Love Trips: The End of Ghetto

Sometimes I can be a little bit ghetto. That's right. This Masters degree achieving, ELA teacher certification seeking, Andover prep school graduate can roll her long neck, convert her tiny mouth into a O, and growl, "Conaso, you mother fucking pendejo!" with a thick Quisqueya Heights* accent. I can also slap an ass-grabbing White boy across the cheek, pound my fist against the window of a yellow cab, and suddenly turn around and state eloquently: "How very nice to meet you."

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Love Trips: I See Potential Penis, People

I have a sixth sense. Not the creepy kind like that pasty, frail White boy who sees ghouls and goblins, but the kind that actually doesn't scare people. Not the kind that baraja readers claim to have; the third eye that sends voodoo shock waves into the victims of love struck clients. But the kind that actually helps people. What is this sixth sense I speak of? The kind that every woman in America, in every barrio and campo in the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, and even little villages in Africa wish they had. I can simply look at a man and know if he's going to kick it or simply kick rocks and keep on stepping.

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