The Whole Pizza Pie

In a recent conversation with a friend about relationships and love and shit like that, Tyler Perry’s Why Did I Get Married came up. After about a fifteen minute tangential conversation about why I wouldn’t put Tyler Perry on my list of favorite actors, playwrights, or directors, we got back to the topic at hand: the 80/20 rule.

In the movie, Malik Yoba’s character tells his ‘boys’, that in relationships, you get about 80% of your needs met. And while it may be tempting to seek that other 20% somewhere else, a person should value the 80% that they already have. Apparently, belief in this edict is supposed to discourage infidelity and infuse the overly-selective mind like mine with a dose of reality.

Well, I think that is some balderdash, bullshit, nonsense, Tom Foolery, or as my uncle would say, “that’s some monkey business.”

Firstly, the original 80/20 principle is entirely different than what has been widely adopted as sound relationship advice. The initial concept comes from an early twentieth century Italian economist who observed that 80 percent of the land in Italy was owned by 20 percent of the population. The general idea is that a very large number of outputs or outcomes are usually generated by a small number of inputs.

We all know that a small portion of the population controls an overwhelming majority of the world’s resources. This idea applies to other walks of life as well. Compare the number of famous and/or commercially successful actors, writers, and directors like the aforementioned Mr. Perry to the vast number of “us” who are dancing, singing, or writing our hearts out with no paparazzi following us at all.

As far as the relationship thing goes, 80% is far too low. I tried to use the following analogy with my friend but was told that it sucked:

Imagine ordering a pizza pie from your local pizzeria. The large pizza pie comes with 10 slices, so you prepare yourself to enjoy ten mouth-watering and cheesy slices of pizza. You make it to the pizzeria and pay for your pie. You get home, pour a tall glass of Moscato and sit down to open your hot cheesy and Wham! You notice that two of your slices are gone!

Well, that analogy may need a little work, but the point is that 20 percent of anything is a huge chunk. I don’t know; maybe you’re okay with only 80 percent of your paycheck or 80 percent of a haircut. Maybe that was the thinking behind the Mohawk.

When I was a kid in school, getting an 80 on anything would feel like failure. You mean I got a fifth of the answers wrong? Did I get dumb all of a sudden?

Personally, I believe that applying this rule to relationships is hazardous. Why settle for something that you feel is incomplete? By right, you deserve everything. I am a whole person, therefore, I want to laugh with, talk to, interact with, kiss, and love a whole person. If I was to put a percentage on it, it would have to be about 95. That’s less than sales tax; I can deal with that.

So, theoretically, I would have to decide if the four-fifths of a person that I do like is good enough to make me deal with the one-fifth that I don’t? HELL NAW!

Relationships of all kind should be fun. I have friends that I’ve known for a long time that a rarely talk to anymore because I don’t enjoy talking to them. It’s not fun. I’m not going to put up with it because of the fun we had when we were eleven or I can depend on him to help me move. There has to be more than that. I can hire movers.

And I can do without being with someone that I don’t immensely enjoy. Yeah, I get it. Nobody’s perfect. But in your specific situation, even the imperfections should be perfect. And yeah, I know they say that anything worth having takes work. Well, I go to work every day. Who wants to come home and have to work some more? That should be your solace, your sanctuary. You can’t have chaos in your sanctuary, even if it is only 20 percent of the time.

See, instead of worrying about what percentage of this person you like or can tolerate, turn the mirror to you. What percentage of yourself do you love? And how much of do actually dislike? If there is 20 percent of you that you don’t like, then finding a 99/1 ratio in someone else ain’t gonna work. Until you wholly love yourself, truly loving anyone else is impossible. You have to work on you.

The original model of the rule speaks of inputs and outputs. My theory is that we spend a majority of our time on the things that only contribute marginally to our total happiness, and not enough time on those things that ultimately bring more fulfillment.

If we spent more time on ourselves: learning who we are and who we aren’t, enjoying life, and connecting to the things around us, and less time thinking about, trying to mold, and trying to quantify others, then we would be a much happier society.

Oh. And read a book…and not just 80 percent of it.

Next week’s topic: FACEBOOK: The Bane of Productivity!

MJ Tribute

I've been working on this for a while. It just came out of the oven.


