A New Beginning - Subria Meets Shiloh

Prologue - 1986
“I wish I could fly.” 

“What did you say?” Shiloh asked. He was sitting behind Subria on the benches behind the windows

“Nothing.”

Subria pressed her small hands against the window, closed her eyes and let the tears fall. Field trips were usually one of her favorite things. She and her class went on way more trips than she did when she was in first grade the year before – the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, the Children’s Museum, the Bronx Zoo, and now the observation deck of the World Trade Center. But what she heard before she left the house that morning made her stomach hurt. She tried to forget about it, but her mother’s words kept filling her mind. Subria’s mom didn’t know she was listening while she spoke with Aunt Aisha. Subria was always listening.  

He didn’t come home again last night.

“You want a tissue?” Shiloh asked. “My mom always makes me put a pack in my pocket.”

Subria looked over her shoulder at Shiloh’s extended hand, wiping her eyes on her jacket sleeve.

“Here,” he said, standing up and stepping toward her. She took a tissue out of the pack and passed it back to him before she blew her nose.

“Thanks,” she said, stuffing the tissue in her pocket and looking back toward the window. “I’ve never been up this high before.”

Observation Deck

“Me either. My uncle took me to the top of the Statue of Liberty, but it wasn’t this high.”

“I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty.”

“It was okay. This is way better. You’re not scared to touch the glass?”

“No.  Try it.”

Shiloh slowly stepped toward the window, and then backed away suddenly.

“I can’t. It makes my legs feel funny.”

“Mine too at first,” Subria said, smiling at him.

“Chicken!” Primus shouted from behind them.

“Be quiet, Pri,” Shiloh grumbled.

***

Here I’ll need to add more to establish the friendship between Primus, Shiloh and Subria, a transition from the field trip to school, and from the school back to her house. Then I’ll need to figure out how she ends up with her dad.

***

"Daddy, how come we're taking this train?  This isn’t the way home," Subria asked, totally unfamiliar with the train station.

"Don’t worry, Subria," Steven said without making eye contact with her.  "The train is coming.  Just hold on."

A few minutes later, Subria saw the D train pull into the station, and at first it put her at ease, because this was finally something that she recognized.  This was the train that her family always took to out to Coney Island beach in the summer. Under normal circumstances, Subria would have enjoyed the train ride.  She would usually sit on her knees with her candy-sticky fingers pressed against the windows, enjoying the smell of the beach that came in through the train doors the closer they got to Coney Island.  It was so exciting to look out at the roller coasters and the water, and to see all the people lined up in front of Nathan’s.  But then she remembered that it was not summertime.  It was a cold December evening, and she felt nervous all over again.  Subria glanced over at her father repeatedly looking for a sign that everything was okay, but he wouldn’t look at her. 

As they got closer to Coney Island, cold gusts of wind blew into the train car at each stop.  Just as her feet were starting to warm up, they arrived at the Coney Island – Stillwell Avenue train station.  It was the last stop.  Instead of heading to the Astroland Amusement Park when they got off the train, they went in the other direction toward the housing projects. 

"Daddy, where are we going?" Subria pleaded.

"I just have to stop by and pick something up from my friend.  I need you to stay out here and wait for me."

"But Dad . . ."

"I won't be long."

Before Subria could protest any further, her father disappeared into a dark courtyard.  Subria closed her eyes, and dug her hands deep into her pockets.  By this time, it was snowing steadily, and she could barely feel her toes. 

The year before, a boy in her second-grade class was bullying Subria.  One day after school, the boy punched her, and since she didn't know how to fight, she just ran home in tears.  Subria told her father what had happened as soon as he got home from work.  The look of anger on his face both scared and comforted her.  It was the same look he had on his face when, after this same little boy asked her a question she couldn’t understand, she came home from school and asked, “Daddy, what’s a blow job?”

Steven told her that he would meet her after school the next day, and true to his word, he was standing right outside the building at dismissal.  He asked her to show him who the boy was, and when she pointed him out, Steven scared the boy so badly that he never bothered Subria again.  She hadn't felt that safe again in a long time.  Where was her knight in shining armor now?  Subria would've given anything for a pair of ruby slippers. 

"Are you lost?" a hooded man asked, approaching Subria.  She couldn't make out his face, and her stomach dropped like she just went down the first big dip on a roller coaster. 

"I’m not supposed talk to strangers," Subria said, backing away.

"It’s okay.  My name is *Phillip," he replied.  Phillip was about the same height as her father, almond colored, with locks of black curly hair falling from beneath his hood.

At first, Subria felt nervous about this man talking to her, but as she listened to his voice, her breathing slowed.  She didn’t walk back toward him, but she stopped backing away.

"I don’t know where my dad is," she said, shivering from the cold, and fighting off tears.

"Here," Phillip said, taking off his coat and hooded sweatshirt, placing the sweatshirt on Subria, and putting his coat back on.  "There's a police officer over there.  How about if I take you over to her, and she can take you someplace where you'll be warm?  Then she’ll call someone in your family to come get you."

"Okay," Subria said, as she hesitantly walked alongside him. 

As the police officer opened the car door to let Subria in, Subria looked up at Philip curiously. "Thanks so much for helping me."

"It was my pleasure," Phillip replied.

"Oh, I need to give you back your sweatshirt, " Subria said, beginning to take the sweatshirt off.

"No, you keep it," Phillip said, smiling at Subria.

As Subria slipped back into the sweatshirt, she noticed what was written on the front.  At first glance, it seemed like a team sweatshirt, but instead of a team's name, it said, John 3:16 in dark blue and gray block letters. 

"Bye," Subria said, waving at him before getting into the police car.

As the car pulled away, she looked out of the back window to see if she could still see Phillip.  He was standing on the corner, and she waved at him one more time.  He smiled at her, and then seemed to disappear into the darkness like her dad did . . . but something was very different about it.  She looked toward the buildings where her dad had gone, but there was no sight of him, and she folded herself up on to the back seat and cried.

After Subria’s mom picked her up from the police station and put her to bed, Subria peeked into the hallway to see if the light was off in her parents’ room.  When she saw that it was, she took her blanket and tiptoed out of the room down into the kitchen, carrying the little sock monkey her father bought for her when she turned seven.  Her father had named the monkey George, because Curious George was one of Subria’s favorite books.  She opened the shutters and sat down on the window seat.  The wind chimes that her father hung up outside the window rang gently in the soft wind.  No one was on the street, as was usually the case when it snowed.  She loved how the snow looked as it danced around the street light, and on the street before the cars and buses had a chance to blacken it.

