The Swirl World

Celebrating and Elevating Black Women - mind, body, soul and spirit!


Do You Believe in Magic?

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shareasimageCouple

If you believe in magic, come along with me
We’ll dance until morning ’til there’s just you and me
And maybe, if the music is right
I’ll meet you tomorrow, sort of late at night
And we’ll go dancing, baby, then you’ll see
How the magic’s in the music and the music’s in me . . . .

~John Sebastian of The Lovin’ Spoonful

This past weekend I had the occasion to participate in a girl’s weekend with a couple of good friends (I’ll call them *Shay and *Rochelle). We commiserated on life, love, and relationships all within the context of growing older and wiser.

Our discussion of relationships was a big part of the conversation.

“Do you believe in soul mates?” Rochelle asked.

She and Shay had already discussed the concept but she wanted my take on the matter.

“Define ‘soul mate’” I said cautiously. “I just want to be sure we’re on the same page.”

Rochelle went on to ask, “Do you believe that in this entire world, with all the people in it, that there is one person who is totally and completely right for you? Not that you and he would have never not have any problems if you got together, because some things are just a part of life – but do you believe that out of all the people in the world, you’re supposed to be with him and he’s supposed to be with you – and that’s what makes him your soul mate?”

This definition was pretty much what I’d expected. Of course I’ve had this conversation dozens of times over the course of my life, and I marveled at the difference in what I believed when I was a mere girl in high school and college, and what I believed now as a widow with some major life drama and trauma under her belt.

“I have to say , no, I don’t believe there’s only one person for you in the whole wide world, and that if you don’t marry him or her then you haven’t married your soul mate “ I said. “I believe, of course, that some people make better marriage partners than others. Even so, given enough time, mutual willingness, and desire, I believe that two people can become soul mates.

I thought some more. “Maybe I’m too pragmatic but I see relationship building as more practical than magical.”

Rochelle gave me great food for thought. She stated that her concept of soul mates is predicated on a principle of “good, better, best.” In other words, a certain man would be good for you; another one would be better, and yet another would be best – and that the best was more than likely your soul mate.

Shay, Rochelle and I kicked around a variety of scenarios, swapped stories regarding people we knew who appeared to be soul mates, and also discussed potential what ifs. When the conversation was all said and done we pretty much agreed that love rests on choices – whether you feel a sense of “magic” or not.

The choice begins with whom you elect to date, and why. I dare say a woman who is unhappy with her present state of circumstances and driven by desperation will make different relationship choices than one who is content with her life and prepared to wait until she finds what she deems suitable companionship.

“Suitable companionship” is subjective on a variety of levels; what is scorned by some is embraced by others. Some believe those who enter the realm of interracial dating fall into the “desperate” category while others classify swirlers as simply being people who are a bit more open-minded in the relationship department.

Whether desperate or content; open or closed-minded; idealistic or pessimistic, I believe that on some level we all believe in the magic of love. By “magic of love” I mean the belief that we will meet and find someone we will love and who will love us back; someone we will be true to and who will be true to us.

We keep hope alive that we will find the person we are willing to be there for in good times and bad, healthy or otherwise; and who will be there for us in the same way. Regardless of the exterior package he or she is wrapped in, that person will be someone with whom we can build a lasting relationship, and with whom we can live our best life.

Yes, I believe in magic.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o89iKsKw19M

*Names changed to protect the guilty

Join in the fray:

Do you believe in magic?

Conversation 101

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Venus (very wistfully): “Don’t you miss me?”

Mars (very practically): “Oh, sure. But I’m going to see you in two weeks, so what’s the big deal? I don’t want to focus on missing you and then get all down in the dumps and depressed. And, you’ll be here in two weeks, so . . . “(verbal shrug)

Venus (a tad bit whiney; giving him a chance to redeem himself): “Well I know that, but . . . .  “

Mars (puzzled and clueless; totally not getting it): “Well, ok then? But what?”

Venus (very clipped, cold tone): “But nothing. Fine.”

Mars (recognizing that things are now not fine but wondering how and why): “Huh?”

[Sidebar: Why is Mars so totally clueless??? Why can’t he read between the lines? Why does Venus have to spell everything out to him???]

*_*

Deep breath.

Now, it goes without saying that here on planet Venus, Mars’ practical thought patterns and speech has at least 50 things wrong with it, but I’ll tickle-me-E.L.M.O. and spare you.

