ms. mcknight

In elementary school, my PE teacher was a drill sergeant.

Her name was Ms. McKnight. She had a sort of hi-top fade – mostly black, speckled with here-and-there grey. She sported a couple of matching chin whiskers.

To be fair, I don’t know for sure if Ms. McKnight was actually ever in the military. I do know that at the start of every PE class, before the actual PE portion began, Ms. McKnight would have us perform military drills. Well, not drills, really… formations.

After ‘dressing out’, we’d all line up in neat little rows, alphabetically by last name. We each automatically assumed the ‘at-ease’ position – feet firmly planted hip-width apart, hands lightly crossed behind our backs, backs and shoulders straight, eyes straight ahead focused on some imaginary point in the distance. We looked like some kind of Smurf version of S1Ws. We were a class of less than 30, none of us more than 10 years old, most of us, black. Our contrasting light blue top and dark blue bottom uniforms drove home the militant midget image.

How long had we been lining up like this?

By this point, the routine wasn’t so much memorized as it was ingrained. Was this not just the way one stood when standing around doing nothing? Would I not stand this way in similar situations forever into the future? In the grocery store checkout line? At the DMV? When waiting to ride the Scream Machine at Six Flags? When I looked to my left and right, whether it be now or 20, 30 years from now, would I not always find Ashley Davis and Greg Dinkins flanking me in line?

Once lined up, we’d stand there and await our instructions from Ms. McKnight. She’d take her time, finish with whatever she was looking at (‘How To Weaponize Adolescents (Revised Edition)’? ‘Retired Drill Sergeant’s Monthly’?) on her clipboard, then slowly walk to her starting position in front of us.

“Ah-TENNN-HUUUTT!!”

We’d spring into action, in one synchronized motion, we switched to the ‘attention’ position. Feet and ankles close together, bodies rigid, eyes alert, arms stiffly extended by our sides.

“PREE-zennnt ARMS!!”

Our collective right arm engaged and landed in a taut salute.

Ms. McKnight would begin to walk slowly among our ranks, inspecting each of us for flaws, misalignments, sloppy or incorrect dress.

“AT EEEEZ!” she’d shout out as she continued walking, peering.

We’d shift back into our resting position.

“Ah-TENNN-HUUUTT!!”

Back to full salute.

 “Ah-BOUUUT-FACE!”

We pivoted swiftly and curtly to the rear, one Smurf army united in motion.

“At EEEEZ!”

This would continue for several minutes. Ms. McKnight shouting orders at us; us responding with the appropriate movements.

Occasionally she’d stop in front of one of us and bark a question that we were all to have memorized and be ready to answer at a moment’s notice. There was no way of knowing if you’d be the one she’d ask to spout off the answer like a Marine reciting the Rifleman’s Creed. It was as random as being singled out in a game of duck-duck-goose.

She’d slowly stalk us, row by row, scanning her eyes over us, while we dared not break formation by looking at her, moving or even breathing too much. All of a sudden, she’d stop and address one of us by last name.

“Demps! What is physical education!?”

To this day, I remember the answer to this question. It is tattooed on my brain. It is a part of my nervous system. If I were ever in a coma, and someone asked me this question, I’d probably wake up and respond,

“Physical education is that part of our education that strengthens us physically, mentally and spiritually!”

If we stammered, forgot or responded too slowly, we’d get a demerit. Ms. McKnight would note it on her clipboard then continue her inspection, looking closely for any other infractions.

Ms. McKnight was always stern, but never harsh or cruel. In fact, I’d dare say that we all liked her. We also feared her, but it was the same kind of fear we had for our parents, and we liked them well enough. We didn’t even mind the drills much. It was simply one more of the peculiarly unique things that was a part of being a student at the little red brick schoolhouse on Ward Street.