Subria opened the window and pulled up the screen.  The snow had formed a little wall that didn’t fall when the screen was lifted.  That’s how she wanted to be . . . but she wasn’t.  With her father gone, she didn’t feel strong at all.  Subria scooped the snow up in her hand, squeezed it into a ball, and threw it down to the street below.  She closed the screen, window, and shutters, and bundled up on the window seat.  She held George as tightly as she could as she finally fell asleep hoping in vain to hear her father’s key in the door. 

 *Phillip's name is highlighted because he is a supernatural being, and I want to figure out how to include him in the story effectively. I'm still figuring that out. 

Vermont Road Trip

I left at 10 this morning, gassed up, and went to Watertown to pick Laura up. Becoming friends with Laura could easily be the topic of a blog post all its own . . . suffice it to say that Laura and I met this past July, and I feel like I've known her forever. When I won the When Words Count retreat, and was informed that I could bring a friend, I thought of her instantly and was so delighted that she could come. 

We drove for a couple of hours, chatted, and laughed - conversation flows so easily with Laura - and stopped at a diner in New Hampshire, I think, for lunch. I don't know what to say about the waffles I had . . . they were, um, unique, and Laura said her biscuit sandwich was . . . interesting, but they were better than McDonald's, I guess (there's no real getting over the whole pink slime, undigestible fries thing). We drove for about another hour or so. The area seemed familiar. Dishon and I spent time in Vermont years ago. We were headed for Rochester, which is very mountainous (I do not like driving in steep areas) and muddy (which became a bit of an issue when we went from paved to unpaved roads . . . I think that happened when we made a right turn near the five chickens). 

Despite my near panic attack when I was sure we'd either get stuck in the mud, drive off the mountain, or at least into a ditch (thank God for Laura's calming presence), I did notice that the view was breathtaking. Lots of open space, streams, trees and mountains (and when I went out to the car after dinner, the night sky was so clear and filled with stars). 

The rooms at the retreat are all named after authors, and I'm in the Mark Twain Room (the first room in the house with a king sized bed and beautiful view). I think Laura's in the Robert Frost room. 

We are here with five other writers, and it was nice to sit with them, drink wine, and chat about where we're from and what we're working on.  Dinner was so good - four courses, I think. Laura and I hung out in her room talking and laughing some more and watching Underground after dinner. I think she's hooked, and I'm so glad to have a chance to watch it again before season 2 begins next week. 

There's a fireplace, which I love. We'll have to enjoy that tomorrow, and I'll try to remember to post pics. I'm sleepy now. Just trying to get this in before midnight 😴.  Tomorrow, we write.

When I Met Him

The summer of 1993 was one of the most intense summers of my life. I was home from college between my sophomore and junior years at Ambassador College, and I was at odds with my parents for most of the summer. They didn't approve of the guy I was dating, and, although it became clear to me that the relationship was coming to an end, I was determined that if it was to end, it would be my choice, and not because my parents told me to.

Things at home were pretty volatile. In retrospect, I know that it was because my parents were worried about me. At the time, though, I felt so alone, and like I'd only be truly acceptable if I behaved a certain way. That made my soul ache. I remember being called at work, hung up on, threatened with having my keys to the apartment taken from me, told that I was no longer welcome there . . . and, most damaging of all, "You are on your way to becoming spiritually dead. I'm a Christian soldier. I've endured the loss of one child, and I will go on without you." In my mind, I was just a teenager trying to figure out my first relationship (with a VERY late start, at that, since I didn't have permission to date until I was 18 when I would have been almost at the end of my second year in college having attended community college the year before). Needless to say, I welcomed a break from all of that stress. 

I had written a letter to my friend, AV . . . we had met at SEP Camp in Minnesota a few years before and I wondered how she was. When she wrote back, she shared that so much had changed in her life. She was married, had a son, and was about to move to New Mexico. She was having a going away party and wanted me to come. I headed out to New Jersey like the Road Runner. 

It was really great catching up with her (I was in desperate need of someone my age to talk to about my relationship troubles), playing with her son, and we went to church in Jersey City together. It was Youth Day, which meant that the teens were ushers and responsible for the sermonette (mini-sermon before the sermon). I was a little distracted playing with the baby as the sermonette speaker was announced, and when I looked up, I saw Dishon.  I leaned over to AV and asked, "Who is he?" I listened intently to Dishon talk about Romans 8:31 . . . If God is for us, who can be against us? Hmm . . .

As we were leaving, Dishon was standing with a group of young people, and I found out that he would be at AV's going away party that night. Yes! As AV and I talked, she told me more about Dishon, and I learned that he was the younger brother of someone I already knew. His sister was married to the son of one of the Local Elders at my church in Brooklyn, and I already knew his niece and nephew as well from when they'd visit our church. 

One of the main things I remember from the party is watching Dishon interact with people - he smiled and laughed so easily, was clearly well-liked, witty, and very handsome. I tried not to look over in his direction too much. I wasn't really successful.  We played Killer Wink - a game where you sit around in a circle and someone is the "killer." You keep looking around and try not to get winked at by the killer. If you are winked at, you'd be dead, but you couldn't say who killed you. Pretty fun.

At one point in the evening, Dishon and I sat down and talked. He knew people at my school because he met them when he had gone to SEP Camp as a high school worker (the camp was staffed by students from my college).  "Do you know (the guy I was dating)?" he asked. My heart dropped. "Yes, I'm going out with him now." I remember thinking, "Why did I just SAY that?" Turns out he already suspected that (he had met the guy I was dating when they were both at SEP Camp the previous summer), and wanted to see if I'd be honest with him. I was, and the conversation ended. 

