A bird with one wing...

...will only fly in circles.

I never understood the value of mentorship before, probably because the idea of befriending an individual with an ulterior motive sounded contrived. After all, the relationship is nurtured based on what that person can do to help you; what good is a mentor whose advice and network are of no benefit? I saw mentorship as a trite networking tool, rather than a sincere exchange, and had no desire for it.

But as I've gained experience in the twighlight zone we call a career, I see now that the value of a mentor is similar to the value of a smile from a stranger. It is said that a smile from a stranger could save a person's life, because you never know what a person's story is at face value. I now believe that mentors shape a person's career.

I never had one, not a career mentor at least. I was assigned a college mentor, a professor from the department I studied in at the time. It was not a process of self-selection, but rather an arbitrary match at the administrative level. We developed a rapport with one another, so much that when I switched majors, she remained my de facto mentor, despite not being "bound" by her duties to guide me. But while I am grateful to have had that relationship, I don't think it's the same as meeting someone who sees your potential and adopts you, or meeting someone whose work and ethics you admire and seeking his or her advice. We have not spoken since I graduated, as if our relationship were proxied only by my matriculation status.

Unfortunately, since I began in my field, no one has taken me under her wing. Equally unfortunate is the observation (and I am *extremely* observant, so I believe this to be true) that women in my field, and black women in particular, are reticent about reaching back. I find this unfortunate, because as an acquaintance of mine once noted, "black people are underrepresented in every profession except cosmetology and rap, "and more young people need to see examples of what they can become. I also find this unfortunate because the ones who have decided what we (think we) want to be need validation, in a sense. It is a tough world in the workforce, and having someone who's been there, who can offer counsel and encouragement, and who can show you beyond the forest. When you feel like someone is in your corner, you're less likely to back down. You're less likely to listen to the inner demons that say you don't deserve to be where you are. You're less likely to run away if you have someone to push you.

Last Thursday Ed Bradley passed away after a secret battle with leukemia. I was saddened by his death, because I admired his work on 60 Minutes. I was more saddened when I listened to his colleagues' and friends' lamentations that he'd died, because I heard over and over the same thing: Ed Bradley loved young people, and he loved reaching back.

Syndicated columnist Clarence Page wrote in the Houston Chronicle:

To me, Bradley was important because role models are important. You don't really appreciate the importance of role models until you're old enough to look back and re-examine the pivotal moments in your life and who had the biggest influence on you at the time. Role models matter.

"As a young black man watching him," a reader named "Greg" posted on the Chicago Tribune Web site: "I came to believe it was possible to be a successful black man without denying one's self." So did I. That's a powerful legacy Bradley leaves behind. Growing up in a working class neighborhood in Philadelphia, his folks used to tell him that he could be anything he wanted to be. He took them up on it.

In the Chigago Defender, Demetrius Patterson wrote:

NBC 5 News co-anchor Art Norman said Bradley paved the way for him.

''Ed Bradley was a friend to Chicago,'' Norman said. ''He helped us many, many times with different issues. He was a great friend of two of the founders of NABJ; I'm talking about Max Robinson and Vernon Jarrett. Whenever Max Robinson and Vernon Jarrett would come to a conference, Ed Bradley would be with them.

''He would be making sure that we had kids on the agenda. He was making sure that those of us who were veterans were mentoring young people. That's what he was about. And that's what he talked about and that's what he did behind the scenes.''

As I listened to news specials and read articles like these, I couldn't help thinking that perhaps if an Ed Bradley had reached out to me, or acknowledged my interest in a relationship, perhaps I would have survived my disillusionment. But as I said, because more black women in this field view me as a threat rather than an ally, I have been in this fight without a trainer. I felt alone because essentially, I am. For example, I attempted to befriend a colleague in my field by contacting her. I would give her praise for her work when warranted, and I tried to spark a dialogue with her. Our exchanges were not frequent, but knowing how busy she is as the only black and the only black female in her company, I didn't sweat it. But then I noticed that while she never took our email and phone exchanges anywhere beyond that, and she never offered any feedback--good or bad--to my work, she had embraced my male co-workers. When I emailed her before a male co-worker, I noticed she not only emailed him first but also called him...and set up lunch with him. She replied to me a week later. I have not spoken to her since. I don't have time for that pettiness.

Just yesterday I came across someone who is apparently more "seasoned" than I, and again, because brown faces are scarce in this business, I know she noticed a young, black professional woman right in front of her. I made eye contact with her twice, and twice she looked past me. Twice she pretended I was not there. Her work isn't even that great, and I wasn't necessarily seeking her guidance, but that she made it a point to ignore my very existence said more than she ever could.

I've never felt like I belonged in this business, and this has been an internal struggle of mine for a few years now. With each frustration and setback, and without anyone who has stuck it out to tell me the fight is worth it, the little fire I tried to keep burning has burned out. Perhaps if I'd had the opportunity to meet Mr. Bradley or at least someone like him, I would have been convinced to stick around.

