepad.

“I’m going to give you my number, just in case you need anything,” he said.

I smiled as he scribbled his name, number, and email address. He handed it to me and said:

“My name is Elijah by the way.”

I looked up at him and then looked away for a second, attempting to hide my shock. I turned back to face him and told him my name; he told me it was pretty. I thanked him, glanced down at the torn yellow paper where his name was written in big slanted letters, then folded the paper and placed it inside my wallet. He ripped another sheet of paper from his notepad so I could jot down my information. I wrote my name, number, and email address as he had, handed it to him and smiled. I guess all things do come to those who wait.

My Future, Me and Mr. E

There was a time I obsessed over the future and had an entire lot of psychics at my disposal, ready to summon spirits and read auras. There was the Guatemalan woman who read cards in the back of a botanica - the tarot cards read on a table behind a checkered cubicle curtain – who said I would continue my studies in 2005. I was impressed, until she thought I was a high school student. Then there was the Dominican woman who read las barajas atop a four legged folding table inside her hall closet. Once while lighting a white candle, she told me she pictured a terrorist attack with water as the weapon. Now, what did that have to do with my love life? And how I can forget the Dominican Spanish speaking Haitian. His spiritual center located downstairs of an income tax/real estate/cash delivery business. He predicted a man I dated would call me in three days, and he did! But in the next visit he urged me to break “the hex” cast on my romantic life by purchasing his special love bath. I was disturbed and immediately turned off, and at that instant I decided I would refrain from going to psychic’s regularly. Allow events in my life to take place without advance warning. But I had one more trip to take before going cold turkey. It was time to go to New York City’s Greenwich Village to visit J.D., the infamous Italian gay psychic.

I arrived at J.D.’s lavish home with my friend Chloe two months before my 25th birthday. A tall thin man opened the door and led us into a bi-level apartment. He motioned us toward the white leather couches sitting amid bamboo plants and glass tables. As we took our seats, he offered us a drink from the water cooler that stood against a white wall (just like in an office.) Chloe and I declined the offer. He then opened a black book, asked for our names, and then for seventy five dollars each. I dug into my purse, gave up three twenties, a ten and a five, and sunk back into the couch, starring at the sculptures, the paintings, the giant flat screen TV. It seemed J.D. was making quite a living telling fortunes.

I was the first to go. I rose from the softness of the couch and left Chloe searching through the fashion magazines stacked atop the coffee table. After walking up five steps and turning to my left, I entered another immaculate room. There was J.D. - bald, overweight, and color coordinated in what resembled silk pajamas. He sat behind a desk, swiveling in his chair and waving me in. While I approached, he stopped swiveling and began scribbling notes on a post-it. I sat there for a few seconds waiting for his voodoo magic to take place – a candle lit, a moan, the sprinkling of holly water, the unwrapping of a set of tarot cards, anything - but he just sat there, starring, scribbling away. I leaned back on the chair and he finally brought down the pencil and spoke.

“You’re 24. An Aries. So that means that you’re a bit of a handful at times. Men have a hard time keeping up with you,” he said.

I laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”

“But they’re the ones missing out, honey. When you’re in love, watch out! You give everything! You’re passionate, loyal, trustworthy, giving, and you can go anywhere and have a blast. They’re fools!”

I smiled. This psychic was fun, and so right.

“And I also see children all around you, lots of them. You’re a teacher.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Man, you’re good.” I said.

“Honey, it only gets better. Let’s talk about why you’re really here, your love life” he said.

I laughed, inched myself toward the front of my chair, and pulled at my pinky ring to ease my nerves.

“Your next relationship will be at 26.”

My eyes widened.

“What?!” I shouted.

“Honey, don’t get all huffy on me. This is going to be good for you. This man is going to sweep you off your feet. He’s going to show you things you’ve never experienced, honey. You are going to be in heaven, in love. But it will be when you are 26. Not now. Now you’ll just have fun.”

“But 26 is so far away,” I replied.

I leaned back, feeling defeated once again.

