A Last Christmas, I Pray

Speaking with a therapist over a year ago the discussion turned to the subject of acceptance and guilt. More so, how I would begin the process of removing the guilt I held upon my shoulders and accept a new normal in my life. While I had been cautioned on occasions prior, the rising tumult wrought from hoarding guilt; this was the first time someone was telling me to simply 'accept' a new normal. It was foreign territory. I pushed through this particular therapy session and several more before a convenient schedule conflict helped me evade yet another series of failed personal counseling attempts. It seemed the one thing I was truly good at accepting was my mind would tolerate nothing, convenient or otherwise, a process to address what truly ails; nothing I was willing to work for honestly. 

Whether family, friend, stranger, lover, alcohol, pill, or prayer I could not arrive at the magic intersection of 4th Guilt & West Acceptance. Nor do I seemingly have the patience as asked in the 27th Psalm. I simply felt I could not wait, as a looming fate descended upon me. Like a child contorting a cereal box of lucky charms or some hidden buried treasure I searched eyes wide shut like a Goonie trying to save my home; my quiet sanctuary of family and friends. But the inner peace and solitude I haphazardly believe exists in every social media portrayal of another or church-front billboard shouting solely to me, has thus far been elusive at best and often downright demoralizing. 

I was a poor husband. Sucked at marriage. Unclear I even knew what being true to someone was even about. Because, as I now know, if there is no being true to even you, then what are you truly giving to another you claim to love? And at 29, I had not even begun to understand how to conceptualize the notion as a complete sentence with subject-verb agreement. Apologies made and accepted for dramatic, life-altering change, but could 'sorry's' really offer what was needed or deserved? How do you fix what's been done? Is there a universal judge who lays down the hammer to say the sentence has been commuted? Free to go for time served? I don't think it works this way. 

Accept my new normal. Accept the pain and regret while turning toward tomorrow. Working ever so diligently at living in the mind-numbing, dizzying stillness of it all. This is what my life is. Doesn't mean the world has ended, doesn't mean the sun won't shine upon my face. The offer was to simply accept what is true in my life. Forcefully and unapologetically if need be. You will otherwise have to live with a darkening shadow of yourself which is uncompromisingly vigilant in ways you never want to know. 

There is a stinging pain in guilt. It's valid, sure and unrelenting. No one can remove it from your midst, it's a job made for one. I find myself working days and nights at my job. I work hard everyday with no reward for overtime. I show up early, work late and even come in on holidays. My special projects are top rate. Employee of the month? I own every position on the plaque. The face changes, but the eyes remain the same. I need this to be my official resignation letter. I need to work for me now. 

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Basil, The Writer

A funny thing happened at 'Back To School Night'

Confession. I arrived last Thursday evening to an event at my daughter's school with a bit of baggage. Taking into account the malaise of my work day, coupled with a commute from Fort Meade, Maryland into Washington D.C. on 295S that included listening to a White House press briefing, I entered into the school building in a mind space not well-suited or prepared to digest the diligent, classroom productions of my own children. I'd like to apologize and profess that I will never allow this to happen again.

Basil, you are but 10yrs old with the wisdom of a thousand years. Dear God how I praise and adore you. Keep flying young girl, keep FLYING.


Basil James Mann, 10yrs old, Student, Inspired Teaching School Washington, D.C. 

I AM POEM - 11/7/17

I am brave and powerful

I wonder about the meaning of life

I hear life going round and coming back again

I see a mountain of which I climb

I want to be a supreme court judge

I am brave and powerful

I pretend to be the best judge I can be

I feel like a warrior fighting for freedom

I touch my goals that keep me moving forward

I worry that not everyone will make it in life

I cry when the safety of the world pulls my father away from me

I am brave and powerful

I understand that the world is not fair

I say that the world can give back

I dream to make it to the top

I try to do the right thing

I hope that world will become a place for all

I am brave and powerful
 

Facing Old Mirrors With New Faces

Over a year ago I found myself sitting in the O magazine offices of the Hearst Bldg on the West side of Manhattan telling the story of Daddy's Love Notes to an asst book editor. They would ultimately ask me for a writing submission. While I was over the moon with the request, I soon realized it was never going to see the light of day between the O magazine covers. And that is alright. But it doesn't mean the words need not be shared. So I'm sharing today...

