What To Do With The Dawn?

Between the ages of 9 and 14 I attended girl scout camp every summer. The camp was large and was comprised of three groups. The general camp had over 100 girls each session and did a little of everything - arts & crafts, games, singing, canoeing, and swimming instruction. The canoeing camp had at least 30 girls, required intermediate swimming skills, and was very popular. They were the cool girls, and the general campers worked diligently all summer to improve their swimming skills so they could join their ranks the following year. Finally, there was the sailing camp - a hardcore bunch of piss and vinegar sisters who swam like fish and cussed like sailors. Never more than 13 campers at a time (partly because not many girls could pass the water qualifications and partly because the chicks were just a little intimidating), and what they lacked in grace was more than made up for in a shiny brass pair of adolescent ovaries. This was my camp. Each summer I attended, among the ranks were me, two girls who called themselves Bartles & Jaymes, a junior naturalist who shared her bed each night with a 6 foot rat snake, and a chick - formerly named Sunshine - who had her name legally changed to Cloudy after losing a leg to gangrene.

My long-held fear of snakes was put to the test each morning before dawn. We would slip out of our bunks, pull on our suits, and make our way to the docks off which our sailboats were anchored about 40 yards from shore. On the way to the lake we'd pass a tree housing a family of venomous copperheads, only to head into a dark cold lake infested with water moccasins. My first summer of camp I was terrified every day. Most nights I would barely sleep, just thinking about awaking to face the agony all over again. The snakes were concentrated under the dock that extended toward our bobbing boats, and they would swim slowly and freely around you as you made your way out. Rarely, if ever, did I feel the actual skin of one touch me - only the ribbony whip of the water as the circled my legs or waist. Even without these daily encounters, the mere knowledge of their presence was enough! By my second summer I took notes from the older girls and got smarter. The frightful journey from closed tent to open sails was inevitable, so I learned to barely wake myself from sleep - making my bed virtually blind, wrap my arms tightly around my chest, shielding myself from the morning chill as I left the campsite. I spoke to no one and made no stops as I headed quickly toward the water, and gently slipped in. I went from cold dark ground to cold dark water, and on into my boat paying little head to the dangers that lurked all around.

The collective goal was to be in our small Sunfish sailboats and at least a mile up the lake by dawn. As ridiculous as it sounds, I became so attached to my morning entry routine that by the time I hoisted my sail and set out, a subtle sense of uneasiness engulfed me. The most frightening part of my day was behind me, but I couldn't help but wonder what to do with the dawn.

Most sunrises came slow and smooth, and drenched our faces with warm sunlight. Our silence would break and we'd make jokes as we yelled at each other from boat to boat - determining our objective for the day, or teasing one another about skinny dipping the night before. (Who's gonna have big boobs? Stay flat chested? Who needs to start waxing their legs?) We'd sail up the lake and capsize our boats so we could lay across the exposed bottoms and catch some rays - the rudder jutting straight toward the sky as we lay on either side. Then we'd reach up and grab the rudder, pulling down and stepping on it to right our boats - careful to lower our heads as the boom swung across. (My tent-mate was not so careful on more than one occasion!) We'd eat lunch out of containers we brought, dock at interesting looking spots to explore the area, and always planned the occasional "run-in" with a canoe group from the boyscout camp. (Our favorite trick was to take out the catamaran and lay bare chested on the mesh netting while the boys swam underneath. We felt deliciously trampy and scandalous!) No matter what the agenda, each day was wonderful. And I still consider it to be one of the most liberating times in my life. So its odd that I remember so clearly that catch in my chest each morning as the sun prepared to breach the horizon - that fear of an unknown future, no matter how beautiful it was destined to be.

With less than 3 months until the end of classes and the end of my time in law school, I feel much the same as I did most mornings on the lake. For 3 years, I have been in that dark cold water - eyes closed tight, motions focused, swimming strong against creatures sly and eager, spinning figure-eights in my wake. I know this fear, along with my methods for keeping it at bay. Looking ahead, I do believe that joy, and peace, and success are destined for me, but whereas my fear and I are old bedfellows, that light is yet to be my own. So instead of celebrating the end of a long and arduous journey, I sit with my face toward the horizon, my eyes frantically scanning for those last shadows of night. I praise God for another safe passage through darkness, yet still feel my heart catch as I wonder, "What to do with the dawn?"

Why Is She So Angry?