Was it odd to have a bunch of kids pretending to be tiny soldiers? Certainly. Was Ms. McKnight and her approach to physical education likely a holdover from her own childhood PE classes in the 1950s? Probably so. But if it were only the drills, the whole thing would have probably become a source of childhood trauma. Whenever I happen to reunite with my former Smurfs, we tend trade these old memories like survivor stories. But, unlike typical survivors, it’s not scars we have, rather a wistful sort of awe that what once seemed so perfectly normal is now bizarre for its quaintness and simplicity, and, for that reason, all the more precious to us.

Yes, if it were only the drills, Ms. McKnight’s methods might have been considered truly weird. Even questionable. But it wasn’t only the drills. It was the question. The question made the whole routine mean something more. I didn’t know it at the time, but there was a reason Ms. McKnight asked that question.

She could have asked any number of questions.

“Demps! What’s the school’s alma mater?”

“Ferguson! How many bones in the human body?”

“Bentley! If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself?”

But she didn’t. She asked the one question that would remind both us and her of our reason for being there in that class – outside on the playground-slash-parking lot behind the little red schoolhouse in good weather, downstairs in the social hall under the church when it rained. Why we were performing those drills. Why she was inspecting and correcting every detail of our movements and dress.

She was there to instill pride, discipline, a basic and physical understanding of teamwork and cooperation. She was there to remind us that at this small Catholic parochial school in an all-black neighborhood, there were many kinds of education to be had. There was religious education to strengthen our spirits – the nuns and other clergy saw to that. There was classical education to strengthen our minds – our dedicated staff of lay teachers handled that; but only physical education addressed our entire selves. Spirit, mind and body. And only, she, the Commander-in-Chief of Physical Education, had the privilege and the duty of delivering this most complete form of education to us.

In hindsight I think we Smurfs were damned lucky to have a Ms. McKnight.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t I feel a certain kind of way the first time I saw Full Metal Jacket.

Photo by David Pennington on Unsplash

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Kisha Solomon is an Atlanta-based writer, knowledge worker and serial expat. She writes witty, poignant stories about the lessons she’s learned from her life, work and travels. She deals with the sometimes frustrating and often humorous side effects of being black, female and nerdy. When she’s not writing working or travelling, you can find her in deep conversation with herself or her four-legged familiar, Taurus the Cat. www.lifeworktravels.com

all you need to worry about bringing

“I can’t go to dinner tonight,” I told Yasmin with an exasperated look on my face. “I’ve got too much to do before I leave tomorrow.

“What? Aren’t you already packed?” She questioned.

“Well, yeah. But I’ve still got to look up all the directions to the places I’m going to be staying and make sure I know how to get from each place to the next.”

Yasmin started laughing uproariously. “Oh, come on!” She said between laughs. “You know how to read. When you get to wherever you’re going, you can read the signs and maps in the train stations. No pasa nada, Kisha. Stop worrying. This isn’t like the United States. It’s much easier to get around here.”

I wasn’t quite convinced, but the thought of spending a couple of hours googling transit and walking directions was far less exciting than going on a last-minute trip to have dinner at the mall with my roommate.

“Besides, the only thing you need to worry about bringing with you is tampons if you have your period, and condoms, if you don’t.”

Now it was my turn to laugh uproariously. “Ah, screw it,” I said, still shaking my head at Yasmin’s last remark. “Let’s go to dinner.”

***

I’d only been living with Yasmin for the past month or so. I’d found her ad for the room only 3 days after I’d arrived in Spain. I was nervous as hell when I called the number on the ad. My high-school Spanish was shoddy at best, but I’d looked up and practiced several of the terms I’d need to inquire about and eventually rent a room. Yet when Yasmin had answered the phone, one of the first questions out of my mouth was, ‘Hablas ingles?’ Thankfully, her answer was an enthusiastic ‘Yes!’