I know that some counselors and psychologists dispute or even reject the Men are from Mars – Women are from Venus philosophy, but I believe in it. Very strongly.

SM is from Mars.

My wonderful, darling, upbeat, positive, big-picture-seeing, positive-thinking, “I’m-ok-it’s-ok-yes-I-miss-you-but-I’m-not-sweating-it-because-I’ll-see-you-in-two-weeks-and-I’m-clueless-anyway-so-I-don’t-understand-your-need-to-hear-that-I-miss-you fiancé. Gotta love him.

I’m definitely from Venus.

His wonderful, darling, upbeat, positive, see-the-romance-in-everything, positive-thinking, “I-know-we’ll-see-each-other-in-two-weeks-you-big-jerk-I-just-want-you-to-tell-me-you-miss-me-and-whisper-sweet-nothings-in-my-ear-and-I’m-embarassed-because-I-want-that-from-you-and-disappointed-that-I’m-not-getting-it-and-wish-you-would-GET-A-CLUE fiancée. Gotta love me. (cheezin).

[Sidebar: How is it that when it comes to Mars’ and Venus’ conversations such disconnect exists between what Mars doesn’t hear even when Venus doesn’t say it? Is it that hard? Really??]

Though that particular conversation ended there, Mars and Venus kept talking. Many conversations and recriminations later, Mars and Venus both got a clue and arrived at a better understanding of each other’s thought processes.

Venus now understands that Mars isn’t a mind reader and can’t really know what she wants until/unless she articulates better, so she’s working on that. She’s learning that it’s ok to ask for what she wants, and that it’s really unfair to expect Mars to “just know” what she wants and needs. Venus is also learning that directness and practicalities have their place – even in conversation – and that she shouldn’t take it personally when Mars can’t see the romantic forest because he’s being practical and looking at the trees.

And Mars? He is now looking online for mind-reading classes and just picked up a book entitled How to Get a Clue: 10 Things Men Better Learn about Women. Gotta love him!

Join in the fray:

Are you Camp Mars – or Camp Venus?

Hitch Kiss

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My friend Zee (the one who asked about baby knuckles) recently changed her dating status to “in a relationship,” and both of us are pretty sure he just may be the one. I won’t go into to all the reasons why both of us (including her BFF) think this guy is a keeper. Suffice it to say that he’s a perfect gentleman and has shown such consistency in all the major areas that Zee is pretty sure he’s the genuine article.

What she found particularly endearing very early on is the fact that he never tried to “force” a kiss on her. Not that she’s averse to a first or second-date kiss, mind you, but she LOVED the fact that Mr. Gentleman wasn’t pushy.

“Did you and SM kiss on the first date?” Zee asked.

Her question gave me pause – and made me blush.

“Ahh . . . well . . . .no, not the first date . . . ” I stumbled.

“All right, spill it!” she said triumphantly.

“Well, what had happened was . . . .”

Sidebar: [Whenever anyone says, “What had happened was . . .” then just know you’re in for a doozy].

I was living in Dallas at the time. SM had surprised me with a Friday night cooking class at Central Market. The class was for Louisiana cuisine (I know; thoughtful, right?) and attendees ate the meal they cooked. Afterward he escorted me to a co-worker’s 70’s birthday party waaaaay across town. We’d had a wonderful evening with a lot of conversation and laughs, and we felt comfortably at ease with each other. He’d been divorced for five years and hadn’t dated much; I’d been widowed for even longer than that and hadn’t dated much either.

He saw me to my door at the end of the date. Inside, my Shih Tzu Nibbles was going berserk, barking up a storm and pretty much embarrassing me. I saw my roommate peeping thorough a crack in the curtain with a grin so wide I could see all 32. And me? I stood there and tried to remember the scene from the movie Hitch, where Hitch tries to school his hapless client on the art of kissing after a date.

I closed my eyes. Was I supposed to lean in to him??? Was he supposed to lean in to me??? If he leaned first, was I supposed to follow – or was I supposed to meet him halfway? Was he supposed to lean first??? Wasn’t he supposed to follow my lead???? Or was I supposed to follow his lead???? Doesn’t the girl set the pace for a gentleman??? Was I supposed to pucker first, or was he??? It was our first date – was I even supposed to be puckering???? Nibbles, SHUT UP!!! I can’t think!!!! What did Hitch say the woman was supposed to do???