Something for Mike

This is a tribute
To he who sang the soundtrack to my youth, my life.
From waking up in the morning to watch your cartoon,
To watching Thriller and being scared to sleep at night.
This is for you, Mike.
For those terrific moments, specific moments.
Like Miami Arena ’85, Victory Tour, all the way live.
And dropping the moonwalk at Motown 25.
This if for that little boy who sang Ben,
For countless hours trying to add more revolutions to my spin.
This is for the Lady in your life and all the P.Y.T.s
And for all of the people just like me
Who were awakened by parents from some blissful dream
To do some groggy-eyed performance to Billie Jean.
But once that beat dropped and before you uttered that very first line,
The sleep ran away like you in Remember the Time.
This is for the kids who used to rock the hot red leather zipper jackets to school.
This is for the only man who could make high-water pants and penny loafers cool.
This is for jheri curls and bejeweled gloves.
For being nine years old and singing like you knew the joys and pains of being in and out of love.
This is for the music, the moves, the mind, the man.
This is for the things about EVERYONE that NO ONE will ever understand.
This is my tribute to MJ in the form of a poem.
Maybe now they will just leave you alone.

Copyright © 2010 Darius D.

Three Kings, Huh?

I feel that it is my duty and my right, as a native South Floridian, to comment on “The Decision”, as it has been dubbed. And by “The Decision”, I mean LeBron James’ selfless choice to join Dwyane Wade, Chris Bosh, and whatever other mishmash of rag-tag players Pat Riley can put together on the Miami Heat.

Non-Sports Follower Guide: LeBron James is a 25-year old basketball uber-beast who has been heralded as the next great everything before he even began shaving, which was probably around eleven or twelve years old. He’s a native of Akron, Ohio and joined his “hometown” Cleveland Cavaliers right out of high school, signed a $100 million shoe contract and has since been an enormous superstar.

But I am glad that all of the suspense is over. The sports world has been talking about this for way too long. And the wait was ended in what I’m sure Clevelanders and undoubtedly Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert would see as Draconian fashion. James announced that he was “taking his talents to South Beach” in a one hour televised special. Yes, he was a free agent and technically no team could claim him as their own at the moment. But when he said those six words, all of Ohio felt like the guy who proposed to his girlfriend at a baseball game and scheduled it to be shown on the Jumbotron, and the entire stadium watched on as she said “no”.

Some have compared it to a star high school player holding a press conference to announce what university he is going to. The difference: the Cavs had paid him millions of dollars and he didn't let them know until minutes before the television special. Yeah, apparently all the proceeds went to the Boys and Girls Club. That is a wonderful and noble deed. But couldn't he just have donated the money himself? He did sign a new $110 million contract. The Clevelanders weren't feeling it, no matter how much the kids benefited.

They cried and burnt his jersey. He’s been vilified and labeled a Benedict Arnold. The Cavs owner called his choice an act of cowardly betrayal. He better keep all of his eyes open when he's anywhere in the Midwest. I understand the owner being pissed; millions of dollars just walked out his door. But to the rest of the world: GET A LIFE!

The reverberation of LeBron’s choice has many more layers than simply what occurs on the basketball court. However, I do have a few questions there, too.

a. Who else will be on the team? After signing the three biggest free agents, there isn’t a lot of money for the Heat to flesh out the rest of their roster. They’ll likely have to sign a bunch of journeymen and older players with less talent who want to ride some coattails in a quest for a ring. If they need an under-sized shooting guard with a bad knee, I’ll play for the minimum.
b. Who takes the last shot? This is an enviable position to be in, having multiple superstars who can win the game for you, but who will it be? I know from neighborhood pick-up games the value of hitting a game winning shot. Not only the game, but the amount of groupie action after the game will be weighed in the balance.
c. Will LeBron be willing to channel Magic? If LeBron takes on a more Magic Johnson-type role with this team, then the sky is a limit. He needs to realize that he has other people on his team who can drop 30 or 40 in any given night. He just needs to set the table for them and let them eat. Oh, a post up every now and then wouldn’t hurt LeBron’s game, either.

The most interesting thing to me is the Mardi Gras party that took place when he and Chris Bosh arrived in Miami. It looked like Michael Jackson came back and did a duet with Prince at the Grammys. For a second, I thought I was watching a World Cup celebration. Since when is there this amount of fanfare for fans and players before an actual game has even been played.

Imagine for a moment...

A group of guys are hanging out one night at a bar. We’ll call them Jay, Ray, and Everton. So, they all see this gorgeous woman at the bar.

