Classic NYC Story

This is problematic for me only because I think my professor wants me to imitate his style of singing, and I’m like “no.” Actually, I didn’t explicitly say “no.” I’ve got more sense than to bad-talk Stevie Wonder’s high notes in front of a room full of jazz musicians who are all bigger than I am…

I ended up staying in the bathroom for over an hour. My nose and cheeks had swollen up to twice their normal size. My fingertips were swollen as well, and bright red. My stomach would not allow my legs to keep me perpendicular enough to cool my face down with wet paper towels, and eventually I crumbled into a corner, keeping my face near the cold tile floor and trying not to be conspicuous, even as several ladies came in and out of the bathroom wondering whose pants those were in the corner of the far stall.

I think I watched the door. There’s not much else to watch before service begins. I don’t know what I was looking for. I knew who was going to be there. Sister So-and-so, Brother So-and-so, Deacon So-and-so, and other characters all dressed and sanctimonious, carrying bibles and greeting each other like “Praise Him, sister!” when they want to say “good morning.” I wasn’t watching for them, of course. I knew what to say to them. “Good morning” is the extent of most of our conversation.

So what does that mean? It means I’m going to get old. Not that I have an intrinsic issue with age, mind, as most of my friends are older than I am. My older friends don’t like when I say things like this. They say “if you’re old then what the hell am I?” My answer is usually “mature”… except in the case where the person is not indeed mature. In which case the answer is silence with an implied “pathetic.” But that’s the issue: I don’t want to be old and pathetic.

She went from being a “professional negro” sex kitten wearing Marilyn Monroe’s dresses to cocktail lounges in the fifties to shrieking and moaning in civil rights protest with Max Roach in the sixties to being a movie star to being a dramatic storyteller…

I had a spectacular post all written out in my head, but by the time I got here I just… I don’t know. It was about my mother. Family drama. Phone calls. Something like that. Maybe I’ll write a reflection on it later this week. As for right now, though, here’s a meme:

Some people would call this a funny twist of fate. The Christians might call it divine will. Still other people might call it an asinine and callous error on the part of the pastor’s wife. However you want to put it, something is almost certain to happen. Something.

…I got up and paced around that little room singing over and over again “It’s a happy day and I thank God for the weather…” and then I changed the tune. And then I changed the lyrics. And then I changed them back. And I kept singing. I sang until I got tired, but I couldn’t stop, because I knew instinctively that I was keeping the demons away by singing. So I sang. And I paced. And I sang…