A dear family friend called last night and remarked, during our wide-ranging conversation, that she hadn't heard me sound this happy in a very long time. We both agreed that neither of us could remember when. We discussed both our families--she showed me pictures of their son who is right now in the midst of touring (and applying to) colleges--and ( Read more... )

Today, I pick up the keys to the new apartment ( Read more... )

Two nights ago, Monday, with The Girl in Bedstuy, the fireworks and gunshots were indistinguishable.

I've spent the last 45 minutes with a dear friend mourning the death of Muhammad Ali. With this particular friend, I learned about and learned to love the sport of boxing. We live-tweeted during fights and texted each other asides in-between rounds when we were a country apart. We griped and we groaned and we cheered and now we've cried. With this ( Read more... )

He'd picked a place on 44th Street, between 8th and 9th. A place called The New York Beer Company. First, we were seated by a kind and obliging waitress next to the door, then, at this friend's request, moved to seating near a far wall. It had been a while since I and this dear friend from my Tisch days had last gotten together, but it was one of ( Read more... )

Clear, onyx sky as I left 86th and West End Ave. But by the time I arrived at 157th St., fat, wholesome flakes descending soft enough to kiss every part of you they touched, clinging to the blue of your varsity jacket and hugging the fabric, and even with the wind, they don't sting your face, as if to say one last time, "T, winter loved you. Still ( Read more... )

Wednesday evening, I was called to the 16th District in the Bronx to give a brief presentation on the work my Bureau does with regards to civil rights. The occasion was a session of the African Leadership Council organized by Council Member Vanessa Gibson. I arrived right on time, forgetting that it is West African tradition to actually begin an ( Read more... )

It's not quite despair, not yet. But it is a changing of the mood that puts to rest or, at least, battles the theory that such emotional convulsions are tied to the departure and the advent of seasons. I'll not invoke Salman Rushdie's masterwork and imply that this dip is tied by some celestial umbilical cord to the increasingly apocalyptic cast of ( Read more... )

-- Chirlane McCray and the Limits of First-Ladyship - Rachel Kaadzi Ghansah, The New York Times Magazine, Feb. 9, 2016 ( Read more... )

Because I couldn't concentrate enough this morning to review answers for yesterday's milestone exams, I read a piece on the enduring necessity and accidental poetry of Greyhound buses. At 4.30pm, I will board one ( Read more... )