Still untitled...

Open Mic 11/2013....

No. Don’t laugh. See I have to be funny.

Because humor is a defense mechanism used by those that are afraid or seen as threatening.

So as long as this cloth is associated with deep terror I’ll keep you laughing.

But don’t.

Because the situation is real.

And no matter how many jokes I spit out

it doesn’t make up for the propaganda associated with this faith,

Or the oppression,

the oppression,

the oppression

that so many of us feel.

Yes. I am beautiful.

Because what you can see has to be pretty.

Because it almost makes up for the fact that more of me is covered

and the dimples distract just for a moment from the fact that whatever you see Maryam do isn’t just how SHE like to act

it’s…that.

That religion. That Islam.

That covered up, “random search”, sniff dog, maybe bomb.

Loudly peaceful but possibly pre-determined, anti-this, maybe threat.

Maybe Scary. Maybe stiff.

Maybe not tell joke, maybe not get it.

Maybe not ask questions, maybe too serious.

Maybe too meek.

Maybe…one of them.

Maybe not type-cast. Maybe honestly just who I AM.

See. I have to be outspoken through the pen.

Because if I fight back, it would satisfy all of them.

And I have to be successful.

Because if it ain’t a plane, headwrap, beanpie,

or straps of 2-methyl,1,3,5-Trinitrobenzene to the chest

I’m not even halfway expected to achieve ANY type of s-u-c-c-e-s-s.

And I don’t expect half of you to understand.

Because before you hear my jokes, before you see me smile,

you’ve already given me a label.

I’m either rabid wolf, or…lamb.

And honestly, even if the whole world woke up tomorrow.

If some people dropped the hate-framed glasses.

If FOX News happened to get they heads out they *sses,

this is still the situation I would expect.

  

Body armor over heart on sleeves, before showing inner beauty to

Maybe hatred. Maybe prejudice.

Maybe not like. Maybe not understand.

Maybe I’m already dismissed because of my faith

before having a chance to extend MY helping hand.

Maybe no hope for changing cemented minds.

Venomous tongues and eyes covered with wool.

D*mn.

But see I can’t help but hope.

I can’t help but to smile.

Laugh out loud.

Match my hijab with my outfit and rock that mess with uniquely Maryam swag.

I was born to bear this situation.

Grace under fire because God don’t make no mistakes

and He will never, never, God will never run out of grace.

So as long as there is breathe in my body.

Life in my bones.

I will be boldly peaceful.

Work to build titanium bridges and tear down shields

because that terror that they pretend they feel

isn’t half of the incessant fear you feel

when constantly afraid of being judged.

So I choose not to be afraid.

I choose to use my style.

Use my laughter, my smile, my service.

Use my whole self to labor for true understanding, friendship, for peace.

 I choose not to accept hate.

 I choose to spread love.

Slumdog: A Dedication

Sometimes you have to be grateful for sheer inspiration. This was a very inspired piece. I wasn't sure where my pen would take me as I wrote this. Whether it would be anger, resentment, sadness..etc. But I guess those things aren't in me anymore- rather a sense of peace and calm. And after a couple minutes of work, I'm happy with the results. I'll probably tweak it a bit, but nothing is ever concrete. I'm looking forward to reading this at the next open mic.  ^_^
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eventually, I’ll stop checking my phone.

Not anticipating your communicating,

But out of habit.

 

You have a bad habit.

You were my bad habit.

 

Acknowledging deceit while you creep.

But I wasn’t your victim.

 

Like a panther at midnight in high branches of trees,

I watched you. Waiting.

All while you tried to make me feel as if I have the issues.

You would get comfortable.

You would doubt my vigilance,

Overestimate your vigor, and seek no repentance.

 

I was placed in front of you,

Not to love you and be your wife.

No, I am your antithesis.

You, snake, slimy, scum.
Remarks snide. Dark soul.
Eyes wide shut.

And I. Head held high.
Never low, insignificant or
Less than worthy of wonderful.
Never holding grudge and never believed your lies.

 

You are super bad, man.

And I am your kryptonite.

 

So tonight the three of us won’t wait for your

Clockworked rehearsal of loveless venom.

No. We sleep in delight.

Knowing you are no shiny knight.
You have no steed.

You only love yourself.
And you have met your match.

 

Allow me to reintroduce myself.