But then or now, decent underwear or none, wild women could never hide their innocence - a kind of pitty-kitty hopefulness that their prince was on the way. Especially the tough ones with their box cutters and dirty language, or the glossy ones with two-seated cars and a pocketbook full of dope. Even the ones who wear scars like presidential medals and stockings rolled at their ankles can't hide the sugar-child, the winsome baby girl curled up somewhere inside, between the ribs, say, or under the heart. Naturally all of them have a sad story: too much notice, not enough, or the worst kind. Some tale about dragon daddies and false-hearted men, or mean mamas and friends who did them wrong. Each story has a monster in it who made them tough instead of brave, so they open their legs instead of their hearts where that folded child is tucked.

- Toni Morrison, Love

A Subway Scene

My husband and I were in New York City again recently, and the motion and the madness of the city was reminiscent of a previous trip there. We had been down in the subway station at Canal Street waiting for a train to Lincoln Center, and a young man played the bucket drums while his friend danced for dollars in front of him. They are there everyday from sunup to sundown - drumming, dancing, and fighting to survive.

It reminded me of my marriage. My husband and I had just had a long discussion about the difficulty and demands of marriage, and what a struggle it is to set boundaries and be strong in the face of the world's threats and distractions. He said it's like a battle. He said we stand back-to-back on the battlefield, holding each other up with swords drawn, fighting for the right to be beholden to one another. For the freedom to love and be loved in return. They battled, in the subway that day, as we battle for our marriage everyday. And in that we are the same. The steady pace of that bucket drum rang out like a call to war. The sweat on the brow of the dancer was evidence of his commitment to the front line. It was warrior music. In my marriage, I am that dancer, and my husband beats the drum.

He slaps his wide palms against the belly of the bucket, forcing it to ring out a cry that summons the attention of passers by. His beating is slow at first, but steady. His eyes closed, his head back, becoming lost in the work. His face bears either a slight grin or a deep strain - it's not clear. But his intention is unmistakable. He will drum to save his life. He will drum to save my life. He will drum to usher in the hope and health of our future children, as I dance.

He dips low into a frightening and hurried rhythm that sends chills up your spine. Then slows his pace to a sound that awakens the truth that breaks your heart. His heart breaks too, but he drums on. Despite heartache, despite disappointment, racism, betrayal, and waning faith, he drums on. He is not above this pain, so he will move through - FIGHT THROUGH - because he longs for happiness. And he longs to see me free.

I don't want to be free. I cling to his rhythm. Jonathan Livingston Seagull can have his flight alone. I'll stay here on earth - my feet a slave to the percussion of my husband's warrior song. My dance is a charge - a forge - a storming of the battlefield, my bayonet just and swift. We fight back to back. We fight for our marriage, our freedom, our portion of happiness, our peace.

I dance. Kick-ball-chains and arabesques. Pop-lockin' and headspinnin' on a flattened cardboard box while trains full of passengers fly by, oblivious to our fight to stay alive. I shake my hips to his African rhythm, swinging my arms backward and forward, round and round - hands to my chest then flailed back behind me. My best rendition of the steps of my ancestors. I spin out in a Donna Summers disco move, then break into the wop. I tap dance out our worries and misgivings. He drums in God's grace and countenance.

He drums because he must. I dance because I must. He drums and I dance. I dance and he drums. Can you hear him? Can you see me? We're here everyday from sunup to sundown, fighting for the freedom to love and be loved in return.

Bellissima, Amen!

Well, I'm back from Italy and what can I say? There was wine, pasta, monuments, more wine, church folk, drama, more wine, bed bugs, poor ventilation, more wine, sleeper cars, countryside, more wine, ostentatious locals, public groping, more wine, awesome conversation, inspiring messages, blessed company, and more wine. If nothing else, it was definitely an EXPERIENCE! And I thank everyone who helped to make it possible. For now, I'll stick to the most impressive aspect...

I made a new friend. Have you ever met someone and immediately knew they'd be in your life forever? That was the case with a young man I met in Rome. He was not an Italian. In fact he was good ole American Black folk from north Florida, and I can't imagine the trip without him. We talked, we laughed, and praised the Lord together. And I will admit that it had been a long time since I'd had so much fun doing so.