“Listen to me. It’s going to happen at 26. And his first name, his first name will begin with the letter E. You can’t fight Destiny, honey!”

I gave him half a smile and pushed myself off the chair. It was all J.D. could tell me at that moment. I would have to take it or leave it. We shook hands and he told me to come back at 27. Not in a month, not in a year, but at 27. I nodded and while walking back down the stairs I wondered if I could live a life of uncertainty. If I could actually survive the months with that one inside tip. I promised myself it would have to do. Meeting Mr. E at 26 would just have to do. Because I couldn’t fight Destiny, honey.

Rescuing Destiny

My poetry professor disowned Destiny. He, who raises his arms in praise when speaking of the beautiful language of poetry, who strokes the reddish blonde hair on his chin while gladly absorbing silence, and who recites the words of Robert Frost using his redneck alter ego. He completely dismissed her as mumbo jumbo during the critique of my last poem. And again after class while we stood in Bozorth’s lobby, facing muted television sets. So I decided to rescue Destiny from Professor X’s skepticism. While the NASDAQ numbers flashed across one of the television screens and Larry King’s lips mouthed words on another, I recounted the events that allowed me to accept the intangible…

I slept atop my full-sized bed, covers over my head though it was almost the end of August, when my cell started singing its version of a salsa. I fumbled my way toward my night stand - fingers jingling keys and moving aside bobby pins - before finally grabbing onto the slick metal. My thumb nudged itself between the mouthpiece and earpiece and flipped the phone open. Twelve bright blue numbers appeared: 856-256-4000. I brought the phone closer into view and pressed the green ignore button. The half note of the salsa became a quarter note before I closed the silvery flap and fell back into my trance.

At 12pm, I finally opened my eyes. I lay on my back and stared at the cracked white ceiling above me, tracing the zig-zag of the lines with crusty eyes. One of the lines had joined forces with another, to continue on with the destruction of plaster and white paint. They had created the symbol of infinity. The number 8. Eight, I thought. Eight, five, six. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my phone. My thumb pressed the missed call button and there it was - the unknown number. My thumb then pushed send.

“Hello and welcome to Rowan University. If you know your parties extension, please dial it now.”

I took the phone away from my ear and closed my eyes. The blurry details zoomed into memory: unbearable buzzing of my cell informing me of a message, dialing *86 and my password, retrieving a message from someone in the ESL department somewhere in Rowan University, pushing the number seven at the end of the message, hanging up and falling back into a zombie like comma.

My eyes watered as I realized the gravity of my mistake. I had erased a message about a possible graduate assistantship, the second offer I had received from Rowan University in a 2 week time span. My legs trembled, like two piano keys that had been struck over and over again but I managed to pull myself together. I held my long legs up to my chest, inhaled, and let go. My legs repositioned themselves, dangling over my full-sized bed. My toes barely skimming the floor. I lay on my back again facing eight, infinity, forever.

I stretched out my arms and decided I would forget about the assistantship. But before I could do that I needed one more look. I walked over to my laptop, directed the arrow towards the little blue e on the screen, and went on to the Rowan website. A picture of a lit building appeared. Its tall glass windows welcoming me as did the words, “Welcome to Rowan University”.

My eyes scanned the site and absorbed the information that attracted me to Rowan - the flexibility of the writing classes, the course descriptions and program requirements. And that’s when I saw it across the page - ESL Faculty and Staff. I held my breath and hit the Enter key. And there they were. The twelve magic numbers.

“Rowan Camden, how may I help you?”

I recounted the events to the secretary once and was placed on hold. My breath began to quicken. My temples ached. My fingernails exposed the pink that lies underneath the nail bed.

”Sorry to keep you on hold. I don’t know who called you exactly but I’ll transfer you to someone else who may be able to help you,” she said.

“Ok. Thanks for trying,” I replied.

I closed my eyes again. Memories of another kind filled my thoughts. Massive branches of Red Oak trees. Blades of grass dripping wet from rain. The face of a man I didn’t recognize –

“Hello Sujeiry, how are you? This is Janet."