I’m the best woman you ever tried to deceive.
The woman of your dreams.

And your very worst nightmare.

 

I am love for God. Trust before any man.

Deep respect for self.

Because without my love I need no one else.

I am Faith, Hope, Love, Trust.

All foreign languages to you.

 

Entonces, no me digas que me ames.

No sabes que es el amor, ni tienes una corazon.

Eres la oscuridad.

Y yo. Yo soy el Sol.

The Struggle For Life

I had never been so close to death before last night. So many things raced through my mind all at once. I began to reflect on the struggles in life that each of us encounters. From birth, we're fighting. Fighting to take our first breaths. Then, some months down the line, we fight with our wobbly legs in an attempt to stand up and walk. During this shadowing experience in an Emergency Department, I've seen many people experience various types of struggles. It's made me grateful and also very introspective on my experiences thus far.
 *~*~*~~*~**~*~*~*~
"CPR. CPR"

We were in the middle of Rounds as the intercom and walky-talkies sounded. The group disbanded as one of the Attendings and some residents rushed to the CPR room. Being the "shadow" always asking for excitement, I quickly followed the group. An African American man, most likely in his early 60's (I missed the details of his case), was lying on a stretcher. The paramedics were giving an exhausted, if not lackluster, attempt at chest compressions. The hospital staff took over, two residents switching off with one another to avoid fatigue. They vigorously pressed into the man's chest. Down. Recoil. Down. Recoil. I began to wonder how this fortress around my heart could respond so readily to the exertion by human hands. Another staff member slowly and steadily bagged. Fluid gurgled back into the tub with each release of the bag. I wondered if he had had a seizure. Perhaps that was vomit coming up into the breathing tube.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

One of my earliest memories of this graceful struggle for life is of sitting with my grandfather on his hospital bed. I remember him being active and engaged despite the cancer ravaging quickly through his body. I must have been four years old. I didn't understand what death was at the time. From that moment, I always remembered my grandfather as being alive. Stories of him conquering tennis courts and providing cars for each of his eight children is how I still see him. I don't remember his struggle. I only remember his strength. After working with family caregivers for dementia patients and hearing of their experiences with "the long goodbye" I'm grateful my grandfather didn't suffer for too long. I'm also grateful he was fully aware of his health condition and able to say goodbye to his loved ones before moving on.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I had recently renewed my CPR certification for work. Giving chest compressions to a dummy did not prepare me to see the lifesaving technique carried out on a human being. The man was of a sturdy stature, plump around the mid section. I never saw his full face as they shoved the breathing tube into his body. I saw he had facial hair, a dark grey and white beard. A long longitudinal scar was drawn along his midsection. "What type of struggles has this poor man seen?" I wondered.  

"How many Epis did he have? Six? Ok, let's do one more. Check pulse. Everybody off. Let's get another pulse reading. Nothing?"

The resident orchestrating the efforts of so many staff calmly observed, interjected, and deliberated to make quick decisions. I grew to admire her more throughout the night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I've always been a very optimistic but cautious person. Always aware of the precious time I've been blessed with and the responsibility I have over my own life. I can readily see the positive in any situation. But the more people I encounter, the more I realize how much I take this character trait for granted. As a research coordinator I do depression screenings and have received some very high scores. It makes me wonder at what point does our struggle become overwhelming? At what point does our human spirit concede to sadness, hopelessness, and despair? Have optimistic people developed a higher threshold that they have yet to reach? Are their coping mechanisms such that they dissolve the opportunity and challenge of potential spiritual defeat? Or does optimism serve as immunity?

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I looked on wide-eyed and hopeful at the quick hands and firmly chirped directions by the third year resident. This night I began to think of death in a different way. Recognizing I had been around death all of my life, but had never been so close to someone struggling for their life. (Or have I?) I made silent prayers and inched around the fast-paced residents and nurses to get a clear view of all the activity. I did my best to stay out of the way and felt utterly useless.

"Do you have any questions?" Dr. A appeared beside me and took a firm gaze over the commotion. He looked satisfied at the hard working crew that was under supervision of the second attending. "No. I'm just...taking it all in I suppose." I had no idea how I would react to this type of commotion. I wasn't surprised to be so calm. I almost felt guilty for not feeling a deeper sadness, but objectivity would be my best friend once I am practicing and helping to save lives. At least that's what I've been told.

