God and Wine

Back in an undergrad African American studies class at Syracuse University, I was introduced to a film entitled 400 Years Without a Comb by Willie Lee Morrow. The film spoke abut the Atlantic Slave Trade through the lens of black hair care in America. Not only were black people forced to involuntarily migrate across the Atlantic Ocean and other waters as their families were ripped apart and their indigenous spiritual practices were dismantled and ignored, they were also forced to leave behind certain items, including the long-toothed comb (resembling what we call a "pick"). Without our precious tool, our natural hair apparently became more difficult to deal with. Now, this is not an essay about black hair politics; however, I think it's important to note that black hair not being "manageable" is a phenomenon rooted in post-colonial and western European standards of beauty. This conversation goes beyond our "unmanageable" hair, an early implantation

Last night I had a dream that I was digging up the grave of my close friend--my Leo. I always research my dreams and write them down if I can to keep track of the insanity that goes on during my slumber. I feel like I should have a dream interpreter on speed dial...or maybe I just need to visit my therapist--it's been a while. But, I digress. Halfway through the thought, "I need to call Leo," I'm reminded that this is not an option. I used to have that thought quite often after leaving an incredibly frustrating music rehearsal or randomly hearing a Diana Ross song come through my headphones (he was her biggest fan!). I still have that thought, quite often. I am, however, bombarded with the reality that I will never be able to call Leo again, that I'll never hear that voice again in this lifetime. I had a panic attack when I thought I had accidentally deleted his final voicemail to me from my phone. I'm trampled by thoughts of burying him merely two days befo