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A small chip off the ole Block

Writer's Block is one hell of a sickness. When writing is your antidote to pain, your first meal of the day, your friend who knows you best, being unable to write is devastating. Deblilitating, even. Needless to say, the ole Block has been with me like a bad relationship, off and on, for a few years now.

I've been writing in fits and starts lately (even started a few posts that never went anywhere), but today I wrote and completed my first poem in two months. Funny, I was inspired to write this as I was studying for a test.

At any rate, this one is about one of my favorite pasttimes. I hope you enjoy the read as much as I enjoyed the write.

Cover to Cover

i was
wrapped in rainbows
for one hundred years of solitude
listening to krapp's last tape
and waiting
for a streetcar named desire
to take me to
the blackboard jungle
where things fall apart

and i learned that
a tree grows in brooklyn
where
the souls of black folk
are walking with the wind

i was
wounded in the house of a friend
tumbling
in a catch-22
with an invisible man
who had the bluest eye
and white teeth
he took me to
the learning tree
where we sat
and spoke of mice and men

he told me he knew
a black boy who
stole the heart of a woman
and then let her
drop
in the small rain
but she was only the prisoner's wife
and nothing more
than breath, eyes, memory
to us both.
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Warning!

It's been a long time, but you should know the deal by now. I am in a mood lately, and I just got something off my chest I thought I'd share. But I have to issue a disclaimer, that if you have sensitive eyes, ears, imagination, or whatever, you might want to skip this one. But knowing the morbid sense of curiosity we're given by human nature, you'll probably read on anyway. Don't say I didn't warn you (the title says enough).


Rebound (Kcuf You)
Tried to kcuf you away
hoping I could wipe
your residue
clean
afterward
Thought I would forget
about the burn
if I let him
take me
from your spot
Tried to let him
carve his name
in your place
so I could go home
and think of him
instead
of you
Tried to ride him as
far
away from you
as my hips could
grind me
thinking
'why you?'
'why me?'
all the time
Thought maybe this time
or next time
I open up
to someone else
I'll close the door
on you.
*9/6/2006*

(c) JGH

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The Birthplace of AlieNation

Dear City of Philadelphia,

I'd like to thank you for almost ruining my day yesterday. Thanks to you, I let down my daughter, who expected to spend her Saturday at the Welcome America Ice Cream Festival.

We got dressed and groomed for a day in the sun enjoying all the ice cream and water ice we could eat by the Delaware River. Instead, we drove down street after street from Old City to Society Hill with 'No Parking' signs at every meter. I was hip to your scheme, City of Philadelphia, by the time I turned off Market onto Front Street and saw those red-lettered signs all over the place. See you, City of Philadelphia, were trying to capitalize on the tourist haven that your beloved land is during America's birthday by giving revelers no other option but lot parking--at 20 effin dollars--to enjoy the festivities. And thanks to your shrewd planning, every lot along Delaware Avenue--I'm sorry, Columbus Boulevard--was full. So, after spending an hour driving on cobblestones and unpaved streets, I just went home.

So since my baby doesn't know or care who you are, she was upset with me. Because you let me, a tax-paying resident of your city, down to get more tourism dollars, I let my daughter down.

I know that tourists are heare to spend money, and if they're traveling on holidays like Independence Day or New Year's, they have the discretionary dollars to spend. But Philadelphia is mostly working class, paycheck-to-paycheck and out to find some cheap fun. I had it all planned out: $5 in change to spend at a two- or three-hour meter nearby, and $5 each for myself and my baby to attend the festival before enjoying a free concert featuring Cece Peniston and the Ohio Players. I intended to stay until I was depleted of change, sun-kissed and stuffed with sweets, my daughter's face stickier than fly paper, before going home to bathe her exhausted body and put her to bed.

But because you opted to alienate your own denizens, save those Old City and Society Hill dwellers, in favor of tourists, I did none of that. Don't worry though, I refused to let you melt our sundae. We got our ice cream, and got our sunshine on somewhere else. And trust, should this continue to be your modus operandi on future Independence Days, you can count this native out.

Yours truly,
A frustrated taxpayer

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Love and Happiness

A broken heart makes it easy to wallow in self-pity, easy to settle for victimhood. The struggle, the triumph, is getting back up again. To think of loving again immediately after your love-box is impaled is like craving a four-course meal immediately after a bout of vomiting. The very thought induces misery and pain associated with the purge itself, so much that at the time, you don't want to ever visualize, smell, or see food again. Eating is later re-learned, step by step, with first crackers, then a slice of bread, until you convince yourself you can eat again and hold it down.

Love hurts. The very thought of loving again during heartbreak or even at the beginning stages of recovery is torturous. You've already given so much, made yourself so vulnerable, so open to this union in which you've invested yourself, to be let down when it falls apart. What masochist would want more? But eventually, as you heal, you learn that you are more irrational in pain than in love, and you realize it's almost nonsensical to think, I'll never love again! In time, you find yourself longing --and ready--to love again. It could take months; it could take years. The point is not to want love in a co-dependent way, as if the thought of solitude is a prison sentence. The point of loving and losing love is to grow from it, to learn from it, so that when you're ready to love again, you can love even more. The heart is like a muscle; every time it tears, it regenerates and becomes stronger, as long as you continue to use the muscle.