By definition the word catalyst best resembles someone or something that precipitates an event; be it an action or circumstance that affects change or creates synergy. It is reflected in singular moments where we are transformed by a stimulus; our response ranging from the mundane to remarkably life-altering. As such, we must be mindful of the infinitely precious and inspiring instance when we possess cognitive recognition of the space where “life-altering” is happening before us.

For some, these moments in our lives will brush past us like a stranger on the sidewalk, unrecognizable and without an ounce of consideration. Our opportunity missed, we can only hope for the hands on the clock to conspire and afford us a next time. And when face-to-face with this coveted fate, as the gears click symmetrically into place, we may be forever changed. I know, because this was the beginning of the rest of my life.

Entrenched

Long driven by a picture of what my life was to be, dictated by desires of physical gain; I spent years attempting to paint my portrait fueled not from passion and love, but rather status gained. I never relished my worth as a human being, or considered it a factor in my own equation of success. This absence of self-love bore a regenerative cancer of devaluation and poor decision-making. These descisions, these choices, have consequences; and in the end I had to own them wholly. The portraits’ framed void now held darkness - the end of a marriage, the end of an intact family; alcohol, gambling, and loneliness would accompany this new bland arrangement of imagery surrounding me.

There were moments of deep despair; crying out to a God I am not sure I believed to be praying to in earnest or with a faith I could truly claim to hold as my own. I was losing sense of myself; I had lost connection.

It had been borne in me through strict Baptist church upbringing that God’s word and love would never cease to leave my side. Here now is when I needed it most, but questioned the ability to receive it in earnest. A father of two girls, a son to supportive parents, it would take my love for each and a yearning to be present in their lives to bring me through the valley I had placed myself within. This was my space to exist.

Recognition

Moved by time and driven by impulse I began to write. I wrote to my children. I told them the WHY of my life. I told them what I needed them to know. I told them of love and loss. I told them of wrong turns made and victories gained. I told them of the joy in pursuit of life fulfilled. In openly sharing these words with friends and family I found myself moving toward a line - not a finish line, but a starting line. I was writing for my life. The more truth I would pen, the faster my pace became. Ultimately arriving at a point where I was made to stand still for just a moment and listen.

Walking amidst the formal, spacious conference center as colleagues conversed and cajoled around me, I was suddenly stopped from my progress by a familiar face from the past. Firmly taking hold of my arm she looked me in the eyes offering a steady, “Thank you.” A quizzical glance upon my face, she repeated her overture. As my eyes turned to the ground, uneasy with the complimentary nature of her statement she continued, adjusting her grip to drive her point home. “It’s no longer about you,” she said. “The letters are no longer about you; you don’t know who you are helping with them.”

Processing the realization of this interaction opened my eyes to the potential breadth of her words. My aperture now widened, I saw how the gears came together in my life at my darkest moments to open up a door, reconnecting me with a person I had lost so long ago. And, in finding my true self, I allowed self-love to begin. For within this discovery life presented me a larger canvas, one not bound in frame; its vivid colors newly strewn with the richness of sharing my life to help someone else. A Basquiat, a Monet, a Matisse by any other name – it is a beautifully abundant and enriching, evolving catalyst of life. Its repeating pulse perfectly altered and re-arranged in frequency and pitch, with power to encourage and inspire.

Will They Kill You Daddy?

#69

Dear Basil & Sabine,

Sit down girls. Daddy has to tell you something. And I'm sorry, I am truly sorry I have to do this. I thought it was something I could put off for awhile - at least until we were each much older. But I see now with each passing day it is my responsibility to prepare you for what I see is becoming a more likely reality for us as a family.

Daddy may very likely be killed. Not because I've done anything wrong mind you, but because of the color of my skin and the propensity for those to find fault with it. I wish I could have that make sense to you, but no matter how much you read or listen to others speak on this subject, it never will. I can't predict the hour, the month, or the day - but sadly, it's out there and you need to both be prepared for it.

You see, right now, I wish I could say these words I type are boggling my senses, but with each keystroke I have accepted the notion of how true these words are for all of us. So while anger, frustration and sadness consume not only your father, but countless black men and WOMEN in the same predicament, I have a steely calm about me now.

At 7 and 9 years of age I wish your days were filled with nothing but the joys of being little girls - full of wonder, imagination and playfulness, but your lot in America means you also have to face this reality. I can't change that, so many have tried - but there is NO safe place. You will have broader shoulders because of this, your back will be stronger. Though tired and weary over time, your determination to push forward will propel you through greater valleys than those around you because of our reality. Your mother and I have prepared you for this. Do not let fear overcome you. Face the adversity headstrong for as long as your impenetrable will shall allow.