"Hello Janet. I'm doing well." I replied.

"I was actually the one who called you about an interview for a graduate assistantship."

My eyes shot open.

“Oh, it was you. That's great!" I replied.

“Can you come in on Thursday at 3pm? Does that work for you?”

“Thursday is perfect.” I replied.

"See you then".

I hung up the phone and exhaled. Thursday would be the day to receive what was meant. I knew it was Destiny.

Shitty Luck

I am terrified of pigeons. They soar in close proximity to my head and force me to use my arms as armor. I run as I flap my long arms, fearing they will touch me with their spotted wings and leave a trace of the grime they’ve picked up underneath bridges and on rooftops. But unlike me, they don’t feel threatened or afraid. I am the one who has to walk around the flock when my size 6 shoes - giant in comparison to their tiny bodies - fail to produce a flinch or a change in their position. They remain gathered, bobbing their heads back and forth as they seek grains of uncooked rice or pick on gum stuck to concrete.

Not everyone feels the same way I do. There are many people dedicated to these creatures - discussing their importance, banning the practice of tossing uncooked rice outside wedding chapels and churches because it kills pigeons. It is even said that their shit brings good luck. Not the foul palette of off white and green they leave on car windshields and window ledges, but the shit that falls from their pigeon butts and lands on heads. It is this shit, the shit that fell on me a year and a month ago, that is said to be lucky…

“I got the graduate assistantship!” I exclaimed to my cousin while walking toward the Walter Rand Transportation Center in Camden.

“That’s great!” she responded.

“But I gotta go – have to catch a bus! We’ll talk more later.”

I closed my cell and drew in my surroundings. Little girls, moms, aunts, and sisters strutted their stuff, clothed in tiny tanks, halters, and tube tops. Curls and waves refused to rest on scalps as the summer wind engaged them in dance. Changletas flapped against the warm pavement and dirtied heels of feet. I stood out from the pack, from the groups crossing streets and gathering at corners. My hair was pinned back. My red blouse made of silk. My silvers shoes high and pointy. This is where I was going to be every day of the week for the next two years. No matter what the differences, I had to adjust.

I finally arrived at the bus stop and positioned myself on line. An older man lined up behind me and began to smoke a cigarette then the woman ahead of me lit herself a Newport. I was drowned by the stench and couldn’t escape. I began to fan myself, attempting to find some relief, when a splash of off white and green landed on my red blouse.

“Shit. Fucking pigeon!” I yelled.

The chimney ahead of me glanced over and chuckled. I ignored her as I grabbed a napkin from my purse and began to wipe myself clean. I moistened the napkin with saliva and scrubbed. It wasn’t coming off. It was tainted. My eyes welled up in frustration as I scrubbed harder; my skin hot. I finally decided to call my mother.

“Hola,” she said in her soothing tone.

“Cion mami,” I replied.

“Dios te bendiga,” she answered.

I explained it all. How the ride to Camden was smooth. How I was starting the assistantship the following day and how a pigeon had ruined my mood, shitted all over my day.

“Bueno, la gente dice que eso es buena suerte,” she said.

(Well, people say that’s good luck.)

“Buena suerte? Yo lo dudo.”

(Good luck? I doubt it.)

“Eso es lo que dicen,” she replied.*

(That’s what they say.)

The bus pulled up and I ended my conversation with mami. The line began to move. A white teen, sucking on a toothpick, stepped onto the bus first. A woman and her screaming child, nose filled with snot, were next. A scruffy white man staggered onto the line in a drunken state, asking for ten cents. The woman in front of me ignored him as she took her last puff before stepping onto the bus. I was next. I was finally facing the bus driver. She sat, seatbelt strapped, with her right arm resting atop the contraption that spits out yellow New Jersey Transit receipts and transfer tickets.

“I’m going to Philly”, I said.

She punched three buttons with her long dark fingers and then looked up at me.

“How much is it? I asked.

“$1.15” she replied.

She looked away as I fondled through my purse for change and came up empty handed.