I noticed a medical assistant checking her phone as she returned for more supplies to a cart. I began a silent prayer to never lose the value or sensitivity to human life once I do join the ranks of white coats. Sensitive, empathetic, objectivity? It will be an interesting and challenging balance.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I reflect on how many cries of suffering I hear in the ER during my visits. Echoes of desperation. Of pain and suffering- some self-inflicted, some by the hands of those trying to save a life. I wonder if any of the suffering people are optimists under siege. I wonder where this struggle begins for each of us. How do we cry out? How do we cope? How do I cope?

So many young people pick up a bottle, a needle, or a joint to enter into a temporary, detrimental, and forgetful daze. Recent newscasts of deaths due to 'Mollies' made me sad at the thought of needing to escape. I've had my own escapes in past years but usually within an adrenaline rush on a field or pitter-patter on a treadmill. These days I am more than likely to embrace struggle through writing and prayer. Contemplating the roots of an issue is more fulfilling than hoping to wipe it away for a brief period of time only to have it rear it's ugly head again in a different way. I'm grateful to have experienced life and developed my own more effective coping skills.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Do you see that black and decker looking thing? Watch. That's called an IO."
They were inserting an intraosseous line to inject medication directly into the marrow. My eyes darted around the room as the team continued compressions and attempted to squeeze some type of fluids into the man's veins.

"How long has it been? Thirteen minutes? You said they found him like this? Ok, let's do another pulse check. Pulse check please!"

He was unresponsive. I made silent prayers for this man. I hoped he had a family somewhere who would be with him before he entered the cold morgue. I had never experienced this before but I knew they were about to pronounce him dead. The feeling of death hung like a thick cloud in the room. Looming as if awaiting those words to come off the lips of the resident to make a more ceremonial decent.

The strange part was that this man was never alive on that gurney. Despite the vigorous efforts. The quick-paced movements toward needles, syringes, bags. The desperate massaging of different areas on his tormented body, searching for signs of life. Despite all of these efforts everyone knew he was dead. While their efforts didn't show it, there was most likely some doubt he would come back.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
After hearing many medical histories of abuse to our own bodies, I wondered what it would take for us to take charge of our health. What would it take for young people to recognize the fragility of their perceived immortality? What would it take for middle-aged people to put down the fork, the burger wrapper, the cigarettes, the poison in which we have all indulged in one form or another? What would it take for us to be our own cheerleaders? To encourage ourselves that no matter what the cost or temporary inconvenience, we have the responsibility of assisting nature to preserve our lives?

"I'm gonna die from something."
"It's too late for me. I've made too many mistakes."
"Baby, I'm just trynna make it."

Conversations of people on the brink of losing all hope serve as a sad motivation. A melancholic symphony of life pushing those who care to reflect forward and keeping them from giving up the battle. Life is beautiful. Even during our hardest moments it provides a hidden beauty only to be seen by the eyes of the most talented survivor. The one who hears the music and keeps building and rebuilding his or her own fortress. That internal fortress against all odds. The defense against the small holes in a raft to not only stay afloat but to navigate the vast and rushing rivers we encounter through this journey we call life.

My short time on this earth has brought many sad pauses and obstacles but a distinct type of hope. The kind of hope in humanity that despite all odds we have the capacity to come together and help one another through our individual and collective struggle. The kind of hope that I could not possibly create on my own but was blessed with by God. The hope that makes me recognize that despite our differences we have the intimate similarity of our human nature that connects us on a deeper level than we know. Unfortunately it is usually a tragedy that brings us together in the deepest sense. But since we have this capacity, there is no reason to await a tragedy to become the heroes and helpers to our brothers and sisters the way we know we can be. There is no reason to delay doing a good deed for someone. There is no reason to delay telling someone you love just the way you feel. Why should we wait until tragedy to open our hearts and minds?

