Oh man, cupcakes!

I loves me some food porn. A blog I read linked to a blog about cupcakes! OMG!

http://sweetlifeblvd.blogspot.com/

I have been to Molly's Cupcakes, one of the bakeries she mentions. Cupcakes are amazing. I even like the rare and elusive orange hostess cupcake, only found in corner stores and gas stations in neighborhoods of the dodgy variety.

On Elitism

In 1964, the Major Achievement Program was founded to meet the needs of intellectually talent students early in their educational career. The program was a first of its kind, and my mother claims that someone came to do a study on their class and that her picture is in the Smithsonian. She was the only black in the class.

My mother was the first in her family to go to college. In the early 1970's under New York State's Educational Opportunity Program. She was identified as young, gifted and black and was given money to go to school. She came from nothing and she often could literally not afford food to eat, or a bus ticket home. But she went to SUNY Buffalo, she finished in four years and years later earned a Masters of Education, passing her comps with distinction. She is elite. She is extraordinary.

I have a degree from Dartmouth, nothing to sneeze at, and everything in the world to be proud of when you look at where my parents started out. I have a JD, I got a high grade in Constitutional Law, I passed the Ohio bar exam on the first try and I received the highest possible score on my Con Law essay. You could say that I, a Connecticut housewife who looks no different than anyone else comparing baby ass creams at Target on any given afternoon, am elite.

NOW, the question is as follows: are we elitists? Follow up: are we qualified to be the Vice President of the United States? And finally, are we qualified to be POTUS?

Elitists? I say hell no. Veep material? No. POTUS material? Ha.

If there was a movie made about an ordinary black woman, born in the ghetto, and her road to the White House it would likely star Martin Lawrence in breasts or Tyler Perry's ubiquitous Madea. But, tonight we are expected to sit down in front of the TV and listen to a woman who is not a dreaded a elitist and every bit ordinary tell us why she is the right choice for second in command.

When you flip open the yellow pages to look for a good time do you choose the ad for Average Chicks or Elite Escorts? In the movies when shit goes down, do they call in the ordinary force? No. They call in the elite-special-teams-covert-super-specialist Delta Force. When you are being held hostage by mean, sweaty people with guns, do you want the helicopter to land with an elitist inside? Or a pitbull with lipstick?

Any black kid raised by a black mom in America has been told that they can't do what the white kids do and get away with it. We have to be 10 times better in order to be good enough.

Which brings us to a day when an extraordinary man is being charged with being an elitist, and a most dangerously ordinary woman is way, way too close to the White House.

Black moms are always right. But now not only do we have to be 10 times better, apparently they can turn it around on you and say that you are doing something WRONG. OMG! What do I teach Lauren now? I am at a loss.

I once saw Halle Berry on Inside the Actors' Studio. She was telling stories of growing up black with a white mom in the suburbs of Cleveland. Halle was elected homecoming queen, and then called into the Principal's office along with a blonde girl and accused of stuffing the ballot box, citing the blonde as the true winner. After discussion, the powers that were unfairly decided to flip a coin to decide the winner. Halle won the coin toss.

So, my friends, pray that the right guy wins the coin toss this go around. Because once again, the prettiest halfrican-american at the dance may not get a fair shake.

I f***in love the internet.

I love the internet. Seriously. I would kiss and marry it, but marriage is between a man and a woman. I digress.

Without the internet, we would have never been exposed to gems like these. (Several of these sites are NOT SAFE FOR WORK).

1. Facebook. More like Crackbook.

2. Filipino Prison Thriller.

3. Petrellicest.

4. Two girls, one cup. No hyperlink here.

5. Freerice.com

6. Vexedinthecity

7. Real Dolls

You can't make this stuff up. And we would never have seen it without the internet. Thank you Al Gore .

Sweet, sweet fantasy baby....

Eric loves fantasy sports, especially fantasy football. I used to fight his insane lust for honor and supremacy each Sunday. Now, I have learned to embrace it. Will TJ Houshmandzadeh cut his hair and lose his powers? Will Ocho-Cinco run for the border and have a TV interview about it? Will Aaron Rogers take off his helmet and throw it to the ground exclaiming: "Everything is about Brett! Brett, Brett, Brett!" and then hit Favre in the nose with a football?

Pictured Above: Brett Favre. Oh my nose!

