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
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,
“doomp….dooomp…..doooomp” - the road said. I always knew we were crossing over Lake Pontchartrain into New Orleans whenever the road started talking back. I remember being shaken awake from the backseat of my dad’s green 1998 Honda Accord. As I’d start to open my eyes, it’d
Vulnerability is at the heart of every meaningful friendship. My boys and I have spent countless hours exchanging ideas, everything from personal growth to economic equity on Mars. In these moments, we often find ourselves opening up and sharing the deeper parts of who we are. But with that openness
I am who I am largely because of my folks. My mom’s side of the family? They’re the social, passionate ones. Educators, coaches, jockeys, public servants—people whose lives revolve around family and community. Their energy? It’s relentless, almost electric. Put two of them in a room,
Where does rage come from, exactly? Does it have a home deep inside us, waiting to be stirred, or does it just appear out of nowhere, like an unwanted guest? When summoned, does it peek around the corner, waiting for the right moment, or does it leap straight from the