The reality is we shouldn't. Because this life is precious and we are not guaranteed the safety of having a second chance, we have to take this moment. We have to make the right choice for the rites that our minds, bodies, and souls hold over us. We have to choose to be healthy. We have to choose to be happy and positive. We have to choose to encounter a struggle and make our mind set on creating a unique opportunity to succeed again and again. The reality is we don't have all month, week, or year to contemplate making a positive change. Only we can take the steps to embrace our God-given potential and bring it to fruition. We can't afford to delay becoming the person we want to be. We don't have time to hesitate to be great. We only have right now. Will we make mistakes? Sure. But it's up to us to keep on moving. We have to put on our life vests, grab a paddle, and hop in that raft. Who else can do that for us?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The compressions were just as strong as 15 minutes before when they first began. You would think this man had just come into the hospital and coded on site instead of being found and brought in some time ago. I wondered if he knew. Were there warning signs? Did he have a chance to call out for help? What was the cause of his cardiac arrest? I would not get answers to any of these questions. Truthfully, I was too cautious to even ask. I saw the frustration on the faces of the attending and the residents. I'm sure a pesky action-seeking "shadow" is the last thing they wanted to deal with. 

"Ok, let's do another pulse check. How long has it been? Ok, we got to call it guys. Time of death 11:35pm."

The staff wiped their sweaty brows and retreated the bagging and compression efforts. After a brief discussion with Dr. A and some time to begin digesting the situation, I found the Intern Chaplain in the hall and decided to introduce myself. This was the first time he had to console a grieving family. I was relieved to know that this man had family. This man who had endured such suffering, whom I had intruded upon during his struggle for life, this man was not alone, he was a husband. His wife stood just across the hall from us handling paperwork with hospital staff.

The recently widowed woman stood dignified and calm. Sadness was in her eyes but her strength prevented any tears from falling in that moment. I wanted to say something to her. Hug her. Do anything. I couldn't shake the feeling of being of no help at all. After my brief discussion with the chaplain I turned to resume my shadowing experiences for the night. I said a silent prayer for the widow I could not console and her family as I walked away slowly.

As I rounded the corner I heard the screaming of a man who had just attempted suicide. The screaming, handcuffed, man had taken a handful of Seroquel while in police custody. He had been at the hospital earlier in the day with suicidal ideation. His room was two doors down from where the husband had just passed.  

What it means when she walks away...

I haven't thought of a really clever title, feel free to make suggestions in the comments. This is honest, cerebral, a little funny, and definitely a hopeful (as opposed to hopeless) romantic's view on leaving a situation alone. It all came out at once so I may edit the content and/or format down the line...
======================================

See I call you out on your bull, secretly hoping that you'll prove me wrong.
Hoping that you'll step up before this fine brother comes along.
He'll be 3 inches taller, and did I mention fine?
As he passes by he'll simply rhyme "Queen, keep me in mind."
Afterwards he'd meet me in my illustrious, dark, illuminating fantasy.
He would show me what it felt like to be held by a man.

So if you don't step up,
Well damn.
I guess I've already made other plans.

But still I sit here hoping you'll knock on my door.
That you'll surprise me.
Knowing that you won't.
I say good bye, hoping you'll stop me.
But you don't.

Show me how much this means to you, that's why I walk away.
Now, this might tempt you to say, "Then why don't you just stay?"
The thing is, Big Mama always told me,
"Baby, you got to let the sleeping dog lay."

When you're ready for a change...

When you're ready for change you have to get your mind right. The first step in making your mind ready for your next step is recognizing what kind of shape it's in. Strip down to nothing. Look at it in the mirror without sucking in. That's what most of us are simply scared or too stubborn to do. Many times we fail because we don't evaluate before pressing ahead. It doesn't matter if it's romance, a class, or a new job. We have to evaluate and make the decision that we'll do better or just stay the same.

-------------------------- Untitled (like most of my stuff) -----------------
To proud to admit mistakes.
Fake it 'til you make it is what they say.
But the heart can't fake whole after a break.

What do I dream of?
Who do I want?
Mistakes happen but it's up to us not to wait on fate.
It is what we make.
We'll be looking forward to the same thing if our actions don't change.
But how do I change my actions?
I have God's best guide to thrive but I'm still half-baked.

Whatever's missing is on the inside.
I'm what's missing from my life.
We can point fingers, but why lie?
It's up to me to grab success and to thrive.
I only have to focus, pray, and decide.

Pittbulls Vs Young Black Boys: Rally Virgin for Trayvon Martin

As the rep. from the National Action Network (NAN) re-capped the story of a young man who was hunted down like game, straddled, then shot in the chest, tears streamed down my face. This was my first rally.