I've had my share of heartbreak. I won't lie, one particular incident still hurts sometimes. But I am happy as a single woman. That's not to say--because I feel I must explain this--that I am content being single for the rest of my life; I am simply comfortable in my own company. But I am proud to know that I have conquered that self-pity, and I look forward to that day I will love again. I have not become the cynical, bitter and scorned woman who's lost faith in love. I have faith, which is of itself an accomplishment, that I will love again.

But why must people constantly make me doubt that faith?

It amazes me when I do things in the spirit of romance. I can be damn bold at times, doing a complete somersault out of my comfort zone. It makes me proud because the most recent time I got hurt, it was a situation where I'd made a bold move, and it backfired. But, I jumped again, this time convinced it was worth it. Here was someone I'd admired from afar for a while, someone with whom I felt compatible, whose conversation and company (physical and virtual) I enjoyed. We seemed kindred spirits, and it felt right to let him know how I felt. So, I confessed my feelings hoping for some resolution, big or small, between my love interest and me. And for a moment, that seemed the case.

Yet somewhere between "I dig you too," and "What now?," this nail-to-chalkboard inertia has set in, and not only has our alleged romance sat at a red light, our friendship has also since sat in purgatory. It's ironic because I remember in one of our debates about life and love, I said that I love being friends with men, it's when the line is crossed that guys start acting funky. He said it wasn't always the case, leaving me to believe he meant it wasn't the case with him.

But alas, it is. He has since been M-I-A, his presence along with his allegedly mutual feelings, leaving me no option but to take it personally. I put my heart on the line when I admitted my feelings, and I took that risk thinking the benefit would outweigh the cost. I took the risk because I thought he--we--had promise. This isn't so much heartbreak as it is plain disappointment. I'm forgiving enough that with the right explanation I'd still give him a chance, but I really hope his so-called feelings weren't just an obligatory concession. He seems an otherwise upstanding guy so I will give him benefit of a doubt.

Maybe he's scared. I understand; emotions are scary, because they're uncontrollable. Given our circumstances, being scared is expected, but it's no excuse for abandoning it all. Firstly, I thought we were friends. I can't take back what I said, nor will I, because it was honest. I just hope he realizes that avoiding his feelings won't will them away. In the meantime, I'll just keep the faith.

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Random Ramblings

I need to do some serious housecleaning upstairs. My mind is a cluttered mess. It's partly why I haven't written in a while. I've got to do better with recording my thoughts. If they'd only stop coming to me in the shower, I'd be good to go. A few things I must express:

• Driving with your children flipping around the backseat, hanging out the window, and climbing over seats, especially when they're small, is a form of child abuse/neglect. It disturbs me that people don't buckle their kids in before pulling off. The earlier you introduce the habit, the easier it is to remember. And for small kids, it should go without saying that they need carseats until they're at least 7 years old. Not doing so is knowingly endangering your child(ren)'s life. (Oh yeah, and if they're under 10, they shouldn't be in the front seat either.)

• So is smoking around them. Fine, you can't break your habit, and you're addicted to the cancer sticks. But do your kids have to inhale carbon monoxide?

• It really sucks that you can't tell your heart what to do. Or not to do. Like get attached to people.

• Do all black people have to be Christian? Is it really necessary to impose one's religion on other people? I don't go to church for want of a tabernacle- you can't go three blocks without finding one- it's obviously a choice. I respect yours; respect mine.

• Like white t-shirts worn six sizes too big were a bad idea, so is wearing a sleep bonnet in public. In no way is it cute, not even if you let a few strands of curled hair drape across your forehead. That, my friend, is a fashion-hell-no.
  

I guess the rest I should just keep to myself. It's one thing to have an image as a crazy bat and yet another to affirm the perception.

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Cyber Magnetic Poetry

I was playing around on this site for kids called Time Warp Trio and decided to create a poem. My theme was "The Future," and I came up with this diddy (I'm taking suggestions if you have an idea of a title):

Between today and
beyond time
you travel
my mind

Strange that
we are where we are
but if our day is here
I can love you
this time around.

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How can they sleep at night...

...knowing they put not just one person or one family, but thousands of people, out on the streets?

AP reported today that FEMA evicted 4,500 people from government-paid hotel rooms in New Orleans, citing that those people, representing less than a quarter of the total people who were given extensions up until as late as March 1, were given "every possible opportunity to request an extension."

The spokesman said people either ran or did not answer their doors when approached by FEMA representatives. Were forms and other information left under the doors of people who did not answer? Were they available in the hotel lobbies, under a clearly marked sign that read "FEMA Housing Extension Applications"? Did FEMA air commericals and radio advertisements?

And the bigger issue is, what is a March 1 extension when you've got nothing but the clothes on your back? While people should make every effort they can to help themselves, it's all for naught if demand exceeds supply.

I just don't see how putting people out, with no other option or resource, is going to help in the short- or long-term. It's also quite arrogant of a bunch of people living comfortably to decide that six months is enough time for people with nothing to reconstruct their lives.

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