Tag expression

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As a child my mother would take me to the church soup kitchen to volunteer. She and I would cook and make care packages for all who came seeking hot meals and non-perishables for themselves and their families. I remember my first time helping out. The doors opened and slowly people began walking in, some with shopping carts full of their most prized possessions and others alone. Some greeted each other like old friends. I remember one woman who came in greeting others with a smile. She wore a white t-shirt and through it you could see her large breasts moving back and forth, free of the usual constraint.

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One evening I sat on the phone with my grandad, a very tall, brown man with an afro of gray hair. He spent many years working in the factories for Ford Motor Company and rented out properties he had bought, building his wealth. On the weekends he mowed their well-kept lawn, fixed the plumbing, worked on his car and visited his grandchildren. My grandad took pride in being a “self-made man’s man”. Masculinity was everything to him. We are talking about a man who refused to sleep on flowered bedsheets.

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Listen to me read the story here or read it below:

The bar was in a distant part of the city. I climbed into the bus remembering the times when I used to go to that part of Munich to eat fried sushi with friends. The memory stuck in my throat and I swallowed hard. Those friends were long gone and although it felt alright, I still looked back with a bit of a twinge.

The bus driver seemed talkative. He looked at me and asked where I come from. I patiently yet warily told him of my roots in the States and in Africa. He asked me whether I like Munich.

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Listen to me tell the story here on YouTube or read the text below:

My Wake Up Call

The gift of expression has always been important to me. As a child I remember sitting in the window of my mother’s bedroom looking out at our green space. There was a tree in particular I liked very much. In that window, overlooking my tree, I would write poems few desired to read. Upon finishing I would make my way throughout the house, stopping in each occupied room to recite my newest creation proudly. All of the eye rolls, the pity and the giggles passed by me like whispers on wind. Now looking back I can see and hear the pity and annoyance clearly, but in my 8-year old heart space, I could only sense the delight that one feels when sharing a piece of their soul.

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