Cutesy hashtags! Engagement pics snapped in front of Founders Library! I might be a little salty about it. At Howard, there were good-looking, smart, and fun men of all sizes and shapes, representing every corner of the African Diaspora. Yet, I somehow managed to walk across the stage and get my degree without having a meaningful romantic relationship with any of them. But year-old Jamilah with the decent enough body and the cool job is a very different woman from the insecure chubby girl who snuck into classes in Frederick Douglass Hall 10 minutes late, quietly munching on cookies from her purse.
People liked me well enough. I developed the reputation for being outspoken and thoughtful, two of my greatest professional assets thus far. Plus, these were uppity college boys at an uppity Northern school, guys who may be more likely than other brothers to be bothered by a stomach that exceeds a bustline. I pretended to well enough, especially when we were sitting around talking about sex and guys. I kept thinking the weight would just go away at some point. I pretty much stopped looking. Most of the romantic attention I got was from older guys some of them Howard grads or alumni of other universities and my limited love life took place away from our campus.
This made for limited drama. With the exception of one painfully unrequited crush my freshman year a handsome senior who said he was moving to Africa after graduation and guess what? That may have been because I doubted I would have any luck with them if I did. I should mention that the Howard women who make up these marriages are quite diverse, physically and otherwise.
Some of them are big fines who were always big and fine, while others got that way after graduation. Most of those made it to the Big Ring Club via men who attended other universities, it seems.
Amazing Howard women come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe if I saw myself in that way when I went there, I, too, could have found myself a Howard man.
Buy Jamilah: The Tale Of The Incomplete Woman: Read 1 Kindle Store Reviews - quiswagrerosbend.gq Jamilah is struck by what many Bedouin young women have gone through. Despite her love for Rashid, she struggles to find her innerself and boards the ship of.
I just know that the little hashtags and campus engagement pics are cute and remind me that I went to Howard to find Dwayne Wayne and crossed the stage without him. We speak of black love like some sort of mythical concept. The stuff black fairy tales are made of? I wish I could get a do over. Is it too late to get a college sweetheart? Nov 9, 2. Cute article, but I don't know how anyone has expectations of finding their husband while attending an HBCU.
Too many women and not enough men to be dating on campus like that. No thank you. Nov 9, 3. Nov 9, 4. White people do this. Isn't that Texas college huge for it? Howard is in DC so it's not necessarily a Northern school to me. Nov 9, 5. Nov 9, 6. She's just one that missed the boat, there are plenty women just like her that may be too career-focused or carefree to care that much about a relationship. And lol DC being Northern. Nov 9, 7. Nov 9, 8. My step brother is a Howard alumn. He wouldn't have dated her or any woman since he is openly gay. Not every man on a college campus is going to date women.
Nov 9, 9. She also was not behind all those break-up to makes up, cheating, i need my space, etc that went on in order to get to those perfectly staged engagement photos, that young college love is no walk in the park. Nov 9, I see she wrote this on the 5th. I know she was salty af when David Olivers wedding crossed her timeline. I know I was This article is not a good look for her. It may scare some men off if they go on a date with her and decide to google her.
One group went into the family album, and the rest into this secret album. As if he had known that the other might not survive. I stared at each photo for long minutes. My father, with the laugh lines around his eyes, always using a cane to walk. My mother, with the serious grooves alongside her mouth, mitigating her movie-star beauty. I felt a combination of wonder and heartbreak. Sitting here, looking at her face in the photos, I wanted so badly to see her again.
I would hug her as tightly as I could, and tell her that I was okay, and that I was so sorry about Charlie. I put the album aside and took a deep breath. I picked up the envelope full of documents and emptied it on the kitchen table. Interestingly, there were two sets of identity documents for my entire family, one under the name Haddad, and another under our assumed name of Ibrahim. There were birth certificates for myself and Charlie, old passports, and social security cards, though the latter were under the name of Ibrahim only.
Two property ownership deeds were clipped together. The first was the deed of ownership of the house, indicating that the house had been paid for in cash. Who had taken ownership of it? Who had profited? I shrugged.
The Porters owned it now, and that was fine with me. The second property deed bore the name of an entity I had never heard of — Red Day Incorporated.
The deed was for a section of land in Riverside County, zoned for industrial use. I puzzled over that for a minute, until I realized that it was the abandoned rail yard where my mother had taught me to shoot.
So my father had known about that all along. Or my mother had told him at the end, after they reconciled. But what was Red Day? That question was solved as I sorted through the papers. I found incorporation documents for Red Day. It was a foundation based in the Cayman Islands. The officers were listed as — to my surprise — my entire family, under our surname Ibrahim. I was not about to revive my old identity in order to access the foundation, but I did want to know if the property still belonged to Red Day.
If the property taxes had not been paid, the state of California would have repossessed the land and re-sold it. If they were discovered it could lead to a police investigation. It might be better to leave it alone. I was tired of examining documents, but there was only one left. It was an account statement from an Austrian bank called Volks Group. No name on the documents. All you needed was the account number, the access code and the code phrase, and you could access the account and wire money out.
Even the bank employees did not know who had opened the account. The opening balance, according to the documents, was fifty million Austrian schillings. I had no idea how much that equaled in dollars.
It could be a thousand dollars or enough to buy a small country, for all I knew. If this was like the others, it was a combination of diary, poetry and philosophical musings.