Eric loves fantasy football. But fantasy politics is probably even more exhilarating this year. We have crazy break-out sensations like Sarah Palin, draft controversy with Obama going as the first pick over Hillary, and an old, veteran key player like Favre in McCain. Heh heh, veteran.

Good times, my friends. Enjoy the rest of both seasons. May the best teams win.

Little boxes on the hillside...

Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of ticky-tacky, Little boxes, little boxes, Little boxes, all the same. There's a green one and a pink one And a blue one and a yellow one And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same. And the people in the houses All go to the university, And they all get put in boxes, Little boxes, all the same. And there's doctors and there's lawyers And business executives, And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same. And they all play on the golf-course, And drink their Martini dry, And they all have pretty children, And the children go to school. And the children go to summer camp And then to the university, And they all get put in boxes And they all come out the same. And the boys go into business, And marry, and raise a family, And they all get put in boxes, Little boxes, all the same. There's a green one and a pink one And a blue one and a yellow one And they're all made out of ticky-tacky And they all look just the same. -Malvina Reynolds

Malvina sums it up for me pretty well. I often joke with my husband "what if 18 year old Courtney could meet 28 year old Courtney"? She would see that her embittered battle against the patriarchy had somehow brought her to a town with two Whole Foods, 6734 playgroups and women who all play a mysterious game called bunco. Next month we are going to pre-school night, which is an open house of all of the area pre-schools where parents can gather literature and make choices about waiting lists. Yes. My baby is 3 months old.

Little Miss Lauren brought me back down to earth today. I was contemplating the homeopathic beauty products at Whole Foods with my muffin tucked into her sling (or as I like to call it, her suburban papoose). After a few moments she started to sneeze and rub her eyes and I immediately rushed away from the aisle. I hadn't noticed at first, but it smelled of nag champa and patchouli. Once we retreated to safety, I swear Lauren looked up at me with big, serious eyes and said in a perfect Eric Cartman voice: "hippies!".

After my last Junior League meeting we all headed out for a drink (or a cocktail as they say here in Connecticut). The group agreed on a restaurant in downtown Hartford, and proceeded to give me directions. I was a little intimidated and confused when I was told turn here, turn there, jump on this ramp, exit here. Then a voice of reason said "the restaurant is basically up the road about 2.5 miles. Why don't you just send her that way, it is a straight shot." The answer was "Well she is new in town, we don't want to send her that way...".

I was silent and genuinely confused for a few seconds, then I said "Oh! I am from Cleveland, I am not afraid of the ghetto". Then there was nervous giggles and they gave me the simple directions after I insisted. All that to avoid a Wednesday night jaunt through the 'to. Don't they ever go to White Castle?

Don't get me wrong. I like playgroups and Whole Foods and the Junior League and I am thankful for our little box on the hillside. I just kid.

I see color

I see things.

I see haters, as evidenced by this t shirt:

I see you, hi Hater!!!

I see rich people. They drive old volvos with high end high school lacrosse team stickers. They have mixed grey-blonde hair in low ponytails, carry well worn italian leather bags and love authentic Indian food and community service.

I see rich people. They don't even know they are rich.

I see color. Of course I do. Lots of people say they do not see color. These people are:

1. Liars

2. College freshmen

3. Under age four

4. Nice not-racist liberals and also;

5. Liars

I see color. It is easy and a survival skill when you grow up the only black kid in the room. Oh you see it friends. You see it when it is black history month and the whole classroom looks at you. You see it when you are barely 18 and you meet the parents of a white boy you are starry eyed in love with and they cannot even look directly at you. You may not have seen color before but in that moment you can cut it with a knife and you can feel it cut you too. It is easy to see color when you look at thousands of refugees in America on the floor of the superdome. It is easy to see color when you look at the senate floor. It is easy to see at the law firm christmas party, and it is particularly easy to hear color after a few too many glasses of Christmas cheer.

Lately I see color a lot. In Cleveland, I was not a minority. There were plenty of people with skin like mine. That is not the case here in West Hartford, so the color is noticeable once again. Not bad mind you, just noticeable. However I think the color politics are different here. I spent most of my last months in Cleveland pregnant. I constantly received both pitied looks and sighs and resentful, hateful looks. Apparently when you see my color it distracts from the very nice diamond rings on my left hand. Here I get treated like any other West Hartford mom with an under-utilized degree and a successful husband. I suppose that when everyone is balling out of control color gets less and less relevent.