"What do we want!" 
   "Justice!"
"When do we want it!"
   "Now!"

The call and response chants gave me goose bumps. The energy of the crowd slowly crept up my spine. I was quiet in the beginning. I would have shouted along but my throat was clinched by heavy emotion. By the time the pastor finished with the opening praise I was ready.

"What do we want!"
   "Justice!"
"When do we want it!"
   "Yesterday!" I shouted.

Now isn't good enough. We need the psychotic man to be thrown in jail before he hurts someone else. One of the speakers commented that Mike Vick went to jail for conspiring to kill animals. He was locked up fairly quickly as I recall. This is the epitome of insult added to injustice. How much is a young black boy's life worth? Not even a pack of skittles? Not even as much as a dog? How is it that our correctional system can be in need of so much correcting? And when will the system start helping our society?

"No Justice!"
   "No peace!"

My mom had always warned us about getting involved in rallies and protests. A victim of the injustices of the 60s, she was traumatized. She was in the first black graduating class from her Jewish High school. I'm sure she suffered her fair share of injustices and witnessed many people being beaten and imprisoned- like animals. I'm 24 and full of energy. "An injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere" Dr. Martin Luther King's philosophy lives in me so it was hard not to be involved in the chants a long time ago. It's amazing what fear can do to a person. But when I walked up to Providence Missionary Baptist Church tonight I let go of the fear that kept we away from rallies in the past.

"Ya uhuru!"
   "Ya wu ru...hu?"
"Y'all don't know what that means? It means freedom now in Swahili. Ya UhuRU!"
   "Ya Uhuru!!"

The church parking lot was blocked off except for the News and a few individuals allowed to snag a good parking spot. I drove down the small street off of Benjamin E. Mays and hoped the owner of the house wouldn't fuss at me for parking very close to (if not on top of) their lawn. My purse would have been inconvenient so I tossed it in the trunk and trotted up the street. 6:56pm, the rally started at 7:00 and the front of the church already had a crowd. I wanted to be punctual for my first rally."Don't go outside after dark. Someone could grab you!" Strangely enough I didn't hear echos of my mother while I rushed up the street in my pink "Too Blessed 2 B Stressed/ God is Good" baby T-shirt and jeans carrying my 'Trayvon' hoodie.

"Aaaaaa-men" "Aaaaa-men" "Amen. Amen."

Church hymns had already started. Two guys in hoodies strolled in front of me so I darted around them. I stared at the crowd nervously. Would I be welcomed? Would people know it was my first time? Could I yell anything at anytime, or should I wait for the speaker to start a chant? I didn't know how to act but I knew I wanted to be as close to the front as possible. I made a sign, "Justice 4 Trayvon". I held it nervously in my hands. The small poster was damp with sweat from my nervous palms and then the re-cap of Trayvon's murder began.

"This, this, gorilla was on top of him! You could hear the blood curdling screams from Trayvon. You could hear him pleading for his life! Now what type of threat could he have seen in that? A 28 year old man! Against Trayvon 'Babyface' - I call him baby face- Martin."

I couldn't stop sobbing. Admittedly, I hadn't read the full news story. I saw updates in my Twitter Timeline and heard some things over the radio. I don't watch a lot of TV so I missed many interviews. I was hearing all of the details for the first time. I prayed for Trayvon and his family and continued to sob. Photographers flashed lenses near my face. They were surely all taking photos of my sniffling face. Other speakers from the rally spoke of other injustices in the black community. Other murders of innocent black boys and men in New York, Atlanta, and Texas were spoken about. Injustices to blacks everywhere was also mentioned.. "Our sons are endangered," I felt a severe disturbance in my spirit. I was shook realizing how the state of our nation has created the perfect climate and institution for murderers to be able to kill my sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers at will, without reason or consequence. I didn't know what to do with the energy I felt. I wanted to cry some more, shout, stop traffic on Piedmont and scream "Save Our Sons!!!"

"Arrest!"
  "Arrest!"
"Zimmerman!"
  "Zimmerman!"
"Now!"
  "Now!"