“Damn, she’s bad!” Everton exclaims while twisting his face into the “I just saw a fine ass woman” look that can be mistaken for the “I just ate an entire bag of lemons” look or the “what is that putrid smell?” look.

Ray nods his head in agreement, and Jay clears his throat.

“You suckas just wait her; I’m gonna go get her,” Jay says while popping an Altoid in his mouth.

As he strides confidently over to the woman sitting in the third chair from the left edge of the bar he smiles; she smiles back.

“Hi, I’m Jay. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure, I’m having a -”

But before she can fix her lips to say Sour Apple Martini, he throws his hands up in exaltation, grabs the empty glass in front of the woman and spikes it to the ground as if he’d just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl. He then runs around the bar yelling “I did it, I did it!” and “I’m the got damn man!” He makes it over to his friends and starts high-fiving and cabbage-patching in their faces.

Crazy, right?

Well, that is exactly what occurred with the Heat. You have to at least engage in some in-depth conversation first. LeBron simply let the Heat buy him an extremely expensive drink. This kind of celebration should only come after some heavy petting, i.e., at least an NBA Finals appearance.

I wonder how President Barack Obama feels. Not only were his hometown team the Chicago Bulls spurned by Mr. James, but they P. Diddied him and sampled his phrase. That’s right. The marquee flashed it, fans held signs with it printed on them, and Miami maniacs shouted it.

YES WE DID!

The same phrase that was used to commemorate the election of the United States’ first Black president was being used to celebrate some basketball players simply SIGNING with a team. No, not hyperbolic at all. No pressure there.

Alas, I’m a Heat fan. I will definitely be at some of the home games. Something of this magnitude, you just have to be a part of it. While I’m sure I’ll be watching from a point in the arena where I couldn’t decipher LeBron from Wade, or Lil’ Wayne, for that matter. Thank God for the Jumbotron. I hope I’m not in American Airlines to witness the Heat being eliminated from the playoffs.

It would be like that moment in a movie when the super villain has almost completed his plan of destroying the moon or turning all of the Earth's water into milk, but he arrogantly decides to rail off a long monologue about his plan and how he is better than the hero and there is nothing that can be done stop him. At this point, the hero frees himself and defeats the villain, the planet is saved, and the world cheers HOORAY!!!

Only this time the world, especially Cleveland, will be screaming, “Oh, no you didn’t!”

Sparks and Sparklers!

Everyone loves the Fourth of July, right? Hot dogs and hamburgers. Family and friends. And the joy of endangering lives by lighting potentially fatal explosives for the enjoyment of all the little children in the neighborhood; what could be better than that? I remember when I was about six or seven years old, this kid in my neighborhood had to be taken to the hospital after being struck in the eye by an errant bottle rocket. Needless to say, he never saw the 4th of July the same after that.


Tangent Alert:
The Fourth of July commemorates the adoption of the Declaration of Independence. With this document, America’s original thirteen colonies were now independent states, free from British rule. The Declaration is sprinkled with majestic phrases that painted the picture of what life should and would be like without the “tyranny” imposed by Great Britain’s King George III.
“…all men are created equal”, “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” For me, the most interesting thing about the Declaration of Independence is that many of those who signed this document were slave owners. Hmm…ironic, to say the least.



John Adams predicted that the signing of the Declaration of Independence would forever be celebrated with parades and shows and fireworks all across the continent. Thus we have the fabulous spectacles and displays we are accustomed to seeing today.

The Fourth of July and its fireworks remind me of relationships. The anticipation always seems to trump the actual event. As a kid, I couldn’t wait for the Sun to go down on the Fourth. That’s when my mom or my uncles would gather up whatever fireworks we had and head outside with the lighter and unlimited books of matches. There were things that popped, things that sparkled, things that popped and sparkled, and things that shot up in the air, popped, and then sparkled. There were the snake/worm things that you set on fire and they just grew. I never really got the point of those. Then, there were the things that emitted a colorful array of sparks accompanied by smoke and whistles. In my mind, the bigger the contraption was, the better it was going to be. But almost inevitably, my poor little pre-teen heart was always disappointed.


The sparklers were just lame. The bottle rockets rarely launched. And you can only watch green and red sparks fly out of a cardboard tube so many times. Ultimately, after thirty or so minutes, the party was over. Then, I would be in the middle of the street putting ashen Independence Day scraps into a plastic bag. I would inevitably hang on to a few firecrackers or spark-shooting army tanks, but those would be used up in couple of days. I always had this “is that it?” feeling after the Fourth.