So yes, I see color. And if you can words here in black and white, you see it too.

Good morning, Good night.

Lauren is three months old and she is still far from sleeping through the night. The first two months of her life I must have been running on post-partum hormonal fuel or life-change adrenaline. I don't know...but I wasn't too tired.

Then month three hit, we are settled into our new home and you would think it would be all better, or at least easier. Well, it is easier, but Lauren's lack of sleep (and thus my lack of sleep) has accumulated and taken its toll on me. It has been hard the last few days, and I have been feeling especially sorry for myself.

A few days ago I was out on the front lawn training my dogs to use their invisible pet fence. An old man started to walk toward me from the house across the street. I could not cross the fence barrier to meet him without buzzing my dog, so I stood and waited for him to slowly reach me. It was awkward. Once he was in earshot he began to talk. He introduced himself and welcomed me to the neighborhood. He told me he had seem me and my family, and had been meaning to say hello, but he had not gotten the chance. He explained that his wife was very ill, and that his days were consumed with caring for her. I nodded to be polite, and in genuine sympathy. We exchanged niceties for a few moments longer, then parted ways. I walked my dog back toward the house and he began his slow stroll toward his home. He had been friendly, polite, but sad.

Today has a gorgeous, sunny, crisp afternoon. I was holding Lauren while watching the dogs out back as they continue to master their fence system. The air was perfect on my skin, but slightly cool for Lauren, so I stood in our mudroom with the door ajar enjoying the sunshine and the pretty neighborhood landscape. I turned toward the front of the house and noticed the old man from across the street. Walking slowly but steadily up the street, with his wife on his arm. She was very slight, her steps ginger and her bony, white fingers clutched a tissue. They walked slowly, his steps measuring hers, and I kissed Lauren's forehead as I watched them move up the driveway and disappear into the house. As I stood there I noticed how new Lauren was, and how old they were. I also noticed what a perfect, sunny September day it is, and I wondered if the old woman would live to see another day like this next year. I shed a tear for a total stranger. I do not even know her name.

As I wiped the tear from my face I kissed Lauren and walked away from the window. Sort of helps you keep things in perspective.

On Family

You do not choose your family. The Universe or the Great Divine or God the Father somehow coordinates a man with a woman to create life. The way it usually goes down, we end up with a mother, a father and a family. We have our father's eyes and our mother's laugh. Our grandma gives us wrinkled up, perfume scented dollar bills from her bosom. Our uncle uses the salad shooter to chop up his marijuana. We don't choose this family. This is the family we are given. We (hopefully) love them as they are given, just the way they are.

There is also family that we choose. And while blood relationships cannot be replaced, the family that you choose is almost more special. There are people who enter into our lives as strangers and remain as kin. The family we choose is not based on obligation or happenstance. The family we choose is based on friendship that runs so deep that it becomes honor and unconditional love; the stuff family is made of.

The interesting thing about the family of choice is that it can sneak up on you. Sometimes it seems that the friendships we try to cultivate and maintain are not the ones that become the most familiar. It seems as though the people who come into our lives at inopportune times or in ordinary ways become the most important. While your sorority sisters or your co-workers may share common ground with you, the people who stumble into our lives are often more authentic, more imperfect, more...like family.

I am blessed with a beautiful family of blood. While I am not close to very much of my extended family, my mother, little brother and father have always been constants. I then made perhaps the most important addition to my family of choice when I took a vow to my husband. Then the Universe, the Great Divine and God the Father brought us together and we created a most special blood family member in our daughter. My blood family was there when I got married and when I had my baby. They were there when it mattered. So was my chosen family.

I am blessed to have a cherished friend who is in every way as faithful as they come. I have met only one other person with the level of loyalty that my best friend possesses, and that is my brother. I have only met only one other person who accepts me exactly the way I am and that is my mother. My best friend can come to my house when it is a mess, help me with the things she knows are difficult for me and share silence with me without awkwardness. When my husband was recently hundreds of miles away from me and my newborn baby I never felt alone. Like my husband would always, always come to my aid and like my mother would always, always come to my aid, my best friend would do the same. And she would be even more helpful than I would think she would be.

