Petite Earthquake , Rwanda 2015

I don't sleep in Rwanda. I lie in a dark pregnant silence, my neck sore and throbbing from the long journey to "a hill away from Congo". The first quake felt like a huge boulder had rolled down the hill and hit the wall behind my bed. I curled into a ball under my sheets--knees to chest and eyes wide. This was not my first earthquake, but fear confused me nonetheless. Is it safer outside? Should I stand in the bathroom doorway? Is this the place I die in? What the hell is the name of this place!? The second quake rocked my bed like a child's cradle. There was no sound but a steady creaking. I uncurled my body on the bed and breathed deeply to concentrate. My eyes were fixed through the wall as I thought hard. Two more quakes. I still hadn't moved. And finally it came to me with a flush of relief so strong I actually yelled "YES" with excitement--if I die here, at least I will remember I died in a town called Huye.    

The Avatar Incident , 2009

When the lights came on, my eyes were already stinging red from the 3-D glasses and big screen glare. As we crossed the vast and vacant dark parking lot, I turned my eyes up into the light rain for relief. "Oh c'mon Ange, it was a magnificent story about protecting the environment. The characters were blue aliens--not people." My friend could not have known that this time it was different. I was not angry or disappointed or offended. The film had, quite literally, hurt me. The wound was throbbing in the soft of my belly, just below my ribcage. Was I the privilege-soaked self-anointed hero choosing to parade as a dread-locked native while my nation systematically exploits them? "Jesus Christ Ange, stop seeing everything as racism for one minute. It was a good story." A trembling hateful yell emerged from the soft of my belly: "How could you be so cruel?!" Tears fell harder and faster than the drizzle. I hated myself for allowing such emotions, so carefully bottled and buried, to now burst and spill out all over my friends in this middle America parking lot. We drove away from the theater in the shocked silence of my sobs. Living in Uganda, East Africa had changed me more than I realized. I could not pretend it was only a story. 

Falling Towers , 2001

Guest Vignette by: Sheyenne Brown 

A warm breeze blew as the boy I had been crushing on all summer was hanging out of his window, shirtless, with no muscle definition to speak of, but a beautiful sun-kissed complexion and curly hair.  He had his weight on his arms so that he could be erect while he shouted: “You don’t want to die a VIRGIN, do you?”  It was a sunny fall day.

It was also the day the towers fell.  While everyone was worrying about finding loved ones and terrorist attacks reaching the Bronx, he saw an opportunity to capitalize on fear.  I often wonder if that trait took him far in life. We had been flirting all summer the way recently turned teenagers flirt; awkwardly and with insults.  That day, I wore a jean jacket, a black dress and some fresh white and blue uptown Nikes (school had just started so naturally I was looking fresh to death).  As I passed his house with my girls, I giggled and tried to sound sassy in response to his question, but he was right.  I actually did not want to die a virgin.  At that point, death was palpable and imminent.  Images of bodies flailing to their deaths on television, my mother in bed sleeping the day away because she couldn’t cope with reality; a condition I had never seen her in.  Not dying a virgin seemed to be the one thing I had some control over.

It didn’t happen until December 27^th, and it was void of any feelings, technique or kissing.  In truth, I didn’t have my first kiss until two years later. The reasons changed by that time; no longer afraid I would die but more afraid I would suck when I finally was ready to have sex with a guy I loved.  I wonder though, if he hadn’t thrown that gauntlet when he did, would I be the awesome lover I am now?

I kid. A little.