When I got back to school, the relationship I was in did end, which is a pretty challenging thing to go through at a small school, and because we were a part of a close-knit group of four girls and four guys who were dating (there were two sets of siblings in the group, and the remaining three couples ended up getting married). What made it a bit easier, though, was that reminders of Dishon were EVERYWHERE! An article about him was published in our national youth newsletter, and it listed so many interesting things about him . . . he was headed to Harvard, he was the captain of the track team and record-breaking track star, president of the National Honor Society and the band, captain of the basketball and soccer teams, captain of the debate team and he started a multicultural club. Impressive! I mentioned him to a friend, and he talked about how much he loved Dishon. He had met him at a fall festival in Jamaica, and was so impressed by Dishon's humility because Dishon told him he was going to college "in the Boston area." Another friend met him at camp and had a poem Dishon had written. A good friend of mine (SK) had a picture with him at camp that summer on her desk in our study. I had to get back in touch with him. 

At this point, I no longer worked in the kitchen. I think I was an Administrative Assistant for Shipping and Receiving after being the first person to ever resign from the work study program (one of my supervisors in the kitchen was giving me a hard time for not working when I was sick. He told me that I should come into work, and just put a hand towel over my shoulder, and cough into it when I needed to. I told my parents, and that was the end of that . . . but then they reassigned me).  SK told me that she would let me put a letter in with her letter to him if I did kitchen duty with her (we were Sabbath observers, and since the kitchen was largely staffed with students who weren't allowed to work from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday, the kitchen was run by "volunteers"). It's funny to think how this story would have gone if we had email at that point. I wanted to be back in touch with Dishon, so I sucked it up. I'm sure SK would've sent the letter for me anyway if I really wanted her to, and doing kitchen duty with her was not so bad at all, since she was, and still is one of my absolute favorite people.

To this day, Dishon is not much of a letter writer. He never responded to that letter (I sent it in mid-fall, I think). I'm a pretty determined person, though, so in January 1994, I called Cambridge for Harvard's number (this was before cell phones), called Harvard and got the phone number to Dishon's dorm (I was surprised that they gave it to me!), and called his dorm. His answering machine picked up, and I left a message. He called me back, and things were a bit rocky at first . . . understandably so because we were young, I was in Big Sandy, Texas, and he was in Cambridge, Massachusetts. We started spending time together that summer when we were both home from school and our amazing
love story began.

Since my novel will be a love story, I absolutely need to be able to write about how the characters grow to love one another. Dishon and I will celebrate our 20th anniversary on May 24th this year in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and I am so thankful that I have my own beautiful experience to call upon when I write about love.

My Own Nellie Oleson

I loved watching Little House on the Prairie when I was a kid. Hating Nellie Oleson was so delicious! Maybe it was because I had my own Nellie Oleson in real life. KB and her parents lived in a first-floor apartment (A17) in the C building under our second-floor apartment (B17). One would think I would've been hesitant to play at her house, because her cousin lived in an apartment across from ours and, out of nowhere, without even knowing me, she stuck her tongue out at me one day. It was also rumored that her cousin had pushed a little boy out of a second-floor window. Yikes!
 
I was undeterred. I loved going to play in KB's apartment because her room felt magical. Sure, I had my own toys, but she had a canopy bed in her own room, fancy curtains, a Barbie doll house, a Barbie van, Light Brite, and shelves upon shelves of other toys. I was convinced that her family was rich. Sometimes her mom would take me with them in their car (they had a car!) to Kings Plaza Mall and Toys R Us. In my room I had a black and white TV with no sound that my parents found (I got really good at figuring out plot lines without being able to hear anything), and her family had a floor model TV with cable (every once in a while, I could pick up their HBO cable signal on channel 3), a coffee table and VCR in their living room.  I remember watching Michael Jackson's Thriller video there. We had a floor model TV, too, but it didn't work and served as a table in the hallway. They had a burglar alarm installed at one point (I can't remember if someone had broken into their apartment or not), but the alarm was SO ANNOYING because it seemed like the wind could activate it. It was SO LOUD and it went on for SO LONG! In my kid mind, only rich people would need a burglar alarm, because only rich people could afford something like that, and had possessions that were valuable enough to protect. 

But KB wasn't a nice kid. She was mean and bossy. I remember one time I took my cousin to play at her house, and she convinced him to eat that pink Baby Magic lotion on a potato chip. Blecch! What would make a kid be so mean? And why was I willing to endure poor treatment just to have access to her apartment? I soon realized that having all that stuff didn't automatically equal happiness. I could tell because my bedroom was above her parents' bedroom, and they argued all.the.time. At one point during an argument, KB's dad slammed their apartment door not knowing that her mom had reached out for it, and mistakenly cut off the top of one of her fingers. Things aren't always as great at they might seem. 

When you're a little kid, friendships can be complicated. And sometimes those unhealthy patterns continue when you're not such a little kid. I read an old diary entry the other day that was like listening to nails on a chalkboard as I realized that I was in an emotionally abusive friendship in my late teens. I felt gross after I read it, wondering why I allowed myself to go through something like that. Why didn't I know that I was worth more? Why didn't I stand up for myself? Why wasn't I stronger? Where's a time machine when you need one? Grrr!

Sometimes we hang out with people who hurt us because we desire access or acceptance, or we're lonely . . . and sometimes the people who hurt us do it because . . . well, hurt people hurt people. They're sometimes dealing with things we don't understand. And some people are just narcissistic and self-absorbed. It doesn't mean that we should be in or remain in unhealthy relationships, but when you know better, you do better. When I add texture to my characters, I want to keep the complicated nature of some relationships in mind.

Morning Routine

My morning routine differs depending on the day. On a Monday, Wednesday, or Saturday, I usually wake up to my alarm at 6 a.m. because it's my turn to walk Rabbit. I'll explore one of those mornings.


I am a morning person, so I wake up pretty jolly. I turn the alarm off, take out my earbuds (I need noise to fall asleep, so I'm often still plugged in when I wake up having fallen asleep to The Golden Girls on Hulu, an audiobook, or a Sleep Story through the Calm app - Sleep Stories are the truth!), and check to see if the notifications on my phone reveal anything interesting that happened overnight - news, direct deposits, text messages from night owl friends, etc. . I sleep with a Yogibo body pillow, so I put that on the floor or over next to Dishon, swing my legs over the side of the bed (I sleep on the right side closest to the window), and unplug my phone from the charger and earbuds.