I finally decided to pucker and lean in first . . . and  . . . felt nothing but air. When I opened my eyes, SM had already bounded down the steps and was on the sidewalk – almost to his car. He looked stricken.

“G’nite . . . “he waved shyly. “I’ll stand here till you go in the house. And, uh, I’ll call you.”

I was floored. And mortified beyond belief.

“Good night!” I choked.

And dropped my keys. Picked them up – then dropped my purse.

Needless to say, I couldn’t get into the house fast enough. I stood there, waiting and hoping that the floor swallowed me up or I died from shame – I didn’t care which one came first.

I stood numbly as Nibbles jumped up and down on my skirt and registered on some level that he was ripping my brand new hose . . . but I was too embarrassed to care.

My roommate was on the floor, howling with laughter.

Zee was, too.

“You were literally standing there thinking about that movie Hitch???!!! Are you kidding me???”

Thankfully, SM did call me the next day, and he even showed up (we had already planned in advance to go out on both Friday and Saturday night).

We had a wonderful dinner and marveled at how much we liked each other.

“Man, I was wondering if you really liked me – the way our date ended last night was very weird” he said.

(The best defense is a good offense, right?)

“I know!” I exclaimed. “What in the world was wrong with you????”

He said I acted weird – and of course I said it was him. I had to tell him about Hitch, and I think that was the hardest I’d seen him laugh since we’d met. We came away with a great story to tell our grandkids-and my friend Zee appreciates her new beau even more.

And thankfully, we had our last first kiss.

Join in the fray:

Do you have an embarrassing date story? Leave a comment and tell me about it!

When a Man Loves (or Likes) a Woman

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I recently experienced an “Aha!” moment with my Swirl Man. Not that I had any doubt, but I know he loves me.

See, when I was in college I had a wonderful friend-guy named *Harry. I’d graduated from high school at 16 and went to a university in Florida on a full scholarship. I didn’t know a soul, and I purposed that I would meet at least three people every day – even if I had to walk up to the person and introduce myself. I met Harry on my first day, and he was the first person I met. Harry had beautiful hazel eyes, a very high IQ, and a horrible potty mouth – and I liked him on sight. Harry hailed from the South Side of Chicago and introduced me to his male and female buds. I fell right in and we all became fast friends.

(What does this have to do with my Swirl Man, you ask? No need to call Elmo – I’m getting there; really I am).

Fast forward to the summer after freshman year. I had learned the ancient art of embroidery and grew fascinated with putting designs on denim button-down chambray shirts (remember those?). I decided to do a special shirt for Harry (if you hadn’t guessed it already, yes, I had a major crush on him for the longest. We never really moved past the “good friends” stage – he had a girl back home who had been his sweetheart since junior high; she was so nice and sweet I just couldn’t hate her – but that was all right with me. He was the first guy I’d ever met that I instantly liked, had the most beautiful eyes, was beyond smart, and he never ceased to fascinate me).

E.L.M.O. . . . . .

Anyway, I spent at least a month embroidering this shirt, and looked forward to returning to school in the fall just so I could give it to him. I decided to go with a Southwestern theme just so I could use a new embroidery pattern I had: sombreros, cacti, donkeys . . . it was colorful and SO beautiful! Sure, I thought about mailing it to him, but decided to keep it till August just so I could see his face when he opened it.

Sidebar: [To this day, I still like to give gifts in person so I can see facial expressions. My Swirl Man and I have a long-distance relationship, and we specialize in celebrating Valentine’s Day after the fact for this same reason].

Anyway, Harry seemed genuinely surprised and appreciative when I gave him the shirt, and he actually wore it even though it was a size too small. I beamed with pride – Harry wore the shirt that I embroidered for him, and he wore it often. One day after class we walked across the yard to join some of our other friends for lunch. As I was walking around greeting everyone, I happened to turn around in time to see *Jack (also from the South Side of Chicago) doubled over in laughter. His back was to me so he didn’t realize I was looking.

Jack (bursting with laughter): “What up, Dawg? I see you wore your (more laughter) . . . shirt.”

Harry (trying not to grin): “&*^% you, &^#$%^-*&^*@#!” (I did tell you he had a potty mouth, right??)

They both jumped guiltily when I walked up.

Me (confused): “Something wrong with the shirt?”