I cannot stop what lay ahead. The hunters are hunting as they always have. Uncle Dwayne and other scholars will have documented this further for you to absorb in your older years. Embrace this record of history and make it a part of you. This will rid you of ignorance and keep you awakened to our reality.

Daddy did everything he possibly could to protect you and keep himself here for you. Please believe me. I prepared as safe a space I could for you both. When I am gone, others will step in to continue to protect you, but this will only last until a time in which you will have to protect your own selves from the hunters. I pray God places his hedge of protection around you as I do each day I breathe.

I have to go now girls. But know that I will love you always. You are the greatest most important piece of me. And I will do all I can in the hours, days, and months ahead to be sure you know this. Because the hunters are hunting.

 

"Kiss -n- Go"

Sunday sermon (far from the pulpit of righteousness)

Parents and common sense disciples will enjoy this -

Now, let me preface this by saying I have thought long and hard about what I am about to say here (*no I didn't). Read it anyway.

If you ever want to watch a true Reality TV show, sit back and watch the morning drop-off routine of your neighborhood school. I admit this subject used to sound a bit strange to me as I rode a yellow projectile to school from age 5 to 16, so being dropped off to school by a parent or guardian never quite registered with me until I had children of my own and lived in a school district with no bus program. Alas, there are thousands of schools around the country that actually have a system whereby a parent or someone of consequence in the life of each child is responsible for getting them to school on time* (remember that for later.)

Now, if this sounds like something in your wheelhouse, please continue. If you find yourself in a situation where your child/children attend one of these particular institutions that is sans yellow people moving machines, some of this will certainly look and sound familiar.

It begins with a certain set of rules for the DROP. These rules are established by the school as set forth by the governing board of the school district and the patron Saint of safety and common sense. They are primarily basic in principle: Bring child/children from Point A (home) to Point B (school) by the agreed upon time - 0845 in the safest manner possible. BOOM! I stress safe because, well, they're our children and I want to believe we love them and wish for them to stick around and make us feel inadequate over math homework from time to time. (Am I alone here?)

So, if you go by the rudimentary set of rules there should really be minimal problems right? (*insert full belly laugh here) Are you phucking kidding me bro?? I'm laughing to keep from crying right now. I spent last Friday morning volunteering as a "Kiss and Go" monitor at my daughters school, not the first time mind you, so the jackassery should not have been such a surprise. But I have to admit, I have not seen such a string of ridiculous and unsafe behavior in quite some time and what scares me more is that this happens 5 times a week. Let's examine this case by case as the rules go shall we?

The J-walk family: OK, so admit it, you have a distinct aversion to the crosswalk. There are two of them, one on each end of the street and you'll be damned if you use them. Nope. I want to teach my kid what RISK/REWARD is truly about. Remember FROGGER? Yeah, well I'm the champ. George Costanza has nothing on you. If you've ever traveled the 5 between San Diego and LA, there is a picture of this family of rule breakers on the side of the highway. (Some of you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.)

Mr. and Ms. RUSH: Hey, I get it, your clock is moving faster than everyone else's and if you don't get to your job on time, the boss is going to give you a ration of shit you just don't need today. Understandable at every angle. But hey sparky, guess what? The boss has the nanny drop their kids off at the private school across town and either has a tee time or is working from home today. Either way, you trying to drive over every other car on your way to work isn't going to make a bit of difference and you know it. SLOW DOWN.

The sun-dial family: This refers to the parents who really don't have a concept of time. Or rather they do, they just don't really give 2 phucks about it. The school says children need to be there by 0845? Well, Mr. and Mrs. Sun dial operate like Analytic philosophers... "What IS Time?" Your silly tardy slips mean nothing to me, nor does the DC truancy office. I laugh at all of you. These families have no problem with their children arriving to school routinely late. ***I understand I may get a ration of crap and explanations for this one, but I run my household with military timeliness and execution and I will put my commute from point A to point B up against anyone at said school, so you can lose me with the "I take the train, bus, no car, walking for miles through snow and rain routine."