“Do you have change for a twenty dollar bill?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head left to right. She asked me to step off the bus, get change and wait for the next one. I did as I was told. The doors swung shut and the bus pulled off, flying down North Broadway and then making a right turn. I looked down at my shirt, the shit stain setting, and waited for my luck to change.

Cracker Jack Rules

When I was a child, it was a thrill to find prizes inside the boxes of Cracker Jack’s. Whether it was a playing card, a fake tattoo, or a toothpick - I couldn’t wait to rip open the box and get to my goodies. I would go straight to the box and tear it open. Toffee flavored popcorn would fly everywhere, my weak self-control leaving a disaster over the kitchen floor and counter. But I always found the prize - quick and easy. Most of the time it was a Bazooka Joe comic and I felt satisfied. But as I got older things changed. I cultivated a step by step process to get to the prizes. I would first sift through the sticky popcorn covered in butter, toffee, and syrup. My fingers - stuck together - lifted the popcorn, pushing to one side and then another as if moving piles of sand. And if all else failed I would take a bowl and dump the contents to find the hidden treasures. It always took a longer period of time to find what I desired, but I had been following a set a rules my entire adult life, including in matters of the heart. Fortunately, those Cracker Jack rules were broken after my experience with Michael...

I watched Teri Hatcher trip over herself in Desperate Housewives, wondered how Halle Berry, Michelle Rodriguez, and Jadakiss could have all been Punk’d by Ashton Kuther, and tracked potential hurricanes in the Gulf Coast via the Weather Channel. Tired of starring at patches of green and orange throughout the state of Florida, I turned off the television set and launched my yahoo messenger. The golden smiley face bounced up and down in excitement before settling down and lighting up next to Michael’s name. It had been five days since our first date. We had not been in contact, yet he was online and available. My fingers began tapping away on the keyboard:

“Hey how are you?”

I clicked on send and braced myself.

“I’m fine and you?”

I stopped for a second, scratched my head in bewilderment. I began to type again, this time to ask "the question."

“Why haven’t you call–“

My pinky reached over to the backspace button on the right side of the keyboard. The letters began to disappear off the screen one by one. A ringing noise then shot from my speakers.

“Listen I’m sorry about the other day.”

“What other day?”

I waited for a response. Hoped for a sincere apology and maybe a suitable explanation for his inconsistent behavior.

“You called and I never called you back”

I paused before answering. My heart was racing as I didn’t know what he would say next. Luckily he couldn’t sense my irritation through instant messenger.

“Oh don’t worry about it. It’s all good.”

“Honestly, I didn’t call you back because I didn’t want to lead you on. It’s not you; it’s just that I don’t believe in long distance relationships. Relationships are a lot of work as is, without having to deal with distance”

My mouth dropped. I couldn’t believe he didn’t look forward to passionate, memorable sex, telling phone conversations spanning from two to three hours, and the sweet freedoms of a long distance relationship unaccompanied by loneliness. But my fingers typed:

“It’s fine. I understand. We can friends”.

“Thanks for being so cool about everything. We’ll definitely keep in touch. Take care.”

I sent him a wink goodbye and signed out of yahoo messenger. The golden smile faded into a gray stern face before I turned off my computer. I turned on the weather channel again before walking towards the kitchen. They were still tracking a hurricanes path to Florida. Inside the kitchen cabinet I noticed a box of Cracker Jack’s. I reached for it and placed it on the counter, opened the box from the opposite end, ripped the box in half, and watched the popcorn fall. The prize flew onto the floor. It was good old Bazooka Joe.

More Than Sperm

At age 32 my friend Steve will give me his sperm. That is the pact we agreed upon almost two years ago during a two hour phone conversation. I remember it clearly, how I paced the beige and pink tiled floors while discussing the logistics of our flawless plan. And then I remember hanging up and feeling defeated, like I had been clobbered with twenty-something hammers for every year I had lived, single and childless. Not only could I not imagine creating a child atop a cold examination table where the only object being inserted would be a plastic catheter, but I also couldn’t imagine an amorous liaison with Steve as my feelings for him leaned toward the platonic, the brotherly, and the inconceivable. And the thought of relinquishing the search for Mr. Right to then wed in a quickie wedding and hope for the best a lá Jennifer Lopez was more than I could bear. So I decided to be bold, be a woman, and take matters into my own hands.