I've come a long way in my life. Having been reared in a Christian tradition that emphasized God's grace above all else, I was always torn between that tradition and the teachings of my grandparents' church. They were full-out fundamentalist evangelicals who preached fire and brimstone for anyone who refused to convert to their take on the Christian story. Being the sadly anal and perfectionistic child that I was, I believed that there must be a way to embrace my own God and still satisfy this fire-breathing deity that always loomed at the corners of my consciousness. I would often go down the checklist of do's and don'ts that were the guideposts of my grandparents' religion and make sure I was relatively in line - coming up with a composite score that would quantify the subsequent guilt that would ensue. Feeling sufficiently guilty, I would turn to my own God for forgiveness, absolution, and comfort - begging Him to reason with the frightening one on my behalf. I imagined the conversation going something like this: My God > "Please leave my daughter alone. She struggles to do right, but she really is a sweetheart. Plus, I love her. And if you really want this to get ugly, we can go right here! Don't nobody mess with my baby!!!" Fire-breathing deity > "Fine. But I've got my eye on her!"

It has taken me years to reconcile these ideas, and to embrace the truth of my loving God. My first awakening came around the age of 12 when I finally heard the message of God's love as if I was experiencing it for the first time. Like coming out of a fog, I realized God loves me. ME! Nerdy, chubby, jheri curl wearing, anal-retentive ME! All of me! I'm his baby, pure and simple. And when he calls me, he calls all of me - not just the cute parts or the smart parts - to step forth! Child, I took the weight of the watchful eye of that fire-breathing foolishness off me like a fur coat in July! (Would have set it on fire if I wasn't afraid my jheri curl would catch and send me to Jesus earlier than I wanted!) I still have my guilt-ridden days. But there's a difference between being accountable to God for the choices you make in life, and walking around with a death veil over your head. Either way you're held accountable. But one way, you're living in gratitude. The other way, you're counting down the days.

I say all this to say that the friendship I made in Rome would have been difficult for me to embrace in years past. I would have mistaken my friend's rootedness in a more conservative church tradition for an embracement of painful and frightening religiosity. But not anymore! We sang, "Glory, glory, hallelujah, since I laid my burdens down." We sang "Great Is Thy Faithfulness," and "A Charge to Keep." We prayed prayers of thanksgiving for coming from very different places, but for arriving in the same spot. We sang to the same God. We prayed to the same God. And we received the same joy. Odd that it took a trip to Italy to help me visualize the peace I've made with my Black American Christian experience. But, odd or not, I'm grateful - to God, and to my new friend.

What you say, brother? "Meet me Lord, meet me. Meet me in the middle of the air. And if these wings should fail me, send me another pair." LOL!!! Amen to that! You got to meet me somewhere in the middle!

Will and Grace

As part of my current efforts to be my healthiest self, I've gone to swimming laps in the morning. I get up at 6AM each morning and ride with my husband to the YMCA so I can get my swim on. Because I used to be a competitive swimmer this new venture may seem easy, but it's actually quite the opposite. It has been a LONG time since I was in competition shape. At least 12 years to be exact. So something that once came so easily is now nothing short of a pride swallowing siege.

When I was a kid and swimming competitively for several local teams, my father (who, himself was a former competitive swimmer) almost never came to my swim meets. Back then, I thought it was because he was not interested. Looking back, I realize that swim meets were some of the few occasions that my father had time at home by himself. I missed him at the meets because I was so proud of my athleticism. I swam hard, deliberately, and had no love for my competition. One summer, for unknown reasons, my father showed up at an outdoor meet. Because of his presence, I was even more amped than usual. I swam my event like a crazy person, and yanked myself out of the pool both anxious to receive my first place announcement, and even more anxious to join my father in celebration. To my dismay, I looked in the stands and saw that his response was full-on, red-faced, tear-jerking laughter. He laughed so hard he had to lean over! I knew my father loved me too much to mock my joy, so I was confused about his reaction. As I approached, he put his hand on my shoulder and caught his breath while exclaiming, "Good gracious! You have a real spider stroke on you girl! Your arms stay bent through each stroke. You barely get your arms out of the water before you're diving back in for another pull. No slice, no glide, just sheer and strong crawling!" I was both relieved and perplexed. He was right, and I knew it. I was fast - no doubt, but not because I worked on technique. I just swam like a tiger shark was on me! In fact, it was not uncommon for me to swim the length of a 25 meter pool without taking a breath. After that day I was inspired to work on my technique. If I could swim that fast without it, imagine my times with a strong even glide! I worked on it, but I stopped competing before I ever got my times to match my new technique.

This current campaign is not the first time I've attempted to use swimming as a means of getting back into shape. However, every time the same challenge has remained. My husband's skill and strength shames me. He does not have the lengthy competitive history I do, and he's been out of practice just as long as me, but I can't catch him. In my glory days I would have given him a run for his money, but no more. His stroke is strong, steady, and focused. He swims they way he drives, the way he hunts, the way he thinks, the way he makes love. Where my eyes are at the end of the pool, his are on each stroke. If my style demonstrates raw will and determination, his represents pure grace. So, my past attempts to swim with him have been short lived - ending in frustration over my efforts because of damage to my pride.