Mr. and Ms. AMMAWRECK: Yooooooo, please watch out for these folks. Why? Why you ask? Because they will KILL you and your children. I swear on my life and all that is holy, I saw a woman take out three side mirrors on Friday without ever correcting her vehicle. She got out of the car with her kids, J-walked and didn't bat an eye. You want to talk about FOCUS!!! Whatever had her attention was in trouble; the problem is, so were we. Sweet Jesus. That was scary to watch. The poor children. "Uh Mom, what is that snapping noise on the side of the car?"

The list continues, I won't even begin to talk about how many bowls of unfinished Special K, complete with milk I saw in the back seat as children spilled out of the car. YIKES!!! What am I missing here? Is the morning routine really that hectic? I just don't quite understand why the safety of our children and ourselves for that matter is put to risk every morning enroute to school. My heart just doesn't need that much more stress before November 8th. Slow down, take a breath and save the kids. There's math homework to be done.

#67 - Behind Curtain #3

Dear Basil & Sabine:

Guess what?!? Daddy bought a new car! Now typically there are those who might see that as some sort of narcissistic, internet boast. HEY, HEY, HEY, look at me everyone - I have something shiny, new and tangible over here that makes me look and feel better about myself. Well, this ain't it. Not by a long shot. See, if I had made this declaration with the last vehicle I purchased then I would unequivocally say, hell yes, it IS an internet boast. I really thought I had arrived with that monstrosity of a gas guzzling, SUV. Arrived where? I have no clue; I know I arrived at the service department so often I developed a Stockholm syndrome-like friendship with my service rep(Hi Brandi Sensenig!!). Sooo, this is why I am now picking you up and dropping you off places in a "sporty" hatchback with a stick in the middle of the car and three pedals at my feet. The deluxe, Galaxy 3000, monstrosity will sit in the driveway and become a nice thing to look at for the foreseeable future.

Girls, I don't quite enjoy new cars the same way I used to. Primarily because I guess I have arrived at that pivotal point in life called maturity and understanding. I've matured into someone who realizes driving a Land Rover doesn't grant you access to jack, but your checking account however does. And, having owned a Land Rover I now clearly understand what happened to my checking account. It only took 43 years to arrive at that cognitive awakening, how about that?! I'm excited that by the time Daddy is 50 I just might have life by the balls.

I would apologize to you both about the sudden lack of leg room in the rear of the vehicle, but quite frankly with this whole maturity and understanding thing comes a truckload of "i don't really give a shit." I'm not saying I don't give a shit about you girls, I love you quite deeply actually. I mean, you're honestly 99% of the reason I choose to keep letting air into my lungs. The other 1% shifts between casting a vote in the upcoming Presidential election and Powerball. I digress. No see, what I mean is, the car is a nice to have but it isn't a must have. My peaceful existence in life doesn't revolve around the presence, cleanliness and namebrand of this tool. We'll all be ok motoring around town with a little less size and space as we go from A to B. It's just not that serious.

Furthermore, I'm not even going to lose my mind over food in the car. I'm not saying I want you all to make a pizza back there, but snacks are allowed. Heck, you can hold juice and water bottles with one hand if you like. Go hard in the paint. Just clean up as you go, help Daddy out a little bit. With a little luck, care and concern, this could one day be yours!!!!

A Triumphant Fist and a West Point Investigation

Dear West Point,

In 1944 when Bashon Crawford was a private in the U.S. Army, the law of the land forbade him from fighting for his country in a unified Army. He was subject to segregation, discrimination, and Jim Crow laws which said, you can wear the cloth of a nation, but you'll have to use a separate water fountain, separate bathroom, sit in a different section of movie theater, lunch counter and bus, even though you choose to risk your life to protect the freedoms of EVERYONE who would wish to use the same.

In 2016 America, a black person can sit in church and pray while being killed for simply the color of their skin, as our justice system debates whether or not it is an 'act of terrorism'. In 2016 America, the mere mention of the words, 'Black Lives Matter,' draws the ire of irrational individuals who exclaim that in fact, ALL LIVES MATTER without even considering the facts which make the latter so evidently contradictory when juxtapose with the former and subsequently unwilling to debate any merits necessary to arrive at a truth too few wish to acknowledge.

If in 2016 a black woman, 16 of them at least, decide to undertake the rigors of our nation's United States Military Academy and adhere to its educational demands, physical and mental stress, and face the fatigue of a nation at war; all while keeping in mind the numbers of sexual assault cases present across our military -- then I would suggest the biggest political statement she can make is wearing the uniform itself each and everyday.