By the second half of the rally my voice was straining to capture the power I felt from the energy of the crowd. I shouted with the crowd. Made snide comments with the people around me and saw familiar faces. By the end of the rally I felt charged to do something grand. Something that nobody would be able to ignore. Something that would bring justice in a boldly peaceful way. Realizing that I'm only one person, however, I decided to start by taking the action steps that NAN outlined for us:
1) Sign the petition at
http://www.change.org/petitions/prosecute-the-killer-of-our-son-17-year-old-trayvon-martin#
2) Call the contact numbers provided and demand justice for Trayvon
  - 407-688-5070 Sanford Police Department, call to demand the arrest of George Zimmerman
  - 407-665-6000 FL DA's office, call to demand JUSTICE and boot out the "Police Chief" in Sanford and
      comb thru that station w a fine-toothed comb
   - 202-514-2000 US Department of Justice Civil Rights Division, call to demand JUSTICE for our son
   - National Action Network, call for info on how to get involved and make a difference and to stay 
     informed! There's a meeting on Saturday w a recap and updates
3) Come out to the meeting on Saturday w NAN and get involved!  678-732-0405


My next steps will be to challenge my friends to make calls and join me in sitting in public spaces with signs to spread awareness about Trayvon's murder. The first stop may be Piedmont Park. I hope to get friends together and spread the word. But if no one else will join me, I still have the spirit of the rally to keep me company. This energy is what motivates me to make small contributions and fight for justice for my son, brother, father, neighbor, and myself.


I am Trayvon Martin.

Technological Activism?

The Department of Defense used the Internet in the late 60's/early 70's to protect the country. Other uses in 1989 were for business and made many tasks more convenient (i.e. calculations, data tracking..etc). And now in 2010 we have Facebook to stay in touch and make meaningful connections that would otherwise not be possible, right? I'm not so sure.

The fact is technology serves as an exciting new tool for WOW gamers and number crunchers alike. However, there are societal constructs that are being replaced by impersonal contact via social networks and the like. Is this cure for long distance becoming an incurable disease in itself?
And where do our interpersonal communication skills go if we never talk to people? Yeah, they suck. You can see that through "Customer Service" Departments.

The most recent event that got my blood heated is the Facebook cartoon child abuse awareness movement. On the one hand you could say "It's better than doing nothing. And it promotes awareness." But does it really? There has been way more conversation on Rugrats and Sponge Bob than on the beatings, murders, and rapes happening in our own neighborhoods. So what does it do if it doesn't help any real cause (i.e. no one is collecting donations, no one is promoting volunteer service...etc).

Here's what it does. It makes us complacent. It makes you feel like "Ahh, I'm such a good person." Yeah, not so much. The idea of using technology as a tool to promote awareness is fine, but it does NOT replace actually getting off your butt or your wallet to do something. To be active. To make a real difference. But who am I to say?

This complacency and lack of initiative is a symptom of a bigger issue, the deconstruction of our social infrastructure. Our common spaces to voice our opinion, come together, and fight for a cause are dwindling. When is the last time we attended a Town Hall? Many people have never been to one. What will happen when we lose these connections entirely? Will our passion for social activism be replaced with status updates and profile pic changes?

SN: If you haven't seen WALL-E, you should. It speaks to this subject exactly. That's where we're headed!

On thinking about it, I have noticed disturbing changes in myself lately. I have a terrible habit of not calling people that I care about. I am quicker to text a friend who I miss dearly than pick up a phone (many are out of state). There's always been the excuse of school. But now that I've graduated and don't plan to go back until Fall 2012, there really isn't an excuse. There wasn't ever really an excuse for not keeping up with family and friends. Life is too short to lose communication. Chatting and texting could never replace hearing my friend's laugh or a good game of Egyptian Rat Screw (my favorite card game).

In order to rehabilitate myself (or habilitate myself since this has defined my entire adult life) I have devised a plan to host bi-weekly or monthly get together in an effort to revive the social connections in my life. Maybe I'll call them Personal Interaction Over Facebook (PIOFs). Or Social Revivals. Umm, yeah, I'll work on that. But the idea is to host get togethers with folks and share valuable input on current events and life changes..etc in order to revive the social connections that we're losing. Have a pot-luck, get some games out, laugh and talk into the night. The good 'ol days.

Is technology deconstructing your social connections? Are you comfortable with it?
========================================================================
---Hey sup.
-Nothin. U?
---Chillin'.
-Koo.
---lol. K. ttyl.
-cya. :)

Our text conversations are so meaningful.