I have another friend who has seemed familiar since the day we met. He was at our wedding just a few weeks after we met, and he almost superimposes himself into my memories of family reunions and Thanksgivings. He is young, gifted and black and I am always proud of him like he is my second little brother. His presence is very quiet, but always loving and he says more with the twinkle in his eye than he does when he speaks. The hour before we pulled away from our home in Cleveland, he was there to do the unglamourous job of helping Eric pack the car, take out the trash and sweep out the garage. He waved goodbye to my baby. He made sure he saw us off. He told us that we'd see him again soon.

Families survive separation. They survive trips to far off colleges, immigration to far off lands to provide better for the family and they certainly survive out of state moves. While distance or even time may be great, family is always family and family is never, ever far away. Friendships of fancy are very easily lost. Lovers taken lightly may be lost as quickly as tissues in the wind. But that family we choose, sometimes even more than the family of blood will never be lost or forgotten. These rare, special friendships survive the distance. Because after all, you do not lose family that easily.

So here's to my family. All of it, beautifully and perfectly flawed and special. And to the family that I have had the privilege to choose, thank you for choosing me in return. `

Defend Cleveland

Cleveland. City of Dreams. Paris on the Cuyahoga. Not the way most people would describe this grey-skied, crime-ridden, population-declining city. But,for this great lakes girl, it is the truth. And let me tell you why.

Growing up on the shores of Lake Ontario, the grey skies are the permanent landscape, the snow makes us hearty and wind chapped and going to the beach means walking along the algae filled lake. We go out in the worst snowstorms and we cherish the sunny, summer, great lakes days like each one may be the last. For me, this is home. This is what makes me who I am.

I am from Rochester, NY. Most people do not know western NY. You leave this part of the country and mention NY and people immediately think Manhattan, Brooklyn, maybe Scarsdale. People do not know that western NY is closer to Cleveland, OH and Erie, PA than it is to New York City. New York City is a universe away. Western NY is great lakes country. It has a culture of its own. The people drink Labatt, they play euchre and they do not buy bread, bottled water or batteries when the forecast calls for 5 feet of snow. Home.

I left home and went to college in the most ivoriest of ivory towers. True to the lyrics of the Dartmouth alma mater, the granite of New Hampshire is in my muscles and my brains. The east coast, ivy league experience is also a part of who I am. I was in the glee club, a sorority, even a secret society. I fit in there. I walk that walk and I know that language well. But, it isn't home.

When I came to Cleveland years ago I was embarrassed. My friends were in New York, DC, Boston. Their halls towers were still ivory and their classmates still had blue blood. I, on the other hand was here in walleye eating, corn hole playing Browns Country. And I resented it.

After 3 years of law school and visiting the city as a student, I bought a home in Cleveland Heights to settle down with the man I love. I no longer attended school in Cleveland, I lived here. I had to take the time to learn my city. I learned about the ethnic restaurants tucked here and there, that life existed across the river on the west side and that awesome shopping, concerns and exhibits come to Cleveland all time time. I sipped white wine at Blossom while watching the world class Cleveland orchestra. I bought designer accessories at Saks Fifth Avenue. I strolled through festivals with belly dancers and avant garde artists and food vendors serving greek delights. I ate at lenten fish fries, I drank golden lager from Great Lakes Brewery. I volunteered with women in need. I people watched at the independent cafes. I attended a film festival. I wandered through the stalls at the Westside Market. I sat in the summer sunshine while cheering on the Tribe. I cheered for the hometown boy as he won the title of The Next Iron Chef and smiled when I shook his hand while chatting with him at his restaurant. I had kegs and eggs for breakfast and stumbled in the streets on St. Patrick's Day. I high-fived strangers and danced in the streets when our Cleveland Cavaliers won the Eastern Conference Finals.

I travelled the roads of the city and truly enjoyed it with my friends, my Cleveland family. I fell in love here. I got engaged here. I got married in the ballroom at the Ritz-Carlton in downtown Cleveland. I made my baby on one of those great lakes sunny days when the sun hangs low in the sky. I gave birth here. I walked along the shores of the great lakes once again. I did not grow up here, but I grew here. I believed in Cleveland, and it believed in me.