It's been 8 mornings now that we've woken up and headed out. The first few days were rough. I was physically weak and angry. We argued about nothing, and I cried in the pool. But we came back the next day. We started swimming 250 meters, and we're already up to 450. My goal is 1000 meters each morning. I gave myself a year to reach it, but if I continue the way I am, it will come much sooner. There's no pressure, but I'm excited. Keep me in your prayers, if you will. Every time you see a pool, think of me. I'm there every morning, 6AM, swimming slightly behind the graceful one, but swimming steady. And getting stronger every day.

Life Saver

My whole family swims. My dad and his brothers were competitive swimmers. To this day, people in eastern North Carolina refer to them as the Davis Water Dogs! My mother was a life guard, and my husband and I got to know each other when we were both on our high school swim team. I don't think there was a time in my life when I didn't move as well through water as I do on land. From the time I was a little girl, my parents and I would visit the coast of North Carolina. We'd get in the water and begin swimming out into the depths. Past the breakers, past the sand bar, looking back at the end of the fishing piers and people like little dots on the beach. Once we were beyond the realm of shrieking children trying to outrun the arrival of high tide and patient surfers straddling their boards, we'd just float. We'd bob up and down - riding small waves and diving into larger ones. We'd laugh and take each other in - speaking very little, but smiling a lot. Just happy to be in a place where everything that mattered was at arm's reach, and our only encumbrances were sea and sun.

One evening, when I was about 13, we stayed out later than usual - braving the deep waters off Kure Beach and watching the sunset. My mom cautioned that it was getting late and suggested we head back. She lead the way, harnessing her powerful sidestroke. My father and I followed behind, pulling against the strong current with frantic freestyles. After about 10 minutes my mom hit the shore, tired and relieved. She looked back to find that my father and I had made little progress. We'd swum out further than usual, headed back later than my mother, and it was now dark. My mom stood on the shore yelling out instructions as fervently as she could. "Swim faster! Harder! Go with the current, not against it! Try to ride out the next wave!" It was useless. The tide was coming in strong, and bringing a storm with it. You could not ride out one wave without being swept up by the next, and with the sun down you could barely see them coming. 30 minutes later my dad caught a break. The current pulled him into a wave that pulled him under, then buoyed him up within reach of the shore. I, on the other hand, began being swept down the beach faster than he could keep up with from the water, so he was forced to join my mother on the beach running along to keep me in sight. After over 45 minutes of fighting and failing, my arms felt like jelly. They just sort of buzzed numbly, and I could not even reach them above my head to stroke. I was exhausted. And now the waves were so deep that when they slammed me toward the floor of the ocean I felt no sand. I just tumbled violently - not knowing which way was up, and having to calm myself so that I would float upward rather than scrambling in the wrong direction. After swallowing a dangerous amount of water on the last dunk, I realized I may not make it back in. My dad yelled for me to keep my head up. He screamed, and my mom cried. They'd called the coast guard, but we later learned there were several drownings and near-drownings that night. I whispered to whomever might hear, "I'm done." My dad screamed, "No!" as if he could hear me. I felt neither sad nor afraid. I felt peace. Once I stopped struggling, the pain in my arms and legs quieted and my heartbeat slowed. I could hear it beating loud, slow, and reassuringly in my head. I was grateful to my parents for loving me and challenging me. I was grateful to God for my life. I was OK.

The last wave to hit me was the largest yet. I was pulled up into an awesome swell and felt myself travel for what seemed liked a whole minute before it dove hastily toward the ocean bottom. I went down fast and hard. I felt my arms and legs spread akimbo - my fingers splayed wide. When my outstretched hands were thrust into the sand, it felt as if I'd dived into a pool of living rocks. I felt no water - only hard, sharp, moving sea. And then mind numbing pain! Pain so intense that it felt heat! Like I'd been awakened from a sweet dream with scalding water. I opened my mouth to scream and threw my arms straight up above me. First I saw light. Then I felt wind, and I looked down to see myself quickly approaching a dock a few feet below me. I landed hard - so hard I pulled splinters out of my knees and palms for days after. Dizzy and confused, I looked around and over the dock into the water below. A light on the dock illuminated the water around it where hundreds of crab laid piled in moving bunches. Somehow the current led me down toward the shore, toward a small fishing dock, and slammed my hand into the waiting claw of an angry crab. It sounds unbelievable, but it's true - I promise. God is good - and funny - right?