Relationships are pretty much the same. You get all excited in the beginning, maybe even a little scared. You’re anticipating some amazing things to occur. And why wouldn’t you? Everything that’s shown on the package suggests that this will be the time of your life. But inevitably the sparks only spark for so long. Then, everything will fizzle out, and you’re in the middle of the street putting ashen pieces of your heart and dignity into a plastic bag, left with nothing but disappointment.


Recently, I went to a function that I have affectionately termed a “Gender Jam”. There were a bunch of twenty and thirty-somethings in a house with food, music, “hot topics”, and games. The wonderful host of the “hot topics” portion of the evening stated that the purpose was for “men and women to get to know what the other is thinking.” One of the recurring ideas coming from the young ladies was their disappointment in the outcome of some of their relationships. I thought about that 11 year-old me, who was looking to be eternally dazzled and only got about thirty minutes of a snap, crackle, and a pop. And maybe that’s the problem. We often embark upon relationships with these Macy’s Fourth of July fireworks display set of expectations. Then, if the other half has more than just a few of the qualities you are looking for, those expectations increase exponentially.


If I went into every Fourth of July free of expectations, I doubt I would have felt the disappointment I did. I wouldn’t have been comparing my fireworks to those of the kids up the street whose parents could afford the “good stuff”. I would have simply had fun with the pieces that I liked, laughed at the lameness of the sparklers, and smiled with an overall positive feeling as I picked up the pieces from the street.


If we treated relationships like this, there would be a lot less disappointment. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that we should just settle for anything in our romantic endeavors. What I am saying is this: if we come to the table without expectations, good or bad, we will undoubtedly be able to see the people we date for who they really are. We won't try to make every person we meet THE ONE. Have fun with the pieces you like, laugh at the lames, and smile when the sparks fly!

To Infinity and Beyond...

This past week I experienced two profound events: the funeral of my great-aunt, Celestine and the third installment of the Toy Story series. While these happenings may seem to be as unrelated as two things could possibly be, I beg to differ.

My great-aunt was a wonderful soul. Cel, as she was affectionately known, had a meek and gentle spirit to all she encountered; all except fish. Fishing was her passion. During the funeral ceremony, everyone that spoke of her mentioned her love of fishing. It’s funny to watch the goings-on at a funeral. Some family and friends were deeply affected. Some listened attentively and responded only in head nods or “ummm hms”. The church members were there to do their job; sing in the choir, escort people to seats, and pass out fans and paper towels. A lot of the children that were present had little or no memory of my aunt, but seeing their parents cry caused them to fall into hysterics, as well.

Funerals make you think. This one made me think about time. I thought about time wasted and the time that has yet to come. I thought about the importance of doing something with the time you’re given. Then I began to think about the time I spent in the movie theatre earlier in the week.

While watching Toy Story 3, I was deeply and profoundly affected. First, let me say, this movie is absolutely amazing! I watch a lot of movies, and this was the best movie I had seen in a long time.

Spoiler Alert
In the movie, Andy is getting ready to go to college. Yes, college. While packing his things and preparing for his departure, all of his toys are preparing for the inevitable. Andy hasn’t played with these toys for years, and they are headed to the attic. By a twist of fate, they end up at a day care that is “run”, prison-style, by a sadistic, yet heart-broken teddy bear. He forces all of the new toys to be fodder for the younger kids who nearly destroy them. Long story short, the toys have to come together to make it out. Through the bonds of friendship and unyielding loyalty, they make it to a home where a little girl is more than happy to play with them and give them the love they need.

Forget the spoiler alert; go see it!

The major plot line centers around Andy growing too old for his toys. I understand this. I mean as a teenager, I put away my He-Man, G.I. Joe, and Hulkamania action figures mainly because I found more interesting figures to play with. Not everyone can be Steve Carrell in The 40-Year Old Virgin. So, with a greater interest in the fairer sex, I no longer had a need for an Erector Set. Get it? Get it?

Though I moved away from toys, as I became a Grown Ass Man, I didn’t give up all of my youth.

