Harlem also inspires the colors of outfits. I spotted a green house tucked in a corner of 128th the other day. It just stood there, as colorful as ever, surrounded by brown buildings. It has an air of mystery, secrets, and history. It made go back to my closet to find something green and warm! And I caught this cozy green sweater looking right back at me...
Love over-the-knee boots? Check out more styles here!
Red is my favorite color. Some of you already know that because I bring it up quite often. I have a thing with red doors, red hats, red nails, red lipsticks, and red bags. The color red is so powerful, even the slightest drop of it brightens everything.
Almost three months ago, exactly one week before our eleventh-year anniversary, I married the love of my life. It was truly the most beautiful day of my life. It was everything I needed. It was everything I wouldn’t dare dream of as a child lost in the Haitian clouds. It was magical.
On the day of the wedding, a mesmerizing storm lifted me from my sleep around six in the morning. I looked at the mountains, hidden from the sun, kissed by the dark, grey clouds, and I smiled. My ancestors were with me, celebrating before the festivities even started. I could feel them dancing underneath the deep dark clouds. As I get older, I no longer associate darkness with sadness, and so I knew that the dark morning was everything but somber. My great grandmother was crying, and they were tears of joy. I knew that because that’s what I do, too, when I’m really happy. I cry.
In addition to being a full time student at the university, I served on the board of several on-campus organizations, worked three part-time jobs, and during the holiday season, I'd scour the student center website and craigslist for random gigs. During my freshman year, I found a dish-washing/serving opportunity at a wealthy family's home in a town near my campus on Thanksgiving. It offered $15-$20/hour just to help clear tables, wash dishes, and tidy the kitchen.
I remember that day clearly because I'd never experience anything of the sort. It was my first time ever setting foot in a wealthy American home. It was the kind of home I read about when I was just an awkward, skinny, dreamer-girl in Haiti. The kind of home I thought I'd move into when the US called for me, not the one-bedroom apartment in Newark my parents, little brother, and I found refuge to during my early teenage years. The place that collected most of my tears.
I remember elementary school vividly. Perhaps even more than high school and all of the new quirkiness I was starting to embrace about myself. I attended an all girls catholic school where we wore shiny Mary Jane shoes with crispy white doily socks laced with ribbons and ruffles. I didn't hate them, but I was always curious about the shoes the boys got to wear. I loved Sunday afternoons because after my school work, I'd polish my shoes just like I liked them, and I would lay my perfectly ironed uniform on a chair for easy reach in the morning. At church, after my readings at Eglise Saint Pierre, I'd shyly stare at the boys' shoes.