I go over to the stairs on Mondays and Wednesdays and call up to Serena and Cairo to make sure they're awake, and I turn on the news so I can check the weather. Then I head to the bathroom, take out my nightguard (I grind my teeth), rinse it and put it in the cabinet for further cleaning later, and Rabbit usually comes to greet me in there. She stretches and either sits on the rug, or goes back toward my bedroom to see if our bedroom door is open so she can say good morning to Dishon. I go into the kitchen, turn on the lights (including the deck light), open the curtains and blinds to let the sunlight in, wash Rabbit's food and water bowls, and refill them.

I go back to the bathroom for my dental hygiene routine. I put on music (love songs or cardio playlist, depending on my mood) or a podcast (Harry Potter as a Sacred Text is my favorite podcast right now), I brush and scrape my tongue, use the airflosser to floss my teeth, and brush for two minutes with my electric toothbrush (it makes a sound each 30 seconds when it's time to switch to the next quadrant of my teeth). I wash my face and go back to my bedroom to get dressed.

Rabbit usually follows me back there if she hasn't already been in to say hi to Dishon, so I ask him if it's okay for her to come say good morning before I open the door (one must be ready for a Rabbit greeting!). I get dressed - usually a t-shirt and sweats . . . and what socks I wear depend on whether or not I'll be wearing boots (thin trouser socks so my feet don't feel too crowded) or sneakers (thick athletic socks). I don't put my jewelry or accessories on yet - I save that for after I shower.

I open the basement door to get Rabbit's leash and harness (it's hanging at the top of the basement stairs). I put her harness on, take out a poopie bag, and turn it inside out so it's ready to go. I give her her anti-toot treat (essential. Her gas could cause great harm). 

In the midst of this, I flitter around like a dragonfly. I may go into the kitchen to write something on the family calendar whiteboard on the fridge (if I don't write things down, I won't remember them), take my vitamins and meds out of the cabinet to make sure I don't forget to take them, check my email to see if any teachers canceled their coaching sessions, add groceries to the Peapod grocery list, reply to text messages, post something on Facebook, like Facebook posts, order something from Amazon, pluck hairs out of my chin and neck (I need to do that more and more now, and because of nerve damage from my parathyroid surgery last summer, there are parts of my chin and neck that I still can't feel. Sigh.), use ear scrapers (I have dermatitis in my ear canals, and Q-tips are insufficient), see if there are any Pokemon outside the house to catch, make moves on Words With Friends, stuff like that.

When I shower, my routine includes putting my locs up in a bun so they don't get wet (that involves a lot of tying and tucking), putting my towel on the toilet so it's ready when I get out, and choosing from amongst the many shower gels I have. Smells are important to me. My favorite moisturizer right now is Bath and Body Works' Vanilla Bean Noel (it makes me smell like a freshly baked cookie 🍪😊 ). After I'm dressed, I put on my jewelry and accessories - diamond studs in my second ear piercings, silver leaf earrings in the first, wedding ring, Pandora bracelet, Fitbit).

I work from home on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Dishon works from home every day (love it!), and we work out together in the mornings on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays, and when I get back from work on Thursdays.  We used to go to LA Fitness, but we've been using an app called Sworkit to save some cash. The high school is only a 10 minute walk from the house, and Cairo rides the bus to the middle school, so we don't have to drop them off (woo hoo!).

After we work out, we eat breakfast. I very rarely make breakfast for myself. Sometimes I may have a bagel with honey pecan cream cheese and freshly squeezed orange juice from Wegmans (I should've never started that fresh juice thing. It's not financially sustainable, but I'm sure enjoying it for now). Most times, though, Dishon makes breakfast for us . . . scrambled eggs w/smoked gouda, oatmeal w/raisins, cinnamon and cream, pancakes, or Cream of Wheat. I'm well cared for 💖.

When I think about my morning routine, I need to imagine how these details will come into play for the characters in my novel. What's your favorite part of your morning routine?

Wingate Park - Pride Comes Before a Fall

I think I was 10 and in sixth grade. I was walking home form school with my two closest junior high friends (K&F) and another girl in our grade who was friends with one of my best friends (N). N lived in K's building on New York Avenue, and I was usually at odds with her. She wasn't so nice to me, and I was jealous of her relationship with K. I was probably irritated that N was walking with us, and tried to keep my feelings to myself. I was unsuccessful.

It was spring time, and we were all happy because we had a half-day. As was our usual after school practice, we went to the corner store on Albany Avenue to get potato chips and soda, and then we walked down Rutland Road so that we could stop at Wingate Park to play on the swings and slides. When we got tired of the swings, we went to race on the slides. Back then, we didn't have safe, plastic slides. We had the tall metal kind that heat up in the sun and burn your skin.  I don't know why we thought that running on the slides was a good idea, but I was excited because I was going to race N, and I felt like I could beat her. I really, really wanted to beat her.

Interlude: Although I had good memories of field days at Wingate Park at the end of every school year, there was that other incident. When I was four, I went with my preschool to Wingate Park, and there was a cement rectangular wading pool. The water wasn't on, but for some reason, I was playing around in the empty pool with my bathing suit on anyway - a cute little red bathing suit with an apple on the front.  My little friend, Z, who happened to be the son of the woman who ran the preschool, found a Tropicana orange juice bottle in the park. This is back when Tropicana orange juice came in thick glass bottles. There was a little water dripping from the faucet of the wading pool, and Z tried to fill the bottle with his four year old hands. I imagine that some of the water must have gotten on the outside of the bottle as he tried to fill it. I remember him calling me, turning around, seeing he bottle flying toward my head, and the searing pain that followed. I remember seeing the glass bottle, half its original side with jagged edges after it hit my head. One of the preschool teachers grabbed me and rushed me to the bathroom. I remember seeing the blood and water flowing into the faucet, which freaked me out a bit. She put a bandaid on my head, and I remember my mom being horrified, because it was obvious that a bandaid was insufficient for he wound to my head. I ended up needing seven butterfly stitches, which our next door neighbor who happened to be a nurse put on for me.

The plan was to run up the slide, down the steps, around the slide, back up the steps, and down the slide.  I ran as hard as I could, and I was winning . . . until we got to the top of the slide. Maybe my laces had come untied? I don't know. What I do know is that somehow I tripped and went flying in the air. It felt like I was suspended in air forever, and when I finally hit the ground, it felt as if someone had shoved a broom handle into my stomach. My elbows and knees were scraped and bleeding, and I couldn't catch my breath. I saw people running from around the park to see what happened - some were concerned, some were laughing and pointing. They were all upside down from my perspective, as I writhed around on my back. My friends tried to make me stand up and walk, but I just wanted to lay there and catch my breath. My friends supported me as I limped over to K's apartment three blocks away so she could patch me up. 