I admit it, I love cartoons. And I just don’t mean the old nostalgic Bugs Bunny and Tom & Jerry. In my opinion, some of the best films in recent years are of the animated variety. The Shrek series, The Incredibles, Up, Beauty and The Beast, Finding Nemo, and The Lion King…how can you go wrong with those picks? The storytelling is amazing. Don’t sleep on How to Train Your Dragon and Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, either. And who didn’t at least mist up when Simba watched his dad get trampled in a wildebeest stampede?

“Dad…Dad…wake up, Dad,” Simba wimpers as he lifts his father's lifeless paw.

You can wipe your tears. I’m sorry.

As kids, cartoons were our movies, our YouTube, our Facebook, our Twitter. We lived in a world of cartoons. There were the before school-eating your cereal cartoons. And there were the cartoons you watched while you were doing your homework. Then, there were the wake up on the weekend at the break of dawn-eat breakfast and lunch in front of the TV-save the best for last-Saturday morning cartoons.

Many people tell me that I should get rid of my cartoon collection. They don’t understand why a man of my age is still fascinated by these animated stories. If you ask my friend, Marlin, he’d say Disney/Pixar inundated DVD collection serves more nefarious purposes. No comment. Cartoons like these extol time-honored values of courage, loyalty, and respect. But for me, they also put me in the my mind of Jay-Z. A couple of songs from Hova’s last couple of albums refer to the ideas of youth. 30 Something and Forever Young both laud the notion of holding on to one’s youth.

People often denigrated the late Michael Jackson for his child-like antics and fascinations. They dubbed him as the Peter Pan of Pop. Given all of the things that he’d been through, Michael just wanted to keep a little bit of that boy that sang ABC to us. Hell, there are multi-million dollar plastic surgery practices whose entire purpose is to give people the illusion of youth. My aunt stayed young by surrounding herself with kids and teaching them the fine art of casting and reeling.

As I sat in the church, continually wiping the stream of tears from my eyes and listening to the countless people tell stories from my aunt’s past, I too longed for days gone by. For the days of cartoons and freeze tag. For the Little League football helmets and ice cream trucks.

And though I can’t get those days back, I can watch movies like Toy Story 3, and travel with Buzz Lightyear and live to infinity and beyond.

Below is an excerpt from a poem I wrote and recited for my Aunt Cel’s funeral:


Memories
…recall my smile,
Recount a story.
Remember that one time that we…
Travel back in time and space, when there lived a you and me.
Rest your thoughts on our special times that no one ever knew.
Tuck me away in your heart and mind, and I’ll always be with you.
The earthly ties that bind us will all one day be severed.
But it is in the memories you hide deep in your soul, that I will live forever.

Gods and Goals!!!

From what I’ve heard and seen, South Africa is an amazing place. It gave us Miriam Mekeba, Dave Matthews, and J.R.R. Tolkien, author of Lord of the Rings. Myyyy precious…

And of course, there is the incomparable Nelson Mandela. If you’re not up on your Mandela, please Google him or something. He was and is so much more than the white-haired man we see gingerly walking and waving or the rugby enthusiast that Morgan Freeman played incredibly well in Invictus. Nelson Mandela was the real deal.

South Africa has risen from the ashes of apartheid, to be considered a slightly- progressive nation. So much so, that it is the host of the 2010 World Cup.
If you’re like me and not a huge soccer fan…excuse me, football fan, then you probably could not care less about this quadrennial competition to find the world’s best team in the world’s most popular sport. However, people from the Caribbean to South America and all parts of Europe; people around the world love their soccer. The amount of passion and zeal they have for their teams is nearly unparalleled. Well, there is one parallel that I can draw; RELIGION.

For many, soccer IS their religion. The stadiums are their churches, synagogues, or temples. The players are deities or prophets of good fortune. A team has a bunch of pretty good players who could be considered the disciples and there is usually one very good player whose feet the fate of the entire soccer world rests on. Coincidentally, he usually goes by one name, like many of Religion’s Head Honchos. Pele, Maradona, Kaka, Ronaldinho. And a score by one’s team, accompanied with the melodic GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL!!!, sends more hands waving, feet dancing, and voices yelling than a Pentecostal revival.

PASSION!

So, when I heard the story of a 61-year-old South African, David Makoeya, being beaten to death by his WIFE AND KIDS for changing the television from a religious program to a World Cup soccer match, I was slightly perplexed, faintly amused, but not completely surprised.

Yeah, you read that right. His wife, 68, son and daughter, 36 and 23, respectively, beat his ass to death for changing the television.