Jack (really laughing hard now): “Well, it does have two donkeys on the front . . .”

Harry (flushed and wanting Jack to shut up): “Be quiet, &^#$@%-&%+*&^! This is my &%$-*&+#@% shirt!”

Jack (snickering): “All right, Man . . . all right!”

I stood there, noticing that the other guys were also trying to not laugh. Comprehension slowly began to set in . . . . the shirt had two donkeys on the front.

[You know how you can think a shoe is really cute until your BFF says it’s hideous – and then once she says it, you notice that the buckles really are too big and the heel really is too clunky, and the shoe is . . . really not cute?]

We went in the cafeteria and not another word was said about the shirt, but I couldn’t wait to corner Harry.

Me (quietly): “Jack and ‘nem have been teasing you about the shirt, haven’t they?”

Harry (just as quietly): “Yeah. But don’t worry about those &^%#$*-&^%&#@*. You made me that shirt, and I appreciate it. I don’t care what they say; I’m going to wear it. &$%^ them.”

Me (BEYOND mortified): “Harry, thanks, but you don’t have to do that. Really, you don’t.”

Harry: “Naw, now . . . .”

Me: “No, REALLY. PLEASE don’t wear it anymore. It’s too small, anyway.”

Even though I was dying with shame on the inside, I burst out laughing so Harry would think I was ok.

Harry (somewhat relieved): “You sure?  &%$* those &^%#$*-&^%&#@*’s.”

Harry wore the shirt a couple more times after that just to show Jack that he wasn’t running anything, but put it away soon after.

When I went back to the dorm and thought about it, I realized that though I’d never be Harry’s girlfriend, he genuinely cared about me. That shirt was beyond hideous, and he wore it. At least once a week. To class.

I’ve since moved beyond embroidery (and beyond Harry), but this past Christmas I made my Swirl Man a Christmas stocking: Deep blue velvet, with light blue faux fur trim three inches wide around the rim (blue is his favorite color). I put his initials on the rim and then hand-sewed rhinestones in various colors, shapes, and sizes all over the stocking. That wasn’t enough: I hot glued faux gemstones and sparkly snowflakes to mix with the rhinestones, then filled it with lots of interesting goodies (did I mention that the stocking was . . . uh . . . fairly big?).

My Swirl Man oooed and aahed over it; flattered that I’d taken the time to sew it by hand for him. He proudly displayed it for everyone to see and kept telling me how amazing I was. I was inspired:

Me (excitedly): “This will be one of our Christmas traditions! I’ll make you a stocking every year!”

SM (slowly): “Um . . . great. Um  . . . . Darling?

Me: “Yes?”

SM (slowly): “The stocking is great, but . . . um . . . when you make it, don’t make it with all that  . . . um . . . bling on it, ok?”

Me (shocked): “Bling???!!!”

SM: “Yeah . . . bling.”

When he saw my shocked expression, he said, “Well, you had . . . glitter on it. And  . . . stones . . . and . . . stuff. Don’t get me wrong – I love it – but from now on, you don’t have to  . . . decorate it as much. I’m. .  Uh . . . conservative, you know?”

Needless to say, I experienced déjà vu in addition to my “Aha!” moment. My fiancé had displayed that stocking so everyone could see it – all the while inwardly cringing at the “bling” in pretty much the same way Harry had cringed at the donkeys. Never mind his personal taste (and my lack of it); the fact that it was made in love caused him to not care about who saw it or what anyone thought. When a man (Harry) likes a woman, and when a man (my fiancé) loves a woman, it’s amazing how many donkeys – and how much bling – he’ll endure.

Lucky me: I have the rest of my life to show him how very much I love him and appreciate him.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty

Join in the fray:

What have you “endured” in the name of love? Leave a comment and tell me about it!

A Whole Lotta Lip

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zee2bluphi: Girl, I have a question

ASwirlGirl: Sure!

zee2bluphi: *and I’m almost dying laughing inside*

ASwirlGirl: ?

zee2bluphi: being that SM is white, I would think his lips are thinner than that of a Black man. Is it like *Bruce says???? Is it like kissing baby knuckles????

ASwirlGirl: F D L O L !