Talk about pride coming before a fall? The main characters in the novel will be little kids when it begins, and I wonder how I can incorporate the impact of jealousy in friendships, and childhood accidents? Did anything crazy ever happen to you at a playground?

Conflict Styles

Dishon and I went on a cruise in November, 2003 for Christian couples sponsored by T.D. Jakes. We thoroughly enjoyed live jazz from Kirk Whalum and Smokie Norful's soulful praise music, as well as our time in Puerto Rico, St. John, St. Maarten, and the Bahamas. We also learned quite a bit from Ronn Elmore's sessions about relationships. One of the topics was conflict resolution, and we explored three main conflict styles.



Fighter: 
Fighters are usually ready to engage in conflict, but the motivation isn't to improve communication or promote understanding. The goal for a fighter is to win the argument or to establish that s/he is right. When the other person is talking, fighters aren't really listening, but are instead preparing his/her next point. Fighters may resort to yelling and/or name calling as they verbally spar.

Fleer: 
Fleers tend to avoid conflict by shutting down and disengaging. When a fleer is upset, s/he is likely to give his/her loved one the silent treatment. The silence isn't true silence but is actually pregnant with a world of unexpressed hurt feelings. Fleers may physically leave and feel justified in their lack of engagement because they think the other person should already know how they are feeling.  

Freezer: 
Freezers engage in the conflict, but don't emotionally invest in it.  Conflict makes freezers feel like they're not good enough, or bad in some way, and they're concerned that the conflict may end/cause damage to the relationship, so they remain emotionally distant, as their goal is to avoid blame. If a freezer steps on your foot, for example, a freezer may say something like, "I'm sorry your foot got stepped on," instead of, "I'm sorry that I stepped on your foot." Freezers can be masterful at impression management.

There can also be conflict style combinations. Early in my marriage, I would begin as a fleer, and when faced with freezer statements, turn into a fighter.  Not healthy at all.

There will be conflict in relationships. Conflict itself is not bad . . . it's how we choose to handle it that makes all the difference. Learning to identify these conflict styles and to communicate to promote understanding motivated by love was transformational for me personally and for my marriage. I need to think about how the characters in my novel will engage in conflict.

What's your conflict style?

Mortified - Embarrassing Moments

Bad things happen when you're bored. Back when Dishon and were dating (over 20 years ago. Wow!), I was hanging around his dorm before a formal dance that evening, and I didn't have anything to do. Dishon was about to go to the bathroom, and I thought it would be funny to hide in the shower and then jump out and scare him when he walked in. 

I was standing in the shower (fully clothed - this is not that kind of story ;), and I heard the bathroom door open and close . . . the problem being that I still heard Dishon's voice outside of the bathroom. That meant that one of his four roommates was in the bathroom with me. I am a deer in the headlights kind of person, so I stood there, mortified, because, 1) There was a guy who was not my boyfriend sitting on the toilet while I stood in the shower, and 2) It appeared that once he was done, he was planning on using the shower, and although I didn't want that to happen - not at all - I was trying to figure out how to tell the roommate that I was in there (we'll call him Dan Kay to protect the names of the somewhat innocent . . . and I say somewhat because this was the same roommate who told me that my feet looked like I should have a sixth toe [they do, but he didn't have to say that], and chased Dishon around the dorm while wearing a football helmet and throwing exploding snaps at Dishon's feet).

Thankfully, I didn't have to say anything. "Dan" saw my looming, ominous shadow on the bathroom wall, freaked out, and left the bathroom before he had a chance to use it. He found Dishon and was like, "Um . . . is your girlfriend in the shower?" Dishon, knowing how mischievous I could be when bored responded, "Probably." Dishon came into the bathroom, pulled back the curtain to find me looking rather terrified and sheepish, and said, "You feel foolish, don't you?" I may have rushed out of the bathroom crying embarrassed, shameful tears, but I will neither confirm nor deny that ;).

Embarrassing things happen to us all, so I want to be sure to incorporate embarrassing moments for the characters in the novel. What is something embarrassing that happened to you that you don't mind sharing?

25 Pet Peeves

1. When people put the toilet paper roll on the wrong way.
2. When people leave sticky dishes in the sink without rinsing and/or soaking them.
3. When people drive slowly in the passing lane.
4. When people wear too much cologne or perfume on public transportation, and no matter how hard I try, I can't stop smelling it. That, and strong body odor.
5. When people say, "Oh, your name is Afrika like the country?" Grrr!!!
6. When people don't clean up their dog's poop.
7. When people talk in the quiet car or have loud phone conversations on the train.
8. Unchecked rudeness (children and adults).
9. When cars being chased in car chase scenes in movies/shows don't just stop the car, let the chaser pass them, turn around and go the other way.
10. Being forced to breathe in cigarette smoke.
11. When people stand around talking on the sidewalk and don't move over when people need to pass.
12. When people sneeze or cough into their hands instead of the crook of their arms. Gross!
13. When people cut the line.
14. When people have more than 10 items in the express lane at the supermarket.
15. When you let another driver in, and they don't give you the "Thank you!" wave.
16. Paying for shipping.
17. People ahead of me in line with FAR too many coupons.
18. Misspelled signs.
19. When you can hear someone else's music through their headphones.
20. When you hold the door for someone and they don't say thanks.
21. People who use their phones in a movie theater.
22. People who talk during a movie.
23. When people only post selfies on their social media timeline. Wow. No other interests?
24. When people complain too much, and/or are not interested in solutions. Exhausting.
25. When cars park across two spaces.

We all have pet peeves, and I need to choose some for the characters in my novel. What are your pet peeves?

When I Found Out That I Was Strong

I had been to summer camp before. My first time was when I was six and went to Camp Shiloh with my older siblings. I think we were gone for 2-3 weeks. I remember picking and eating fresh blueberries there, and my counselors were Dana and Bambi. I went to day camps until I went to my best friend's camp sleep-away camp when I was around 11 (Mont Lawn Camp). We were drifting apart at that time because of some of the teachings of the church my family started attending (we were encouraged not to be close to people who weren't part of our denomination), and I remember feeling very lonely at that camp because she wasn't really speaking to me. 