A fist in the air is a triumph over adversity, not an investigation of wrongdoing.

Teacher Appreciation Day

Day 11

Dear Basil and Sabine,

As you know, children can have a lot of allergies as they grow up. Shellfish, peanut butter, pollen; if you aren’t careful and get a hold of the wrong thing it can make you quite uncomfortable. Well when Daddy was younger he was allergic to homework and the National Honor Society. I had a strong belief that if I got too close I might just break out and start scratching uncontrollably. I knew just how far I had to stay away in order to be safe. One of the reasons why that was just a ridiculous and lazy notion on my part is that I had some great teachers along the way that really took the time to push me forward and ask more of me than I was willing to give. This is part of what makes teachers so special.

Teachers are going to exist throughout your life. This is a good thing. There will be classroom teachers from nursery school through your college years and there will also be those teachers who you will be fortunate enough to encounter as you walk your life’s path, whose words and presence will help you evolve and mature as a person. I would like to use this letter so that I might share with you a few memories from the teachers throughout my life and have you know that their influence has been integral to some of the smallest details of my being and have also provided some of the strictest regimens and philosophies of thought that I carry with me every day.

Here it goes - I went to Hull Homestead Nursery School run by Judy and her husband John where I had my first introduction to true organic living (I mean they had a real tee-pee on the property). My Kindergarten teacher Mrs. Garish and her assistant Ms. Thomas at Fishkill Plains assured me that finger painting is not only safe, it’s encouraged at nearly any age. Vassar Road Elementary School: 1st grade – Mrs. Nichols may you rest in peace ma’am, with your smile and compassion, you touched us all. 2nd grade – Mrs. Pelton, who would always blow her nose and keep the tissue in the sleeve of her sweater; sweet lady, but that was difficult to watch every day. 3rd grade – Mrs. Synette, she made multiplication fun, best smiley faces on the top of your quiz EVER (seriously, they winked at you). 4th grade - Mr. Miles, well, he just made 4th grade cool (had a mustache only rivaled by Magnum P.I.). 6th grade – Enter Mr. Don Chisamore, he kept his class in line by having blank spaces on the black board every morning that looked like this _ _   _ _ _ _ _ _. If we got too loud over the course of the day it would look like this: NO RECESS.

By the time I got to Van Wyck Jr. High I had several teachers over the course of a single day. Mr. Roberts in Latin once got really upset that every student purposefully left their textbooks in our lockers as a practical joke so he gave us a one-question test on who the publisher of the book was -- Touché Magister, touché. In Mrs. Hirschmann’s 6th period English class we once saw a very sad Space Shuttle launch where another teacher and her fellow astronauts perished. At John Jay High School Mr. Knickerbocker is the reason daddy can type without looking down at the keyboard; Mr. Eidle, Sir may I say gratias tibi ago; ego erubisco tu and may you too rest in peace. We should have treated you better. That spitball to the chest was (to quote Charles Barkley)… ‘TURRIBLE!’ Thank you Mr. Archimede for drilling me on solving for x and discovering the word hypotenuse, (I’ve never used it in a sentence until now, but I might name a pet after it.) Ms. Zimmerman, you made Chemistry interesting to say the least, but I’ll be honest with you I would take those NYC kids out for a steak dinner that “borrowed” the Regents exam back in ’89 and then shared it with the New York Daily News. Mr. Green, thank you for channeling my love of sports and incorporating it into my writing, somewhere there exists a miniature screenplay written by yours truly and produced by Mike Mostransky starring Jeremy Pond and William Monden that could possibly deserve a shot at a 30 for 30 (it’s a classic). And to Mrs. Barbara Searle who instilled a passion for English prose and Mrs. McCabe for making me focus on the freedom of IMPROV, I truly profess a humble ‘Thank You’ (My present and past tense use is all over the place, but I’m able to pay a mortgage now).

These teachers and several others left an indelible mark on daddy growing up. I have a great amount of respect for their ability to reach children of all ages to not only mentor and learn, but to aspire and achieve more than just settling for being average. You will have great teachers in your lives girls, and you may not even truly realize their impact until well after you have left their classroom. Relish the fact that their lessons will hold firm and true so long as your willingness to listen and learn stays forever a priority, no matter how old you are.