I don't swim at night anymore. But I still swim out past the breakers. That day did not bind me. It set me free. I don't look forward to loss in this life, but I know one thing. When it comes - and loss is bound to come - I'll live to know joy another day...in this world or the next.

Health Nut

Well, my good friend and fellow blogger, Naadii, has been dedicating much of her blog to her fitness goals and regime. At first the message didn't sink in, but lately I've found the struggle inspiring.

I'm not much on weight loss. Don't get me wrong - I could stand to lose an Olsen twin or two. But I've never been inspired by weight loss as a goal. As an overweight child, I suffered constant criticism and disdain from family members about my weight. It was all cloaked in the guise of love and wellness, but in the end, my being a more presentable looking child warranted any degree of insult. This began years before I was blessed with an independent awareness of my own wealth and beauty, so I took what I heard as truth. I was ugly, embarrassing, and disappointing. This was further aggravated by the fact that I was a highly athletic kid, and I cared a lot about what people thought of me. I couldn't put the pieces together. It all seemed impossible and unfair.

My greatest hurdle in getting in shape has been wanting to avoid the satisfaction it will bring to the ones who hurt me. So sad right? They still have so much control. But, it's changing - slowly. I desperately want to be the healthiest person I can be. I've always been kind of a health nut when it comes to putting good stuff in my body and staying active, but I've almost avoided the weight loss aspect out of fear, shame, and hanging on to old s***. Well, I still plan to avoid it! Losing weight will be great, but I've decided that if I never step foot on another scale outside of a doctor's office that will be fine with me!

I want tight skin, a strong center, great muscle tone, and endurance. I want to be able to tumble again! Back bends, walkovers, standing back handsprings - all that stuff I used to do as a kid, while sucking a lolly pop and believing I'd have those moves forever. Along with Naadii and the rest of my girls, I'm ready to struggle to live my best life. Today I went on a serious walk for the first time in a long time. I took the dog, and we both drug our fat a**es home like we'd run a marathon. It was good though - mainly because I didn't want to do it, for all sorts of convincing reasons, but I got out there anyway.

It will be difficult, but I'm glad of that. I seem to not be able to do anything the easy way. And I'm sure the weight loss will come, as will the comments about how much better I look, and how they're glad I finally got it together. And it will hurt, but I won't let it deter me. The fight would be too easy without it, and easy has never been my game!

Bug Juice

When I was 9, my parents gave my sister a Kool-Aid stand. The point was to put it together, set it up on the street, and sell Kool-Aid. Well, my sister never did that (not for business anyway). But I decided that this was an opportunity for me to become the true financial impresario I was meant to be. There was one problem: not enough sugar. The day I opened my stand I had a choice to make. I had 4 packs of Kool-Aid and 3 cups of sugar. If I did it the right way, I'd choose two flavors (grape and red - the people's favorite, right?), and I'd proceed with the beginning of an empire. Somehow I got lost in flights of flavorful fancy. What if I had more?! I could use half the sugar and have four flavors! It was set. I'd sacrifice sweetness for selection, and invite the public into my flavorful utopia. I set up the stand. I brought out my pitchers, and opened my cash box.

10 cents for a small!

25 cents for a medium!

50 cents for a large!

I was ready. "Come one, come all. Experience the best refreshment in town!" 10 minutes went by. 15. 1 hour went by. 2. Finally, after 3 hours in 90+ degree conditions, I got a customer! A simple and honest working man, with no air condition in his pickup truck stopped at MY kool-aid stand for a drink! His truck was bright orange, with an anonymous bug on top. It was the Terminex man - our local rid-a-bug hero in the hood. He was a great public servant, and with high waters, mullet, and all, he'd chosen ME - yes ME - to provide the libations for quenching his thirst. I asked him, "What would you like? I have a good selection!" He said, "I'll take a large tropical punch please." Without hesitation, I filled his glass. I was short on sugar, but I was big on flavor baby! And I couldn't wait to take my first customer on the taste sensation ride of his life!

He took one gulp, looked at me like I had poisoned the fountain of youth, and spit the contents of his mouth out on the ground. He dumped the entire large cup onto the grass, and screwed his face up like a toddler on a pickle. He took a $5 bill out of his pocket, threw it on the counter of my Kool-Aid stand, and told me to shut it down!