I went away to the Summer Educational Program (SEP) camp in Orr, Minnesota sponsored by my church when I was 15. Campers flew to the Minneapolis - St. Paul airport (I think that was my first time alone on an airplane), and then we were
taken on a five-hour bus trip up to Orr where we stayed for three weeks.

This was my first time away from New York City without my family, and although I was nervous about it at first, I loved my time at SEP. I loved my counselors and the other girls in my group.  Getting used to the bath house wasn't so bad, and I truly enjoyed the fresh air, archery and riflery classes, and the food was really good (I remember we drank fruit spritzers instead of soda, frogurt, and the ice cream sandwiches were made of graham crackers instead of chocolate).

One of the most challenging experiences while I was there was the three-day canoe trip through the Canadian Boundary Waters. There were two types of trips - one involved only rowing, and the other involved portages where we'd have to get out of the canoe periodically to carry our canoes and other supplies over mountainous terrain until we reached the water again. I don't know why, but I was selected for a portage trip. I wasn't a particularly strong young lady, and I wasn't sure how that would go, but we didn't get to opt out, so I tried to make the best of it.

On our way to where the trip would begin - a twisty winding road through the woods to the water - a moose crossed in front of our bus. Moose are SO tall and beautiful!! Side note: I tasted moose meat when I was in Akiuk, Alaska last September, and it was very good. Rowing through the water was hard, but not too hard for me. The biting flies were more of a challenge than the rowing. Talking and singing songs made the passage of time enjoyable (I never knew how much I'd come to rely on 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall 😊).

We'd row for a while, and then take breaks for meals and to stay hydrated. While we ate lunch, some of the campers climbed and jumped off of cliffs like the one pictured here. I was not one of those people. I am not friends with heights, but it was fascinating to watch the other campers jump and to live vicariously through their courage.

The portages were challenging, too - but I was so much stronger than I thought.  I carried one of the large propane tanks we used to cook our food and some of the oars each time. Some terrain was more steep and rocky than others, and I felt so accomplished each time we got from one side to the other and could continue our trip. I never gave up. Not once.

The more challenging parts of the trip included:

The Slammer:
Using the bathroom on the trip was no joke. I wasn't expecting high-end, well-maintained Porta Potties, but I was surprised to find out that the "facilities" were basically boxes in the middle of the open woods with no walls called The Slammer. In order to enjoy a tiny bit of privacy, we were encouraged to lay an oar across the path to the slammer so no one else would show up while you were out there taking care of business. That helped some, but it was still a very vulnerable experience.
Washing up/Drinking lake water:
We didn't carry water with us on our trip. Instead, we drank the water we were traveling through, which was a big adjustment for me. Prior to leaving for the trip, I heard all the horror stories about leeches and parasites in the water. It wasn't difficult to terrify me about this trip, coming from New York City. It gets to a point, though, when you're thirsty enough that you stop caring where your water is coming from, and you just hope for the best. I drank it, and it was fine. It actually tasted pretty fresh and pure. Because people drank the boundary waters, we couldn't wash up in the water either, so we had to fill pots with water, lay the oar across the path for "privacy," and wash up the best we could in the woods. Uncomfortable - yes, but eventually I stopped caring.

What I loved about the trip:
After we'd stop for the night and set up our tents, our guide (a very cool Australian guy whose name escapes me) prepared our dinner (including this really good bread our guide made by wrapping the dough in foil and placing it in the campfire), and played games. I loved sitting around the campfire, talking, laughing under the most beautiful night sky, and then drifting off into that deep sleep you enjoy after a hard day's work.

There is a section of my novel that includes a canoe trip, and I think I included it because this was a life-changing experience for me. I saw so many beautiful things, and I learned that I was so much stronger than I ever thought possible. It's important to include transformative experiences for the characters in the story where they come to see themselves with new eyes.

Transparency

Transparency for the characters in my novel will be vital . . .

It was the end of 1998, and my husband and I decided that we were ready to have a baby.  We had only been married for a year and a half, and I had just started graduate school. Our one bedroom apartment couldn't even fit a baby, but we were ready anyway.  We stopped using birth control, and believed that we'd get pregnant within a few months.  Everyone else in our family had to try hard not to get pregnant, so we figured we'd have no problem at all.  No pregnancy the first month . . . or the second month . . . or the third.  We tried not to worry.  We read about infertility, and the articles and books all said that a couple is not considered infertile until after a year of unsuccessful trying. 

In June, 1999, I began working as a Teacher's Aide making half as much as I made at my previous job, but we were undeterred.  The job was temporary.  We figured it wouldn't last longer than a pregnancy would.  Besides, breast milk was free, and we'd figure out how to pay for diapers.  A year passed.  I received my master's degree, and around the time that I started my first teaching assignment, we moved into a much bigger apartment.  Better circumstances for a baby, but still no baby. 

I read Hannah's prayer in I Samuel regularly and tried to believe that God would do for us what He had done for her. Yet each month when my period came, I felt like my heart was being crushed.  I never admitted it to anyone, but I secretly wondered what kind of God would do this to us.  We decided to get tested.  No blockage in my fallopian tubes and I was ovulating normally.  My husband's tests revealed that there was nothing physically wrong with him, either.  We just had to wait. Each month when my period came, I felt like I couldn't breathe . . . like I was dying a little each time.

My mom gave me the best advice.  She reassured me of God's love for me, and she believed that I would get pregnant as soon as I stopped worrying about it.  I focused on enjoying life with my husband and becoming a great teacher.  My mom was right, as moms so often are.  In February 2001, my period was late.  That had happened before, though, so I was hesitant to get excited.  But after a few days, I took the pregnancy test, and it was finally positive!  Suddenly I realized what kind of God we served – the kind of doting Father who loved us enough to bring our child into the world when He wanted her here, and interestingly enough, it felt like we hadn't waited at all.  My mom was right about something else, too.  Guess what we found out four months after our daughter was born?  You guessed it!  Our daughter and son are a year apart.  