MORAL – Keep being two of the best teacher’s daddy has ever had ok? I like coming to class.

#DaddysLoveNotes #Dadvice #Teachers

Dear "_______,"

Dear “_________,”

First, I offer my apologies. You see I am not sure how I ought to refer to you. The waiter was instructed not to disclose whom you were when I asked to know. But wait, let me back up a little bit and explain myself. “__________,” you didn’t know this but today was my youngest daughter’s birthday. Her name is Sabine, and this beautiful little pack of dynamite and hug muscle turned six today. When we asked her what she wanted to do for her birthday dinner, she said without hesitation, “Mi Rancho!” It has become a bit of a birthday destination ritual for our daughters to visit Mi Rancho as these little girls have become enamored with their birthday sombrero tradition and fresh from the oven sopaipillas, coated with honey and confectionary sugar. They are hooked. So we now realize that each birthday heretofore will undoubtedly be spent at Mi Rancho in Silver Spring, Maryland. I am guessing “________,” that you are already undoubtedly familiar with the fantastic menu at this establishment.

November 19, 2014 was not an especially peculiar day for any reason, it was rather cold in the nation’s capital but other than the usual beltway driven, dog chasing its tail political nuance that occurs here on a daily basis this was simply not unlike any other day as far as I could see. “_________,” I suspect you saw it through a completely different lens however, just my hunch. I do want you to know that I walked into that restaurant this evening wearing my Navy service dress uniform because my daughter asked that I dress up for the occasion of her birthday dinner. I was more than happy to oblige. You see, she does not get to see me in uniform very often, and I was proud of her that she would ask to see me in what Daddy goes to work in. After all it is my work that tends to keep me from seeing them as often as I, and they would like. However, all other melancholy realities of life put aside, when we walked into Mi Rancho Wednesday night all was good. We were together, we were smiling, we were ready to celebrate Sabine.

“___________,” my parents George and Linda Mann could not make it down from New York for this birthday dinner, though they made sure they were present in spirit. My mother, the saint she is had made sure to reach out to me just days before to tell me she would send a check in the mail to cover the cost of dinner.

“__________,” I am 41 yrs old, so when I tell you that I sometimes hang my head a bit when Mom & Dad say they got “it”, well you’ll just have to understand though tremendously grateful for the blessing of parents with the energy, ability and will to share so lovingly, there is the small sting of humility and a burden I feel I place upon them from time to time. Things have been difficult the past couple of years and it’s a longer story than you probably have time for. Thus, you are asking yourself why am I telling you all of this? I’m longwinded, can never tell a short story. You see “_________,” it’s just that you caught me off guard. And maybe that was your intent. You don’t know my inner personal struggles, and I don’t know yours. Perhaps that is how it is meant to be; perhaps that is the blessing inside the blessing - one I shall just have to accept and learn from. That despite heaviness, strife and anguish it is the openness of one’s heart that allows for the good to spread, for healing to be felt. It has been hours now and I have not stopped thinking about the profoundness of your actions Wednesday evening. And, I suspect it is going to take me some time to figure out how I shall properly respond. How do I take your action and create an equally compelling and forceful reaction. How do I pay it forward?

After the fulfilling dinner was consumed and dishes cleared from the table; after dessert was served, birthday songs sung, candles blown out, ice cream, and sopaipillas consumed did the waiter lean over my right shoulder ever so gently to speak. “Sir, your check has been taken care of this evening, and thank you for your service.” I looked feverishly around the restaurant, scanning each patron for a telling glance. I needed to know who did this – who was kind enough, generous enough, and human enough in this day and age to reach into their pocket and pay for a mother, a father and their two daughters to have a birthday dinner.

The waiter refused to tell me your name “_________,” he heeded your instruction and failed to budge. I’ll never know who you are. I’ll never be able to personally thank you for doing something I may have merely only thought of in passing, something I may have never done on my own accord. Something I could only wish I had the fortitude and bravery to have done a long time ago.

“_________,” you don’t know a single burden I may carry or what I may have been going through today, nor do I know the travails of your daily journey; but when I reached my car to begin my drive down Georgia Avenue, I fought back tears as I tried to keep myself together and take in your kindness at its root. You presented me with hope and faith; you were a blessing tonight at Mi Rancho and I will not soon forget your overture. I need you to know that I won’t block the flow of generosity; I won’t halt your abundance of goodness.

Thank you “________,” you are my “friend.”