So, as I leave this city that I love and cherish, this Cleveland that I constantly defend, I shed a tear and I pour a sip of Dortmunder on the soil for everything and everyone I know and love in this city. If you get to know it, you will love it too. Defend Cleveland. Believe in Cleveland. If you do, she'll believe in you, and you will see what makes this place a City of Dreams.

On music...

I love opera. I love all opera, from the earliest opera by Handel or Pergolesi to the twentieth century opera by Copeland. I love everything that came in between. But, for me, the absolute pinnacle of western music is the opera by Puccini. Specifically, La Boheme.

Puccini's melodies are as beautiful as they come. To me, a melody can be so beautiful that it is just a little bit painful. Musetta's waltz still makes me cringe just a little because it is just too pretty, even the 500th time around.

Now, the opera that came after Puccini is important, relevant and progressive. However, I find the atonal opera of Phillip Glass to be about as soul satisfying as soylent green when you are craving your mother's sweet potato pie.

Which brings me to my current topic: the pinnacle of western hip-hop. You may wonder what that may be. Well let me tell you. It is "Yeah" by Usher featuring Lil' Jon and Ludacris. This is my Puccini. After "Yeah", there is other music. Some of it may be important, relevant and progressive (see Soulja Boy). However, I find the maniacal and robotic ramblings of Lil' Wayne's "Lollipop" about as soul satisfying as the Lawrence Welk show when you want to see Saturday morning Soul Train.

So here's to Lil' Jon and Puccini. Puccini's melodies will continue to pervade our culture in pop opera like Rent and pasta sauce commercials, just as Lil' John will always, always have the beat to make your booty go *smack*. And that, my friends, is soul satisfying for me. Bravo.

Stop breathing.

Last night as I was in bed, somewhere between sleep and exhausted, achy consciousness, I heard the deep and measured breath of my husband beside me. Usually this sound brings me comfort and warmth as I enjoy sharing a bed with the man I love.

But, last night, I found myself shaking my inner-fists-of-rage and thinking "Stop breathing!!!!!".

His deep breath close to my ear was preventing me from hearing the quiet breath of my baby girl, Lauren, who was sleeping at the foot of our bed in her pack-n-play. At that instant I was listening for her breath, a gurgle, just to know that she was OK. And for a split second, Eric's breath was in the way. I realized what a funny/horrible thought I'd just had, and laughed a little to myself. Life has changed, has it not?

On June 12 at 12:37 AM, I gave birth to the most precious thing I've ever seen. After being blessed with a relatively easy labor and delivery, I'm recovering well and getting to know my little person. I'm happy, very happy.

We are also planning a major move from Cleveland to Hartford, Connecticut. More about the move later. For now I have to watch my ladybug sleep. It's quiet now, so I can hear her breathing.

Camelot

Growing up I was always enamored by the Kennedys. As a budding politico, full of idealism and obsessed with class and grace, the idea of this grand old family appealed to me. For me, Jacqueline Kennedy was the grandest lady of them all, in her chic, tailored clothing, dainty pearls and flipped, brunette hair, she was one of my earliest style icons, along with Audrey Hepburn, and much later Charlotte York-Goldenblatt. As a little black girl, a liberal and progressive family like the Kennedys were as good as it got when seeking out role models for my path to the type of Camelot I desired.

Last night I laid on my couch in my husband's arms, watching CNN. Barack Obama and his wife Michelle entered a Minnesota arena. He was young, trim and handsome in his suit and she was tall, statuesque and lovely in her shift and pearls. Senator Obama took the stage to the roaring cheers of thousands of supporters, black and white, and claimed his place as the democratic candidate for president of the United States of America. As I watched, I slowly rubbed my belly, and thought of my baby girl who will be born any day now. Overwhelmed, I realized that this is her Camelot. While Jacqueline Kennedy will always be an icon of beauty and humanitarianism, my baby girl may have the privilege of looking into the pretty, brown face of a great lady, and wish for her own place in Camelot as I once did. Sounds good to me. I say, yes we can.

It's the final countdown!

I've got two very important countdowns going:

1) The Sex and the City movie opens this Friday. I am so there. I may see it twice on Friday.

2) My baby is due in 11 days. Yes, that comes second to the Sex and the City opening.

In my current huge, sober, flip-flop wearing state, I'm not sure if a dose of cosmopolitan drinking, Manolo sporting, Chanel bag toting, size 2 fabulousness will help or hurt my psyche. All I know is that I love TV, I love Sex and the City and I feel like I'll be meeting up with old friends for the first time in a long while. Lame but true my friends...lame but true.