12/1/2008

Writing About Spiritual Practices - Footwashing

I wasn’t sure if I should speak.  Everyone else walked to the Convention Center with their eyes to the ground, carrying their Bibles, basins, and towels, without saying a word to anyone else.  I didn’t want to interfere with the sobriety of the occasion, so I kept quiet too, and followed the crowd.  I had five counseling sessions in preparation for my baptism a few days prior to this event, but no one really prepared me for this night.  This would be the first foot washing service I ever participated in, and I didn’t want to mess it up. 

I was paired with an older White woman, and I was so nervous.  I was an 18-year-old girl from an all Black neighborhood in Brooklyn attending college in East Texas.  Even though we attended the same church, I couldn’t help but wonder how the woman felt about washing a young brown girl’s feet.  I wasn’t even sure whether or not I should make eye contact with her.  I took a chance and looked and her, and her smile and kind eyes put me at ease.  The water was so cold, and I wasn’t entirely sure how long I should spend washing her feet.  She must’ve sensed that this was my first time, so without saying a word, she took the lead, and this experience ended up being one of the most powerful and memorable times in my life. 

I later learned that perfect execution of the foot washing ritual wasn’t the most important thing.  It didn’t matter how adept I was at maintaining a quiet disposition during the ceremony, or whether or not I was able to keep myself from giggling while my sister-in-Christ washed my feet.  The important thing was to focus on being of service to another believer, and to allow that person to do the same for me.  In John 13: 1-16, Jesus surprised His disciples by washing their feet.  This was typically something that a servant would do, which explains Peter’s strong reaction to having his feet washed by Jesus.  Here, the humility that Jesus shows by washing the disciples exemplifies the true qualities of a Servant-Leader. 

Considering that I had such a positive experience with foot washing, I have approached several of my Christian friends, and even church leaders to gauge their interest in establishing a similar practice.  Very few people were interested, and that surprised me.  Some commented that we don’t live in a society where our feet get dirty from wearing sandals on dusty roads, so it was no longer necessary.  Some said that they just don’t like touching other people’s feet while others expressed that they’re too ticklish to engage in something like that. There is an intimacy that's missing from the Christian church today, and it saddens me.

Although the foot washing example that Jesus set is not compulsory for modern Christians, it’s important that we explore as many ways to pattern our behavior after that of our Savior, even if it means stepping out of our comfort zone a little. We may be pleasantly surprised by the impact it has on our relationships with fellow believers, especially considering that the world will know that we are His disciples by the love we have for one another.
- April 1, 2009
 Reflecting back on this experience, I wonder how I can include spiritual practices in my novel? 

Writing With Humor - The Naked Truth

On a typical Saturday afternoon, I wouldn't be upstairs in my bedroom, as any parent of preschoolers knows quite well.  Napping on the weekend is one of the casualties of becoming a parent.  This particular Saturday, however, I wasn't feeling well, so I decided to close myself away from the rest of the family to recuperate before starting another busy week.  We had just moved into our first home about six months ago, and it was finally spring.  My husband was mowing the lawn, and our then four-year-old daughter and three-year-old son were playing in the yard.  Or so I thought. 

            I heard the kids come in and then leave.  I thought they just came in to get a toy to take outside.  Silly me.  Had I been feeling well, I would've been downstairs to stop what was about to happen.  Apparently, our daughter had seen the neighbor's sprinklers down the block earlier in the day – you know the kind that oscillates?  The water danced back and forth, catching the sun's rays, hypnotizing my poor daughter, making her think that the neighbors had magic "sparkly" water.  When the kids came into the house, it turns out they hadn't been getting a toy.  They had stripped off all their clothes and ran down our street to play in the neighbor's sprinklers . . . totally naked.  The neighbor walked the kids back to our house and asked my husband if everything was okay in our household.  Fantastic.  Our first introduction to our neighbor, and here he was thinking we don't know how to take care of our kids.  I guess I'll be recuperating on the living room couch from now on.

9/1/08 
***
This account makes me think about fun and creative ways to write about children in my novel. 

Writing With the Senses - The Domestic Violence Shelter

I wrote this on August 1, 2008 as one of my sensory writing exercises for the Christian Writers Guild:

My thoughts on the benefits of sensory observations:

As Ethel Herr states in An Introduction to Christian Writing on page 31, “[Our senses] are the physical gateways that lead all the impulses from the outside world into our minds and hearts. We must keep them well oiled, active, and in good repair, lest our neglect cause us to miss something important.”  We take in the world using our senses.  Many of our most powerful memories involve sensory experiences – the pain and pleasure of childbirth, our favorite restaurants, and when and why they became our favorites, the first time we smelled our favorite cologne/perfume, or touched silk, or enjoyed the opera, or saw our first college acceptance letter.  Stories come alive for the reader when we engage their senses. 

The Exercise:

When I first went to the domestic violence shelter for my orientation a few weeks ago, I was surprised by the stained carpets, dilapidated staircases, and the strong smell of mildew.  When the trainer said that the shelter would be moving to a better location in September, I was relieved.  During my first week of volunteering, the light in the playroom was broken, so although the room was filled with many brightly colored toys – a hot pink boa for dressing up, red, green, yellow and blue cars, and who can forget the bright orange skin on the Sesame Street muppet, Ernie - we had to rely on the quickly disappearing light from the window.  When I went to use the bathroom, there was an “x” across the toilet made out of masking tape that said, “Do Not Use” in black permanent marker.  It seems to me that women and children on the run from abusers deserve a beautiful place to live – working toilets, bright sunny windows, fluffy couches, and fresh lilacs on coffee tables.

When I went in last week, it was my turn to play with the 8 month old baby boy while my partner played with the little girl who’s almost two.  I was a little nervous about playing with the baby for 90 minutes, because my knees hurt when I bend down, but as soon as his mom passed him to me, I inhaled a whiff of his baby powder, and the memory of my own children at that age made me not want to let him go.  Before his mom left, she said she had a cold, and was looking forward to the break.  As I stroked his back, I could both feel and hear his rattled breathing.  I guess he had a cold, too.  From this other sounds and smells coming from him, it seemed that he also had a little gas. 

I held his fat little hands as I tried to help him stand.  Is there anything on earth as soft as a baby’s skin?  I tried showing him a plastic book, but how quickly I forgot how much babies like to put everything in their mouths.  I wanted to continue showing him the books, but I was conflicted about touching all the drool he left on the books (all four of them).  I don’t think I would’ve cared if he wasn’t sick, but I guess I’m more of a germaphobe than I thought.  Looking down at my leg and seeing the sticky, creamy residue left behind when he spit up on me didn’t help.  Where were antibacterial wipes when you needed them?

