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Jon?

If it wasn't for Texas..If it wasn't for Texas..If it wasn't for Texas..
Tuesday. 5.18.10 4:02 pm
“You’re really trying to make a statement, hun?” Sonya says to me with her hands loosely gripping my shoulders. “I mean, really, Jonathan, the Cowboys? And the Texas Rangers hat… and,” she pauses as one hand moves across the length of my clavicle and down my sleeve, “what is this? A bleach stain, honey?”

Indignant at her critique of my I’MMA-REP-TEXAS uniform, I turn my head away from facing her. “Look, pal, it’s just---.”
“No,” she interrupts me. “You’re going to HARVARD LAW! I hope you’re not wearing that. C’mon, pal,” she says sarcastically while pushing me back toward my temporary room.

“No, I was just.. this is just what I sleep in.” I lied.

....

My first visit to Harvard Law School went well. My first trip to Boston as a whole went pretty well too, mostly thanks the efforts of Melissa, who I met back in D.C. a year ago, and Sonya, who I also met last year. I stayed at Sonya’s house throughout my trip there.. as soon as I get my PC back from Geeksquad (srsly,fk dm. It’s been nearly three weeeeeeeks!)

....

Notes more to myself than to the two and a half people who will read this: (Sup, mom?)
Grocery shopping/Dancing with Sonya
Sonya singing to me on the streets of Boston
Harvard Law School feel
Undergraduate douchibaggeriness feel.


So that's a few entries I owe myself before the summer ends. Chances are I'll fail (like always) to live up to my promise. Having my PC would help a lot though..

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Road trip nation
Wednesday. 3.24.10 11:16 am
Be it extremely emotional, controversial, messed up, or whatever, this entry has been password protected.

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Cyra, part one.
Tuesday. 3.2.10 12:51 am
“Dad, I want to introduce you to someone,” Cyra says to her father upon our arrival. The two of us, having met nearly four years ago in some random class when I was a freshman and she was a senior, have had an ongoing lunch date ever since I returned to San Antonio from D.C. Our affinity for one another has blossomed through these weekly meetings, leading to multiple (half)-joking discussions of marriage and spending a life together watching anime, playing video games and making peanut-butter and chocolate hued babies (my words, of course. I told her we could make beautiful reeses pieces together.)

“This is Jonathan,” she says to her father while beaming. Placing her hand in mine, she raises our intertwining fingers to reveal a ring on her second-to-last digit. "He proposed!" she says with a grin. "We’re getting married!”

Her dad, an Iranian who was a part of the mass exodus of Persian descendants after the 1979 revolution, glared at me as I stood there, mouth agape and eyes searching the room for any weapon he could hurl at me.. “He’s going to Harvard next year,” and with that, her dad's expression softened a bit before she fessed that she was only joking.



It’s like my get out of jail free card.

More on this story later.

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Caitlin, part 1-the end?
Tuesday. 2.23.10 2:10 am
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How old are you?
Wednesday. 12.2.09 1:01 am
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Samia: part 1
Thursday. 9.3.09 11:32 am
"Where does it stem from anyway? The bitterness, I mean."
As our trek continued from the Capitol building to home, I purposefullyslowed my pace and turned my head toward her.

"Do you know what it feels like to be feared solely based on the color of your skin? What it's like to be walking down a street and watch fuckers fervently cross to the other side just so that they don't have to walk beside you out of fear of what you'll do to them?"

As the words erupted from between my lips, my mind's eye returned to certain instances in my life when these events occurred and the feelings that came with them. They evoked, and still does to this day evoke, a perverse response from within. It's scathingly offensive in that it makes me feel as though those with faces remarkably more pale than my own view me as a feral animal who is not just capable, but likely, to strike at them once they're within my reach.

Without raising her head or turning to face me, Samia liftedherleft hand from her side and brushed back an ebon strand out from over her eyebrow and back underneath her hijab. "Yes. I do."

Those three worlds shook and reset the etch-a-sketch world view I believed to be absolute in that they provided me an insight into a paradigm outside of my own. No longer do I feel the perils I go through as an African American man are exclusive to those who generally look like me. With that revelation, a lot of the bitterness I felt began to temper, if not altogether subside.



Part two soon.

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