Breathe Easy, You've Found Me ((HUGS))

People will wonder why this blog is needed, why minority midwifery student? It's very simple actually; I was looking for this blog...but I couldn't find I created it. We all have unique experiences, and every experience, every story, can help someone else. I am a black girl from the hood at an ivy league professional school. That, alone, is reason enough to write. Somebody was looking for this blog. Someone wanted proof that what I'm doing can be done - even when you come from where we come from.

To that person especially, WELCOME.

Sunday, December 9, 2007


It's not that I'm not coping well. I am. But I'm drowning all the same. It's a perpetual state of drowning, that is now making me very, very tired. I'm trying to study for finals without a dead week/reading week/study week. I don't know if they mean to kill us...or only make us think that we will die. How to give presentations and learn new material and go to clinical while also trying to synthesize what you've learned so that you can be a test that is worth almost half your grade...and comprehensive...seems a little...psycho?

I had to carry three bags to the library today. Three. A bookbag. My canvas midwifery bag (gift from faculty). Laptop bag. My back. OMG, my back. But all the books I needed for TWO classes would not fit in one bag. I started at's 5:30. I took some mini breaks, but not too long. I'll be here until they turn out the lights...2:45 am.

I am so glad that I have this blog. To vent, to whine, to share, and move along.

Last night I had the pleasure of braiding my friend's hair and it immediately took me back to a good place. To a place where I am loved and supported. A place where I belong...even if it's only in the comparitive sense...meaning I belong there more/better than I do anywhere else. Hair can be so cathartic for me. It's girlfriend talk. It's remembering that I am good at something. That I belong somewhere...a place where hair gets "did" in kitchen sinks and at kitchen stovetops. Grease and picks and combs - the unbreakable afro kind and the perm kind with the pointed tip for parting. The smell of coconut grease. Oil sheen. Dookey gel. JAM! The twisting and winding of cornrows. The drinking, the smoking, the shit talking. The venting about these men, these kids, and these crazy azz white people. The love.

Ooooh. I remember.

Yes I do.

One day. One day soon.

We will go back there, and it won't just be for "break."

And maybe someone will lovingly pick the lint from my dreads...

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