The little girl who’s almost two loves to play with the kitchen toys, and while I was holding the baby, she regularly came over to offer the pizza she “cooked” to me and the baby.  The baby doesn’t know what pizza tastes like yet, but pretending to eat her food, especially when I didn’t really have enough time to eat before coming to the shelter, sure brought to mind the blend of tomato sauce, oregano, mozzarella cheese, and the crunchy, yet, chewy crust from pizza slices that I haven’t had in so long. 

Prank War - Diamonds and Pearls

I'm not sure what started it. I'm doing the math, and it's crazy to think that this all happened about 25 years ago. I guess that explains why some of the details are fuzzy. My school was still Ambassador College (it became Ambassador University while I was there after we became accredited). There was a group of us from New York, Maryland, Florida, Kansas/Missouri, Georgia, Indiana, Illinois who became good friends. This was long before smartphones and Netflix, and we had to make our own fun.

As I write this, I'm remembering the night we were chased down by the president of the college. The school was small, and students were often invited over to professors' houses on Faculty Row near the lake for dinner, games, etc.. I think it was a Saturday night. We were all walking back to our dorms, and we had to get back before curfew. I remember the walk back being fun - talking and laughing loud, walking across the airstrip (yep - there was an airstrip). Someone must've brought up who was faster, and I knew Trisha was fast. I forget who she raced that night, but I think she won, and we were cheering . . . and then Dr. Ward emerged from the darkness. Apparently, he had been chasing us since we left Faculty Row, and he caught up to us, all sweaty and breathless in his robe . . . He told us that we needed to be quieter, and then headed back to his house. I think we must have belly laughed all the way back to our dorms.

The prank war, though . . . I think it started with someone (maybe me?) putting a bunch of salt in Amman's drink during one of our meals. Maybe after that is when he wrote, "Watch Yourself" in shaving cream on Tamika's windshield. I admit that the next escalation was a bit much. Michelle, Tamika and I invited Spencer and Amman to eat dinner at Oxford Street . . . but what they didn't know was that we had arranged with the staff that the ladies would all leave the restaurant, making the fellas think that we had abandoned them there without paying . . . but we were just sitting in the car in the parking lot, laughing. We came back in and paid for the food, and we absolutely were not aware of how mad Spencer was about the whole thing. We parked in the Winn Dixie parking lot on the way back to school just to laugh more . . . and by the time we got back to the campus, Spencer, um . . . left the car while it was still in motion just to get away from us. I'll leave it at that.

Not long after that, our friend Ray came to visit from Maryland. Michelle LOVED Prince, and had
recently purchased his Diamonds and Pearls CD.  Ray asked to borrow it, but when he returned, he told her that she should listen to it because something may have happened to the CD. When she put it in the CD player, there was no music. Just a weird skipping noise. When she looked at the back of the CD, all the fellas had scratched their signatures and funny statements into the back of the CD. She was LIVID!!! She borrowed Tamika's car, and we drove over to Booth City where the guys lived.

Booth City - Photo cred: Lillian Knutson

Side note: I don't even know how this was legal, but while there were some guys who lived in old school dorms (only girls lived in the newest dorms - Azalea, Bluebonnet, Camellia, Daisy, and Edelweiss), the rest of the guys lived in Booth City which was basically rows and rows of glorified sheds with bunk beds.

Girls were only allowed in Booth City lounge, so the fact
that we drove up into Booth City itself was significant. I do remember arriving in Booth City creating a cloud of dust behind us because of how fast Michelle was driving. I remember her car door slamming like a shotgun blast when she got out and yelled, "Was it you? Was it you? Was it you? Which one of yall @#$%^ wrote on the back of my CD?" The fellas laughed, and laughed, and I remember standing there thinking that there was about to be a problem . . . until Ray pulled out an intact Diamonds and Pearls CD. The damaged CD was purchased and destroyed for pure laughs, and her CD remained unharmed. They got us good! Definitely the best prank to this day.

After the Diamonds and Pearls prank. LOL!

The last prank involved us creeping into Booth City and writing something in shaving cream on the concrete in front of one of the guys' booths . . . I was definitely the one who did the writing. It's not always hot in Texas, and during a cold snap, the shaving cream froze, leaving the words permanently etched into the concrete, and Michelle, Tamika and I got called in by the administration. We were confronted for coming into Booth City, and damaging property . . . but we didn't believe it. We sat there all belligerent, rolling our eyes, telling the Dean that we knew that the fellas had him in on the prank, and all like, "Yeah . . . okay. Whateva." Tamika lived in Georgia, but she was from New York like me and Michelle, and we definitely had attitude for days. I'm not sure what ended up happening . . . but it became clear that the Dean was not, in fact, in on the prank, and the prank war ended there.

Ambassador University doesn't exist anymore. The campus is now owned by the International ALERT Academy where first responders are trained. Before the campus was sold years ago, Dishon and I visited and got to see more of the campus than I ever saw when I was there. It was completely empty and surreal. Since graduating, I have discovered that a whole other world existed on that campus than I was aware of at the time. It's quite fascinating and definitely book-worthy. I guess that's what happens when you get a bunch of young adults together, make them sign a Code of Conduct, try to put a chokehold on their choices (suspension/probation for kissing, dismissal for sex), and create a loveless image of God where you are taught to keep His displeasure at bay by behaving a certain way. Heavy monitoring creates a divergent world where a dry campus becomes let's meet at the cemetery to drink, and be in by 11 becomes meet me on the roof of the library.  But I digress . . .

There were definitely some difficult times at school. There are challenges at all schools, but ours were unique because the denomination that sponsored the school transitioned from cult to mainstream Christianity while we were there in 1994. A lot of people left after that for different reasons - students, faculty, pastors . . . It was pretty devastating. But I remember the fun and laughter, too. Each class hosted a dance for the rest of the school every year, and the memories of the Freshman, Sophomore and Senior Banquets and Barn Dance . . . Operation Philia where the male and female students of color took turns honoring each other every year . . . those are good memories, and I'll keep that college fun in mind as I create the narrative for my characters in the novel.