Dear Joe...

Dear Joe, Look at me,attending your old college. I almost cried walking through the hallways, wondering if you had classes in the same room that I was now sitting in. We used to talk endlessly about the importance of education. You hated that I was wasting my brain. You had the knowledge of life that only someone facing death has. That it is too short to waste, even one hour. You were so annoyed by my lack of urgency. Floating through life, half drunk. Spending enormous amounts of money on clothes and falling in love with every man who told me I was beautiful. You hated and envied my recklessness. And now you are gone and I have inherited your sense of urgency. I'm going to Rutgers full time, while still working full time at a horribly degrading restaurant. Your horror stories from the Cheesecake Factory resonate more soundly now. But, I can tolerate the servitude, because of classes like these. My Literature in Hip Hop class has me thinking more deeply about how music has been...

Dear Joe, I'm not sure if you've ever had someone stare at you in an attempt to figure out "what you are". But I think you know the feeling. This feeling of another human being searching your face for familiarity. Their eyes get extremely inquisitive. Left to right. Up and down. Taking inventory of your suddenly much too exposed features: Wide bridge in nose. Thick bottom lip. Squared jaw-line. Closed-set eyes. Muddied complexion. I can read the inner dialogue. And then it comes. "So, if you don't mind me asking, what are you?" I've often been a total asshole when answering this question. Replies like "a human being." "a bad dancer" "a mother." "a woman." All true, but obviously not what the interrogator is looking for. I now just skip past my pride and tell them. Black and German. If I like them, I get detailed. (I hardly ever get detailed.) Unfailingly, the next sentence follows: "I though...