ASwirlGirl: ;-0

ASwirlGirl: Bruce is STEWPID

zee2bluphi: I’m freak’n cracking up over here, but now I want to know

zee2bluphi: ;-0

ASwirlGirl: no, it’s not that bad

ASwirlGirl: it’s different, true

ASwirlGirl: but not like “kissing baby knuckles” smh

zee2bluphi: LMBO

zee2bluphi: OH GOSH

ASwirlGirl: actually, my husband’s lips were like SM’s, pretty much

Sidebar: [my husband is deceased]

ASwirlGirl: I mean, a couple of Black guys I’ve dated had “thin” lips

ASwirlGirl: Trynna think if I’ve dated someone who had big, huge, puffy lips . . . . .

ASwirlGirl: Kevin and Martin [my brothers] don’t have thick lips . . . Kevin sure doesn’t

ASwirlGirl: hmmm . . . I’m thinking this thru . . . .

ASwirlGirl: lol

ASwirlGirl: hmmmmm . . . . . .

zee2bluphi: I see that 4 Kev

zee2bluphi: lol

zee2bluphi: baby knuckles. lmbo!

ASwirlGirl: that is HILARIOUS

zee2bluphi: i kissed one thin lipped man ever and i don’t remember what it was like

zee2bluphi: i mean, they don’t have lips my size either

ASwirlGirl: yeah . . . I think mine are medium

ASwirlGirl: lol

ASwirlGirl: of course SM loves them!

ASwirlGirl: CHEEZIN

zee2bluphi: of course he does. LOL!

ASwirlGirl: lol

zee2bluphi: but i think what’s important is that they kiss well and don’t leave me with a spit covered face

ASwirlGirl: RIGHT

zee2bluphi: smh

zee2bluphi: Bruce has jacked it up for me!

ASwirlGirl: FDLOL!

ASwirlGirl: Girl, for me too! I hope I don’t laugh next time SM kisses me . . . I’ll be trying to see if I feel baby knuckles!

zee2bluphi: LMBO!

zee2bluphi: aiight… gotta go. l8r

ASwirlGirl: toodles!

Baby knuckles??? Really??? Needless to say, those of us who swirl often get questions leading to “the things you people do” kind of conversations. Not to perpetuate stereotypes, but Black people have been known for their lips – and White people are known for not having them (can anybody say, “Collagen implants?” You don’t hear about Black people doing that, do you??? I’m just saying).

Physical attributes (or lack thereof) aside, I revel in the smorgasbord that is humanity. Regardless of our relationship – be it coworker, family member, friend – individually we each are “brave new worlds” to explore. Imagine how wonderful and engrossing life would be if instead of looking at each other askance, allowing ourselves to be distanced by prejudices, presuppositions, and stereotypes, we view each other and think, “What a wonderful world!”

Baby knuckles, indeed. Whether the lips are large or small, thick or thin, Black, White, Yellow, or Brown, I think every woman would agree:

When you give me some lip, just kiss me real good and don’t leave spit all over my face!

*Names changed to protect the guilty


Join in the fray:

What “presuppositions” do you hold concerning other races? Leave a comment and tell me about them!

Provin’ and Defendin’

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It’s a scene that I won’t forget: Kim, one of my high school friends, was involved in a heated argument with her older sister Karen. They were going back-and-forth about an incident that occurred between Kim and a girl named Natalie, who was Karen’s best friend. Kim was vehemently denying Natalie’s version of the story and incensed that her sister was taking Natalie’s side rather than hers. I even tried to help Kim out by vouching for her statements. After listening to all the protests that went back and forth like a volley of tennis balls, Miss Mae Jessie (Kim and Karen’s 82-year old Grandmother) looked at Kim with vexation and finally spoke up.

“Awwww, SHADDUP, Gal!” she said irritably, making a shushing motion with her hand. We all jumped and instantly became silent.

“Quit all that provin’ and defendin.’ Ain’t no use in you tryn’ ta convince that gal. She don’t believe you no way.”

Needless to say, at that point the argument was moot.

Not too long ago I had occasion to think about Miss Mae Jessie’s statement about “provin’ and defendin.’” I became embroiled in a Facebook “discussion” that started out weighing the merits of an article that appeared on www.theeconomist.com entitled “Sex and the Single Black Woman” (http://www.economist.com/node/15867956). I won’t go into all the points of the article (after all, Reading is Fundamental – if you care to you can read it for yourself. And yes, I love you, too).