I shut it down, and cried my eyes out. I knew where my weakness lied. It was the sugar! It was the damned sugar!!!!!! Why'd I have to go with four flavors?! Why not two?! Grape and Red are ALWAYS crowd pleasers!!!

This was one of my most important life lessons. When you've made a poor choice in judgment, don't be salty. Suck it up, and take responsibility. I mean, it wasn't the bug man's fault the kool-aid was bad. Learn from your mistakes. Own your own misjudgment, and move forward with accountability.

Today, my Dad told me to call someone to inspect his house for termites. I thought about it for a minute. "No problem Dad! I got this! But I'll be damned if I'm going to call Terminex!" Those mother f*****s owe me a dream, dammit! They owe me a dream!!!

Keeping the Faith

My father went to church last week and listened as the pastor preached a sermon about prayer - and more specifically - how we respond when our prayers seem to go unanswered. It reminded me of another sermon I heard once in which the minister spoke of Christ being hidden in our suffering. His words frightened me at first. I'd encountered the concept of a "hidden Christ" in the classroom, from a theological perspective, but to sit in the pews and have to ask, "Why the hell is Christ hiding at my most desperate hour?!!" left me angry and grappling. I almost dared the minister to come up with some happy revelation, like the end of the "Footprints" story that hangs from the walls of rest homes and dorm rooms. The preacher said that it is when we are most lost and vulnerable that we encounter Christ in the midst of our suffering - nothing magical or mysterious - only blessed, painful, humbling, and true. The message was so adverse to the ministry of prosperity that has padded the pockets of the new age Christian movement. It was a sermon that didn't make money. (And, apparently, all sermons should make money.) His message was that alone in our suffering, we come face to face with ourselves and our God. Muslims are cast prostrate facing Mecca, Jews mutter sage morsels of the Talmud, Hindus chant a lullaby of Oms, and Christians drop their baggage at the foot of an empty cross. We all, in our suffering, are united in taking heed to the voice of the painful and joyful paradox that beckons, "Even in your greatest suffering, you are never alone, because you are not your own."

Humorist David Sedaris once wrote about his grandmother (YaYa) moving in with his family in Raleigh, North Carolina when he was a child. She embarrassed the s*** out of them at the Greek Orthodox Church when she crawled on her hands and knees, up the center aisle of the sanctuary, wailing and eventually clinging to the pastors feet. I laughed so hard I cried! The image was comic and ridiculous. This little old Greek lady, dressed in black, displaced from her home and all she knew, causing a scene in a public place. As I thought more about it, I laughed less. YaYa did not know the pastor or the congregation, but she knew there was something there. Beyond the pews and the incense, the pastor's robes, the vaulted ceilings, and the pious churchgoers looking on in embarrassment. It was something that no contribution to a collection plate could alter or erase.

No one really cares what they look like when the answers to fervent prayers lie in waiting. No one cares whose ashamed when sadness or loss leaves us grasping for hope. In her suffering, she crawled up that aisle toward a painful, humbling, and blessed truth. She is not alone, because she is not her own. I guess, there is no comedy or tragedy in that.

Bona Fide Psycho

It's official. Law school has turned me into a complete psycho! Not a funny, zany, spontaneous person - good to have a parties and mixers, but a bona fide whack job. I turned in my final summer school assignment today after 8 hours of tears, screaming, threats, and gnashing of teeth. I think that at one point, my husband suggested I calm down, and gave him the finger while simultaneously biting my tongue and rolling my eyes into the back of my head.

Dear God - Who wants me? I know this man I married is just biding his time until the bell rings and he gets to collect on that small island nation he was promised for tolerating my inane theatrics for the last 14 years. Before he leaves, please let me meet another man with a similar name so I don't regret the tattoo on my ass quite so much. - Amen

Well, at least it's over - for now. One more year of school, and I'm finally done with the whole damn operation. I remember the first week of my first year, when I met my mentor. When I asked about her 1L year, she said she and her husband had divorced before spring break. What's an appropriate gift for a man who makes it through undergrad, grad school, and law school without putting you on a litigation chain gang and cashing your paychecks while he travels the world following Jill Scott's new album release tour? The usual undignified favors just don't seem to apply. I guess I'll just have to take it one step at a time...

Step 1: Say thank you.

Step 2: Don't be psycho.

Step 3: Put some lotion on that ashy tattoo and raise it in his direction.

In celebration of the end of another hellish chapter in my academic career, I'm offering a toast: "Here's to psychotic women everywhere, and the saintly men who continue to love them in spite of all grades of foolishness."