What was the day’s sermon? “Love thy neighbor and spread the goodness of God, unless he tries to change this station, then you can bash his head into the wall in the name of the Lord”.

My mother is known to get her T.D. Jakes or Joel Osteen in, but I doubt that she’d “alleged” O.J. Simpson on me if I tried to change the channel.

PASSION!

I get it. People have passions. I’m passionate about my family, my career, and my God-mother’s pineapple upside down cake. And I guess if someone was to jeopardize any of those three, I might resort to violence.

Passion can be a wonderful thing. Many of the world’s greatest wonders are birthed from an unyielding passion: music, art, social change. And many of the world’s greatest disasters are products of passion, too.

So, can there be too much passion?

At any soccer match, it isn’t uncommon for a melee to break out in the stands between opposing fans. Many fans have been killed in victory celebrations after soccer matches.

PASSION!

The majority of the world’s wars have been tied to “passionate” religious arguments. Want a sure-fire way to start a fight and lose friends? Bring up religion. I steer clear of religion as a conversation topic with most of family members. My aunties love me until the religious discussion begins, then it becomes hard for me to get a second plate of macaroni and cheese at family functions.
It’s funny, I’ve always been taught that sports and a belief in a high power beget a certain set of core values.

Sports: Competition, Teamwork, Respect, Sportsmanship
Religion: Love, Compassion, Forgiveness, Tolerance

But I guess in the world of Goals and Gods, passion trumps principles. Just ask David Makoeya.

The Beginning of the End

Okay. So, I am officially beginning my foray into the blogosphere. This has been about two years in the making, but due to procrastination, laziness, and a million other excuses, it was put on hold until now. So, here I am, unleashing my words to millions across the world. Or, more likely to the two or three friends who’ve been waiting impatiently for this.

When trying to decide what my first blog would be about, many ideas crossed my mind.
TOP FIVE:

1. A rant on my many less than enjoyable movie going experiences in the past year. (Though I saw this foreign film, The Secret in Their Eyes, recently, that was amazing.)


2. My desire to take Gucci Mane, Plies, and Soulja Boy, line them up on a wall, firing squad style. Then throw every single one of their CDs and mixtapes at them until they agree to neva eva eva eva make “music” again.


3. A personal campaign to take Old-School MC, Kool Moe Dee out of the ranks of history's most under appreciated rappers. Come on, I Go To Work, Knowledge Is King, The Wild Wild West…classics.


4. Lips.


5. The disappearance of respect. Example: When you were a teenager and were walking in the mall or a store with your friends, you cursed. Don’t lie, you know you did. But if someone old enough to be your mama, uncle, Sunday School teacher, or bus driver came by, you would watch what you say. Ahhh…no more. I was in the mall the other day and I could have sworn Richard Pryor and Andrew Dice Clay were having a conversation behind me. When I turned around and saw what seemed to be two fourth-graders, I gave them the look that my mama gave me when I walked in the house, sweaty from playing football in the street, but acting as if I didn’t know the street lights went off thirty minutes ago. But they just kept on spewing f-bombs like a 2 Live Crew Album. And I was offended. Wait, am I getting that old? I digress. One of the worst things about what the little bastards were saying was that the cursing was unnecessary and gratuitous. See, I am a connoisseur of cursing. A Picasso of properly placed profanity, if you will. But they were just cursing by numbers. STOP! (Okay, Okay…this wasn’t the chosen topic. Maybe I’ll get into the rest of this at another time.)
   

But I choose to introduce the world to my niece. My niece, Na’Zyia is three years old. She is the Universe’s most perfect creation. Na’Zyia is simultaneously 3-year old inquisitive toddler and 30-year old attitudinal diva. Below is a transcript of a conversation she and I had over Sunday dinner.

Na’Zyia sits with her plate in front of her. She has eaten the crescent roll, but continues to arrange and rearrange the rice, chicken, and green veggies on her plate. Uncle D looks at her.
Uncle D: Zyia, eat all of your food.
No response.
Uncle D: Zyia, come on. You gotta eat all of your food.
She continues to play.
Uncle D: If you eat all of your food, I’ll give all of the money in my pocket.
She looks up, tilts her head to the side, and reaches out her palm.
Na’Zyia: Take it out and let me see what number it is first.
My sister and I just laugh.

How did she know I only had a nickel in my pocket?

Whew! Blog number one is the books. More to come. Some poetry, short stories, I might rap or perform a magic trick. You never know.