Just a few weeks ago – and less than five years to the donation – I started my new life as a woman. I found myself hoping for more than sperm as I sat in the little coffee shop of the Virgin Mega store across from Michael. We sat in black plastic chairs around a little round table. There were no coffee cups to sip from, no CD’s to listen to or discuss, just the nervousness that overwhelms during a first date. I immediately realized he wasn’t my type. His hair, gelled and spiked at the front, was too perfect. His slim fitted slacks were too pressed. And his black rimmed eye glasses were too cool. Yet still I felt a tingle, like we were meant to be joined, like Bacardi rum and coke - I being the former.

After a few “getting to know you" minutes, we decided to leave the coffee shop and walk over to Patsy’s, a little Italian American restaurant in Union Square, to eat lunch. The walk over was telling. He didn’t walk ahead of me, which screams I-will-beat-you-with-a-club-and-drag-you-to my-cave, or walk behind me, which pleads walk-all-over-me-I-am-yours-to-lead! But then there was the opening of the door. He didn’t hold it in a traditional and chivalrous manner, where the man actually rushes ahead and holds it open at a perfect 90-degree angle. But then again who does.

Michael and I were seated. We were across from one another again, a square table now between us. As we ate lunch, a cheese pizza pie for me and a salad and white bean soup for him, my agreement with Steve crept back into my mind. How could a man fill himself up on soap and salad? I thought. How could anyone? I pushed the negative thoughts aside and held on to the potential because he was cute enough, educated, had a job, was childless and woman less, and didn’t live with his momma. Because there was a chance my egg count was plummeting as the minutes passed, as we sat within the confines of that restaurant. Because you can’t drink Bacardi without coca cola! And then he looked at me and said:

“I really enjoy talking to you.”

I was taken aback, feeling guilt ridden at how much I had nitpicked, tore his slender limbs apart. I finally managed to form words and said:

“It’s really nice talking to you too. It’s easy.”

And I was speaking truthfully. Even though he was smaller than I preferred. Even though he lived in New York City and I lived in South Jersey. Even though he spoke of his tough financial status and harped on about the injustices of the world and the United States school system. I liked him. And I would give this a try. Yes, I would give this a try and even consider a long distance relationship. I would open myself up to the possibility of Michael, if only to attempt love again, if only to lessen the odds of marrying a Marc Anthony.

Joining The Masses After A Few Cocotasos

Three of us walked ahead, leading the birthday girl and her party to another locale where drinks and music would be plentiful. But instead of discussing possible destinations, we discussed the world of blogs - past street signs, street lights, and cracked pavements. Instead of discussing possible drinking games, I was confronted with the blog movement and why I, a student of writing, wasn’t part of a world that is so autonomous it is almost liberating. But just as I skirted past fences and averted stepping on discarded gum, I avoided the conversation. I could hear my pulse and my breathing, no longer steady, because I was being persuaded by one of the two amigos to begin my blog journey. I could hear my voice, loud and high pitched, rising with every rebuttal as he spurted blog this and blog that. The third party, still focused on the destination ahead, continued to lead and ignored our bickering. We were two fiery, opinionated individuals who refused to raise the white flag; a leisurely walk towards the continuation of a drunken birthday celebration had become the war of the blogs. But in the mist of trying to prove each other wrong and the verbal crossfire of buts-, waits-, and eventually whatever’s, I mentally began to write this introduction. And because I am writing this introduction, the introduction to my very own blog, I am also admitting I was wrong. So I welcome you to In The Words of A Twenty Something…where relatable thoughts, stories, and observations will be shared weekly and an entirely new world will be explored by both you and I. I am officially a blogger, joining the masses after a few cocotasos.