Black Girl Unlimited: Lessons 5–9

I stare at her in silence before placidly nodding my head.

The Bible study teacher says we are only allowed to have one sandwich each after class, but I secretly eat two or three every time, which means there usually isn’t enough for everyone, prompting the Bible study teacher to scold the entire class for our “shameful dishonesty and wickedness.”

We are all in tears before she finishes the song, due to the emotion and spirit she infuses into every note.

Pastor Aily and the deacon stand in front of the circular tub full of tepid water that I wish was warmer.

You cannot become an enlightened wizard until you exorcise your demons.

Tiffany and I stayed in the kitchen, weeping, inconsolable.

He has several contusions in his brain, which they call a “traumatic brain injury.”

I see clearly now that it looks like an ominous black creature with no face, shaped like a rectangular piece of fabric, that ruffles and moves like a flag in the wind.

We all rush out onto the street in the dark of night, each heading to our respective apartments.

I listen intently to everything she says.

She starts screaming, a guttural scream, a sound a wolf might make when it loses one of its young.

I nod my head emphatically yes and lunge across the table, giving her the biggest hug I can muster.

They feel alive, radiating an exuberant energy.

We are like long-lost sisters, and we bond over our eclectic tastes while eating nachos and popcorn and talking about all the things in the world that don’t make sense.

My husband, who’s studying late at the university tonight, and I are doctors. Surgeons. We’re both in the residency program at Case Western Reserve School of Medicine, getting recertified.

Right now, in Iran, there is so much economic strife. The money doesn’t come from oil anymore.

And now I’m being chased, at high speed, by a group of ravenous girls who are going to shatter me if they catch me.

Her arms fall and splay open behind her.

As a testament to her own dancing ability, Ms. Patty never misses a beat while chastising my father’s poor dancing.

As a testament to her own dancing ability, Ms. Patty never misses a beat while chastising my father’s poor dancing.

The clouds move slowly, meandering, seemingly not in a rush to get anywhere.

"...Just came for the sausages.” Jesus then looks directly at me and says, “By the way, I found out about these delectable treats from watching over you and your family all these years. I can’t come back and intervene, but I try to send signals here and there. It’s the least I can do as the Savior of the Universe.”

I stare at the sullen faces of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and James Madison hanging on the walls of this unimaginable place.

The eighth lesson of wizard training is that there is a light in the center of our souls that never goes out, even in the darkest, bleakest times, because we are keepers of strength and possibility in this world.

The temperature dramatically drops below freezing, when moments ago it was warm and balmy.

It’s kind of like my cape, you know, a complement to the whole woman-warrior-hero persona. There are billions of Muslims in the world, and I’m one of them, right here under people’s noses. When they look at me in my hijab, they can’t escape the reality of diversity in the world.

“...I just had an epiphany,” Elena says. “We are living in The Matrix: Cleveland Edition. We can stop time, like the actual ticking time. That’s so rad.”

Elena is a quirky, resilient warrior who has managed to maintain an open heart.

He is already as tall as my father, even though he’s only fourteen years old, and he exudes confidence and charm.

The group of us must look strange to outside observers: five black boys, a black girl, and two Persian women in hijabs, casually bouncing through the theater. Elena’s mother does not seem at all fazed by the whole scene; she’s much more down-to-earth than she was at that first dinner.

I know the importance of living near growing, thriving things, which is nature’s way of reminding us of all that is flourishing and possible in this world.

“You betta call me dis time, a’ight?” he asks in a sultry voice while biting his lower lip.

“This is a very nice kitchen,” I say, enamored.

I can see my words resonate and land on his soft parts.

I can see the ambivalence in his eyes.