The things we carry...

After a bright and sunny fun Memorial Day weekend, the weather turned hazy, humid and gray, and my spirits took a nosedive as well. I've been thinking a lot about negative emotions, the things we carry. Sometimes you can share the load with a friend, sometimes you can hurl the load at the one you love and sometimes you carry the load, marching forward, hoping that eventually something will fall off along the way.

While you can confide in certain friends about certain things, for me I am rarely comfortable to really open up about my feelings, especially feelings related to my marriage or how vulnerable this pregnancy makes me feel. I have a few beautiful friends, but no one who has experienced marriage or pregnancy or parenthood. Sometimes that makes it hard to relate.

I am very close to my mother, and I share a lot with her. To me, her advice is often invaluable. However, there are just certain things you do not tell your mother. That is obvious. It is also important to never really complain about your spouse to your mom. You might simply say something in passing, but this tidbit of information will get etched in the stony mind of your mother and filled in with indelible ink. The next time you complain about your spouse she will immediately bring up the closet cleaning incident of 2004. In the relationship with a mother, she only sees the perspective of her child. It makes sense

In addition to hurt feelings and insecurity we carry commitments. Right now I am quite literally carrying my commitment to my child. While it is a tough load to bear, even in this earliest and most trivial stage, it is a burden nonetheless. The nine months of pregnancy seem like a warm up, or a personal training program. You pick up more weight in your load along the way, more investment, more physical strain and more love. The commitment to your child grows stronger every day, and you learn to carry the load with finesse, sacrificing yourself physically, mentally and emotionally to support the life within, the life you will continue to support forever.

We also carry our vows, our promises and our obligations to those we choose to love. At times when we are not at our best, we want to shed these heavy packages, lightening the load as we run away. I made a promise to my husband, long before we took our wedding vows. I committed to loving him and being with him, choosing him as the one. I was 6 years younger than I am today, and making the choice to pick up that load to carry was perhaps the biggest choice I've ever made. And on days like today when I'm feeling particularly tired and wounded, I think back to that choice, not our wedding day. That day 6 years ago was the day that my life changed. I didn't need a white ballgown or champagne to take on carrying my commitment to him.

The things we carry tell us who we are. A status purse, a pink cell phone, an argument, a mother's love, a commitment to build a life with someone. The things we carry, and choose to continue to carry, make us who we are.

Are you here for scholarship?

Last night I attended my Junior League's annual meeting at the Ritz-Carlton. The meeting was in the very ballroom where I got married almost 2 years ago.

Now, I did not feel like attending this meeting. I am 64 months pregnant (translated: 37.5 weeks pregnant) and I have nothing to wear. My hair is also looking a little bit busted. After months of avoiding a chemical relaxer because of my pregnancy, I put in micro-braids. The braids have seen better days are are ready to come out. I am feeling huge, so mingling in a crowd with my giant belly knocking into silver trays of butler passed Mushroom Duxelle in Vol au Vent, Louis Vuitton purses and glasses of Merlot is not my idea of a good time.

I stood in the registration line, ready to give my name, tell that I ordered the chicken and get my sticky name tag. A well-coiffed woman, around 50 said a frighteningly cheerful hello to me. I returned the greeting and smiled. She then said in the what was perhaps most patronizing tone I've ever heard "are you here for scholarship?"

I furrowed my brow with momentary confusion, then remembered that during this meeting the Junior League awards several scholarships to underprivileged women. The women who receive these scholarships are often single mothers, people who have survived addiction or abuse or some other such adversity. I mustered a half smile and replied to the woman "no, I'm a member of the League." The woman then laughed furiously and nervously and muttered something about her not being around enough to recognize all of the members, and turned away with tension and embarrassment in her thin, cardigan-draped shoulders.

I'm Courtney. I am 27 years old, an ivy-league grad, a recovering attorney, a yoga instructor and a soon-to-be a mother of one baby girl in a matter of weeks. I am married to Eric, my best friend. I own a home outside of Cleveland, Ohio. I am a member of the Junior League and I got married in the Ritz-Carlton ballroom. I am not here for scholarship. I am young perplexed and black. Welcome to my blog.