Someone commented that swirling was an option, and (channeling my high school days of piping in and supporting) I made a comment about what statistics show about the rate that Black men inter marry, how they don’t seem to worry about making that choice, and how Black women are reluctant because when they intermarry they are accused of abandoning the race, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.  (Want stats? feel free to read a very long report here http://pewresearch.org/pubs/1616/american-marriage-interracial-interethnic. There are tons more reports I could provide links to; but hey!  I’ll do us all a favor and shout “E.L.M.O.!”).

[Sidebar: Um, for those of you who didn’t read last week’s blog, E.L.M.O. means:

Enough!

Let’s

Move

On!

You see, I tend to over-explain sometimes – hence this sidebar and hence the title of this post. If you continue to read this blog you will probably discover that I’ll have to call on E.L.M.O. at least once during most of the posts. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.]

Suffice it to say that the temperature of the discussion very quickly moved to the boiling point (for me) when one of the guys made the comment, “Remember Massa,” and then (in my estimation) tried to dominate the conversation and do exactly what I’d stated in the first place – make Black women feel guilty for choosing to go into interracial relationships.

We wound up going back and forth about Massa; why we should remember him (or not); be aware of our history and yet move on (or not), Ad infinitum, Ad nauseum.

And suddenly, in the midst of the bickering back and forth, the “provin’ and defendin’” on both sides, came the voice of reason. A very wise Sistah on the boards known for her no-nonsense, shoot-from-the-hip ability to get to the heart of the matter and tell it like it T – I is, made a couple of comments that made me wonder if she was somehow related to ole Miss Mae Jessie. Sistah-Girl stated that Sistahs need to make like the Brothers and just do it. In essence, she thought it was foolish to waste a lot of time (and keystrokes) trying to justify or explain who we loved, or why – just love your man and keep it moving.

In other words, “Quit all that provin’ and defendin.’ Ain’t no use in you trynna convince [them]. [They] don’t believe you no way.”

I had an epiphany, I tell you.

Guess what? Everybody doesn’t need “enlightening,” or an “explanation.” Not only do they not need it, they don’t want it – and sometimes, truth be told, they didn’t ask for it. Explain for what? Sure, there will be some who will have questions and genuinely want to know more – and the people in this category are grown enough to inquire. Those who want to live in the past, denigrate an entire race of people for things that happened before any of us were born, or choose to let the long, hurtful arm of the past reach over and taint their present and their future, will continue to do so. Others who elect to build on the foundation of the past, infused with – and inspired by – the resilience, strength and grace of their ancestors, and move forward embracing the joys of today and the promise of the future, will continue to do so. There’s no need for either side to engage in provin’ and defendin’.  At worst, we can shut each other down and shut each other out, and not believe each other no way. At best, we can live in peace and harmony, agree to disagree – and keep it moving.

Well, I Never!

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The Urban Dictionary defines swirl as “two people of different ethnicities hookin up.” Now, after a wonderful time in undergrad at a prestigious HBCU (historically Black college/university), marriage to a Pentecostal pastor (who passed away after 10 years of marriage), and dates with various brothers. I find myself in the unlikely state of being “a SWIRL girl.”

Yes, me.

ME!

The daughter of an Army officer Father who lived and traveled all over the US and abroad with her Mother and two brothers.  The first (along with my brothers) to integrate the schools in the small town in Louisiana where my Mother grew up.  Soul-Sista, feminist –  ME! Power-to-the-people – ME! Angela-Davis I-love-your-fro-and-I’m-rockin’-natural-hair-right-now – ME!

All-of-that and more describes me, the girl who I can honestly say never seriously entertained the idea of an interracial relationship and was never really down with swirling. In high school a couple of  White guys (very hesitantly) approached me , and in college a Puerto Rican classmate (I’ll call him Darren) had a bona fide crush on me. I dismissively laughed off the high schoolers (and was even somewhat insulted!). I really liked Darren as a person, but just could never wrap my head around actually dating him. I certainly never thought I would be the ME that I am today, “a SWIRL girl.”

Yes!  I’m now  “a SWIRL girl” – all booed up with a White guy.

In a word, WOW.  Mama always said, “Never say never” – and I guess she was right.

And so the journey begins! Please join me here each Friday when I share my views on life, love, and culture as I traverse through “the SWIRL world.”

Feel free to “like” The Swirl World on Facebook and join the discussions there. Talk to ya Friday!