I always thought my obsession with New Orleans was simply because my family is from here. I took refuge in the idea that if they had come from Denver, Colorado, or Macon, Georgia, I’d be just as enamored with those places. But a friend challenged that thinking. "Your
In 2012, when I arrived in Malaysia, the company leadership gave me the book the 48 Laws of Power. I remember flipping through the pages, and feeling uneasy. This wasn’t a leadership book filled with inspiration and uplifting rhetoric. This felt entirely different—like a manual for manipulation, a
“It’s a good thing you can’t count that high. Five should be a manageable number for you.” I smacked my teeth and shot him a look—annoyed. Another moved goalpost. I was eleven. Small for my age but with a quick mouth and an iron will I inherited
I grew up advantaged. Middle class. Two parents. Books in the home. Surrounded by families with the same. But my real advantage wasn’t any of that—it was my dad’s psychology. I was slow to realize it, but as I read more Nietzsche, I see now that my
She was a star. That much was certain. Not the fleeting kind that burns too fast or too bright, but the kind that radiated—warm, steady, and knowing. She didn’t just light up a room; she lit up everyone around her. She made you feel like yourself. No Robbins
“Mannnnnn, you look like that singer!” I’d already started rolling my eyes before he could stop snapping his fingers... jump-starting his memory. “Maxwell! That’s who you look like.” I quipped, “I can assure you, I cannot sing.” He smiled, ear to ear, with... no teeth nor happiness concealed.
Last night, I reconnected with an old friend over shisha and fellowship, a bond forged during my Taiwan days. As the midnight oil burned and minutes dissolved into the stillness of the night, our conversation found its way to burnout. It’s the kind of topic you don’t bring
Think with me.
I wanted to be a Banker. I liked suits. They wore them. Done deal. I asked my dad to show me how to tie my tie. I planned to be sharper than Gekko on my flight to Los Angeles with my Nanny. It was Brenda and her small time '
We were all crammed in there—no less than eight of us from the Dojo at the Atlanta Boys and Girls Club. Country music was the only thing on the radio. Not by choice, mind you. My parents are from the ’70s, and I grew up in Stone Mountain...shawty.
He still cheesed. His smile was checkered, but in every place where he was missing a tooth, dignity stood. His hair flowed past his spectacles, sweeping against his weathered skin as he all but marched toward me. I immediately thought of Coach Bertrand. I wasn’t sure I could believe
"I can’t swim, I can't swim!!!" His cries filled the cavernous training center, bouncing off the high walls. Flailing, panicked, and visibly exhausted, my fellow BOISET classmate struggled to stay above the surface of the 60-foot-deep pool. The instructor’s whistle pierced the air, cutting
I can say hello in over eight languages. I can hold a basic conversation in five. And I could probably live comfortably in three. But I only dream in two. As an only child, I was forced to communicate—with strangers, other kids, adults, even my toys. And one of
“Run through that MUUVAARF—KA! Why you PUSSYFOOTING?!” Uncle Henry could cuss. He elevated profanity to an art form, wielding words with the finesse of a master painter blending colors on a canvas. He was constantly inventing new cuss words, stringing them together in combinations that left us both shocked
He looked like one of my cousins—skin somewhere between red clay and mahogany, dark eyes with an easy warmth, and a neatly kept beard that framed his face with the kind of care that wasn’t fussy...just intentional. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short either;
I hated reading. To me, there was no value in sitting down for hours on end trying to discover someone else’s story. I always thought—and still think—that movies or TV series are the best mediums for storytelling. I was so certain of this that I used to
Every week, my boy Paul and I have virtual coffee. It’s a standing appointment—one of those rituals you don’t really realize how much you value until you think about it. We talk about everything: politics, sports, dating, that one time in Puerto Rico…you name it. But
My big cousin, who also doubles as my godbrother, recently came to the Town. Naturally, we had to catch up. Once we were through the standard-issue New Orleans greetings of “whazzam” and “you got it, dawg,” our conversation shifted toward the TV, where the game was on. It’s October,
People often ask me, “What was your dad like?” In part, because my mom’s personality is so vibrant, they wonder who could possibly be the yin to her yang. There’s genuine curiosity, too, because I never talk about him in any concrete tense. I know they wonder: Is
“Good morning, class.” Our professor said softly at precisely 10:30 a.m. as he shuffled into the room on a delightful sunny Thursday at the illustrious Howard University. Today, like all Thursdays, was soul food day in the cafeteria, and you knew it was going to be popping—DJs,