Books

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FROM THE INTRODUCTION...

I was riding on the train one day traveling from Brooklyn into Manhattan. Broke. Squished between two passengers. Couldn't sit back in the seat. I was in that pensive mode, where I worked hard to shut out everything around me, including the passengers I was squeezed between, the tourists snapping photos of the inside of a subway car, and the irritating announcer who kept telling me to say something if I see something. I was contemplating my life, my future, and the suffocating bedroom that I was occupying in Crown Heights because it was all that I could afford. I was thinking about leaving my comfortable, average-wage job and devoting my time to Me, Inc. I wanted to take the steps toward professional freedom where I decided what time I rose in the morning and which projects deserved my attention.

It didn't help matters that the fabulous life I was supposed to live in New York was a perpetual cycle of empty bank accounts, lofty ambitions that I couldn't seem to achieve (like living without a roommate), and teases from my passion. Allow me to cut to the chase: I was unhappy. So as I sat on the train-- the meat in an uncomfortable sandwich, trying to think in the midst of chaos-- my iPod provided the sanity I needed to get me through my adventures in the land of Postgraduationunhappilyeverafter. A Tribe Called Quest's classic hip-hop contribution, The Low End Theory, blared through my headphones. I heard the music but knew the album so well that I wasn't really listening. That is, until Phife Dawg, in one eloquent rhyme, captured how I was living. On "Buggin' Out," he says simply and poignantly, "Riding on the train with no dough, sucks." If I could have, I would have jumped up with a loud "Amen" like I was in church. (I couldn't even raise my arms, it was that tight between my fellow passengers.) I played the line again. Again. And again. I didn't want to ride the train broke anymore. How could I change my situation?

I called my boy to tell him my new mantra. This is what I do. Adopt a hip-hop rhyme and claim it as a guiding life principle. I remember describing to him in great detail my epiphany moment. "I need to take control of my life," I told him. "I'm tired of riding the train broke." Yep, my mission to become an independent (read quit my job and work for Me, Myself, and I ) was partly prompted by a hip-hop lyric. I'd be rich or at least able to afford a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan if I had a nickel for each time I heard a rhyme that's written for me. One that speaks directly to me, like the MC is peering into my life at that moment and creating a theme song to accompany it.

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55. Passing Me By
ARTIST: THE PHARCYDE
ALBUM: BIZARRE RIDE II THE PHARCYDE (1992)

As a thirteen-year-old who wore purple stirrup pants, matching violet hi-top Reebok Freestyles, and had a bushy ponytail affixed to the side of my head, I had a find-out-if-he-likes-me-through-a-note-that-my-girl-passes crush. His name was Sam. A bigheaded boy who straddled "class clown" and "young pimp." The note was passed. Or maybe the secret was whispered. Either way, I liked him. He liked my girl. That's the day I learned that not everyone will dig me. Damn.

It's no coincidence that my favorite song during this traumatic adolescent experience was the infectious "Passing Me By," an opus about the pang of rejection. In my personal angst, I had recorded the lyrics in a red one-subject notebook and recited Bootie Brown's verse for my sister's friends in that nasal, high-pitched tone. "Passing Me By" was esoteric cool from a West Coast group that didn't publicize a gang affiliation.

The video, which I taped from some cable music program, was equally amusing as a visual articulation of my pain. The four Cali dudes hung upside down as women-- and seemingly the world-- walked right pass them. In a culture where most guys don't freely admit that every chick doesn't come with her legs spread, "Passing Me By" is a breath of real air, minus the smog of BS.

The sentiment has stayed with me. Over the years, it wasn't just Sam who lost out on all of this. There was Derrick, Tyrone, Mike, Carl, and a few others not worth mentioning. I've made a nice fool of myself trying to gain equal parts of attention, affection, and reaction. Picture me in the kitchen, sweating, frying chicken, trying to settle any indecision through the stomach of whatever dude I was trying to get with. I've played wifey without the ring and the-sister-in-your-corner without any association. I've written long love letters (and e-mails) like Fatlip, former member of the Pharcyde, rhymed about in his verse. In the end, these acts of show-and-prove got me nowhere. Left me hanging. Upside down. The obvious hit: if they're not digging me the way that I deserve, there's probably a good reason, and it's best that I let them pass.

That's not to say that rejection doesn't still feel like a rusty shank stab to a sista's self-esteem and pride. He doesn't want to get with me? Didn't my

mother tell him that I'm perfect? Age coupled with experience is a beautiful thing. You learn about how factors like timing, a person's own issues and insecurities, and chemistry play hater roles in your romantic destiny.

If you're lucky, you can look back and feel that sense of relief that you never hooked up with So-and-So in the first place. You may even taste the sweet satisfaction of spotting an ex-crush in the supermarket. Shorty aged twenty years in only three, gained weight in the wrong places, and pushed a stroller that luckily didn't cart your screaming child. You scratch your head and try to recall why, again, did you want to be with So-and-So? The reasons escape you like a smooth criminal. And without saying hello, you break out like one.

Over the course of time there will be some incompatible folks who will bypass you like a drop-top in the fast lane. And that's cool-- you wouldn't want them anyway. But the key is to keep moving, because if you don't, how will you ever reach your true destination? By letting Sam and friends pass, I proved to be a better woman.

The Author