“You’re living at a time of extremism, a time of revolution, a time when there’s got to be a change. People in power have misused it, and now there has to be a change and a better world has to be built and the only way it’s going to be built is with extreme methods. And I for one will join in with anyone, I don’t care what color you are, as long as you want to change this miserable condition that exists on this earth. Thank you.” Bookmark and Share Bookmark and Share


3 months.

As I gently sat her down in an LIC diner, I realized my silence gave her splints of apprehension. I eventually told her that I was not happy in our relationship and that I couldn’t go any longer being at that place. Essentially, that I could no longer stay with her. This was a woman whom I told three months ago that God told me that she was my wife. This same woman whom I proclaimed my love for, over and over and over again. I took her on mental vacations, where we visited our seemingly inevitable future together. Three months later we sit in a diner sharing nothing but NYC radio, a bad waiter and loss for words. She took my words well.

There was no struggle, no fight for this love we shared, just the resonating warmth of sadness that was shed between us. She was calm, mindful of her words; contrary to everything I thought she would be. I anticipated some dramatic emotional outburst and already forgave her for the onslaught that would come. Because I understood, I realized the pain and sorrow that the male persuasion as caused her amidst the years and didn’t want to become one of the masses. Nonetheless my words didn’t seem to phase, and instead of her heaving and sobbing, I was he who manifested through tears. Not drops of saline that is comparable to storm-like elements, but subtle expressions of the emotions at hand.

Speaking of that, I wanted to grab her’s and gently place it in mine. At that very moment I wanted to set my rough hand on her solid face and tell her that I’ll return, by that some miracle of love, I’d be better and come back for her, my three-month love. But I didn’t, and all that touched my hand was a pair of cold scrambled eggs and home fries that didn’t remind me much of childhood.

She took my words so well. Like a poised politician she processed my expressions and gave me well-thought, dignified responses. She allowed me to leave with a freedom that a woman has never given me. She gave me love as I left. Void from holding bitterness or malice toward me, her words of understanding gave me a peace as they rolled of her tongue.

“I don’t hate you, I don’t hold anything against. I won’t talk bad about you to my family, or paint an ugly picture of you. If anything, you’re an awesome man of God and I’ve learned a lot in these three months. I hope you learned from this as well. But if you ever come back to me, make sure that you know that I’m for you and that I’m what God has for you. Not unless you’re sure, I can’t take going through this again.”

My mind began to retort, “wait, where’s the aftermath, where’s the spate?” For the first time in my short, yet full life I’d just broken up with a woman who didn’t accuse, hate or attempt to emasculate me. Her strength and beauty through this testified of her pure, meaningful love for me. This leads me to remember that love isn’t about how a person makes you feel or what you receive from them, its true meaning lies in their selflessness. How much a person loves you can be measured by how much of themselves can be set aside for your sake. As I think of this truth my respect and admiration for this woman comes to the surface, leading me to look towards the future.

What will be the final culmination of our lives? Will we end up in each other’s hearts in minds, as partners, walking out the completion of our earthly lives together? I simply do not know. In this case the only being that can comprehend my beginning and my end simultaneously, is cognizant of these next seasons and decades of our lives.

With all expressed, I sit in my Queens one-story with peace that God not only has a plan for me as an individual but that that very same Lord is guiding her to a blessed hope and “an expected end.” GoDiva.



I slightly miss the state of bachelorhood i once dwelled in. The ability to meet and covene with various women at any given time with no relational commitment to any of them but honesty. It may sound as if I'm describing womanizing, to me it entails variety, volatility. Being able to jog through my Sidekick II and stop at a given name and think, "I'm interacting with her today."

Not to take a knock at my relationship with diva but the aforementioned lifestyle is something I've gathered an acquired taste for.

Maybe I'm simply a child who needs to grow up and mature; which now may mean letting go the ideals of the past. And its not as if the whole "casual dating" scene worked out for me. Many of my previous companions were left somewhat bitter and cold. Towards me at least. But not all of them, there were several lasting pleasant experiences. Wow, I speak as if there were, oh so many of them.

Although, the monogomous route is quite consistent. I guess the determining factor is what is that consistency bringing? Inevitable stress or imminent joy? That may be the key element in why I am experiencing the emotions I feel.

corporate prostitute

This job hunt process has left me feeling jaded.

I feel like a prostitute whom no one wants to buy. All I've been doing is selling, selling, selling myself. Bending, seeking, conforming; for what? Sweaty, stressful days in clothes I don't want to wear. This is a sorrowful urban soap opera.



In the aftermath of yesterday being everything that it was I feel that I should be more joyful, more insightfully grateful for what God is doing. It seems that my joy and gratitude lie only in my thoughts, positioning me solely as a mental participant of these occasions.

What happened yesterday could and will inevitably affect the course of my life in many crucial ways. For one Cliff decided to be the eighth member of the Student Venture house, which locks us in position to move in August 1st. Another exciting occurrence was editor Adrienne Ingram proposing to help me to compose a book about my life, an autobiography. Her being in the professional “place” she is gives me an opportunity to share my life and my words with millions of people aboard. For them to know the power and validity of Christ’s resurrection in my life. The veracity of this situation brings me to a sober reality that I now am able to face.

My dream is to become an established writer. To share my loves, disgusts, vulnerabilities and experience with the public at large. I wish to write as if no one will read, displaying and uttermost honesty and transparency, as if I was were a jailed inmate, preparing for a routine search. To, experientially verify the life of Christ through the brunt of my poetry, prose and mental exhaust. To write for the love of writing itself, daily bearing witness to self, my fervent adoration for the written word. And as the literature flows from my cerebral excretions, publishers wait in the wings for the next manuscript hot of the presses of a Canon copier.

To write because the fabric of my being compels me to do so. To compose because the innermost instincts, like those that lead us to love or to breathe or to defecate, tell me to do so.

This is the passion; life is the chance, Adrienne, possibly one of the gateways.

Beneath the layer of hope lies a subtext of fear of incompetency. Yes, many people have praised my writing but when the editor reads it, will she share the same sentiment? Only time will tell and only hope can dream. I pray her response is critical awe. Room for improvement, but publish-able. And worse case scenario, no I’m not going to explore the worse, but the best. My God put this in me, this penchant for creating the written word, it is He who determines what opportunities come my way and how many work out. God I place publishing in your hands along with any other success that may come way. All I can do is strive to become the best at what I seek to do, compose.

With writing this I had today in mind. How did today affect my life? The question I should ask myself everyday but don’t. Seeking to answer that turned into opening a can of thoughts, sinking to the depths of what I feel. Writing has become my processing place.

Today I took my fourteen going on forty-year-old sister to Beth Israel hospital to follow up on a lead for a volunteering position. As we walked through the train station we both subconsciously knew she would get the “job.” And that she did. With clever ease and charm she became a young member of B.I. volunteer staff. I’m actually proud of her.

On the way back from Manhattan we both feverishly read whenever the opportunity arose. She, “Gifted Hands” from Ben Carson and I, “The Prisoner’s Wife” from asha bandele. Yes, that’s how she spells her name, in lower cased letters...