Aside from that stroke of good fortune, her place – a 3 level traditional Spanish style townhome in a gated middle class neighborhood of Marbella – was much nicer than any of the other apartments I had seen during my hunt. Plus, Yasmin and I were closer in age (she was 30, I, 36) than any of the other potential roommates I had met. She had grown up in the area, and the house we lived in actually belonged to her parents. After having lived in other parts of Spain and in Germany for many years, she had returned to Marbella a few months ago to start working alongside her sister in the family law practice. Perhaps the most fortunate coincidence of all was the fact that even though Yasmin was technically Spanish by birth, her father was Iranian and her mom was German. In many ways, this made her as much of a foreigner as I was, and we would often trade stories about how irritating the close-minded habits and customs of many of the Spaniards were for both of us.

Like most Europeans, Yasmin was a serious traveler, even a bit of a nomad, you might say. In addition to her time living abroad, she had visited most of Western and Eastern Europe, parts of Northern Africa and the Americas, and had friends from all over the globe, of various ethnic backgrounds, and of varying sexual orientations. I could tell she was as thrilled to have me – a somewhat quirky black American woman as a roommate as I was to find probably the one Spanish woman in town who spoke fluent Spanish, English, and German and whose short, curly hair nearly mirrored my own curly natural ‘do. Occasionally, however I felt her German side was a little too cool and reserved compared to my often carefree, nonchalant nature. Still, we got along well, and when I decided to take advantage of my first long break from school by doing my own one-woman multi-city tour, she was the first person I sought for advice.

“Ok. So I think I’ve got my plan mapped out for the puente at the end of the month,” I shared with Yasmin one evening as she was prepping a quick dinner.

“Good! Where did you finally decide to go? Amsterdam? Brussels? Paris?” She queried.

“Pues, the cheapest flights I found were for Barcelona, Amsterdam, and London. So I’m going to do 2 days in each, and I may spend a final night in Malaga to catch some Carnival activities on the way back in.”

“Ooooh!” She crooned, “That’s great, Kisha! Have you already bought the flights?”

“I’m gonna finish booking everything this evening. But what do you think, are those cities cool to visit? I mean, I’ve been to Amsterdam and London before, but never Barcelona. Any ideas or suggestions?”

“Oh, you’re going to love Barcelona, I think. It’s a really cool town, lots to see and do. There’s all the Gaudi architecture, great parks, museums, and it’s a good town to make party!”

I laughed at Yasmin’s expression. Yeah, I definitely felt like making some party. It was the off-season in touristy Marbella, and our recent attempts at clubbing around town had fallen short of my expectations, to say the least.

“So where are you staying? Have you figured it all out yet?” Yasmin asked, as she munched a bite of the salad she’d just finished whipping up.

“Welll… no. Not really. That’s the hard part actually. I’m really trying to make this a budget-friendly excursion, but I don’t know how I feel about staying in a hostel. The whole shared dorm room, shared bathroom thing… eh, just isn’t my speed. I’m an old lady, not a college student, you know.”

“Hmm…” Yasmin munched thoughtfully before continuing. “Have you thought about couchsurfing?”

I crinkled my brow at the mention of the idea. I’d heard about couchsurfing from a friend of mine back home who was a frequent host for couchsurfers. Apparently, he would open up his home and his spare couch to travelers who not only needed a place to crash, but also wanted to get to know a local who could show them around a bit. The best part of it was that there was absolutely no payment involved. Unlike a vacation rental where you paid the owner of the place a rate that was typically less than a hotel, with couchsurfing, you paid nothing at all. It sounded like a really cool idea, but I had a lot of reservations about the concept – was it safe? Why would anybody let you stay at their house for free? What was the catch? Still, the idea of free accommodations and an in-the-know local was appealing, especially on my limited budget.

Frowning, I expressed my concern to Yasmin, “Ehhh…. I don’t know. It crossed my mind, but I’ve never couchsurfed before. I keep thinking that I’d probably end up chopped up and stuffed in the back of someone’s fridge.”

Yasmin dropped her fork onto her plate and doubled over laughing. My English expressions tickled her as much as hers did me.

Once her laughing fit had subsided, she replied, “Nooo, Kisha. It’s not like that. Well, I mean, you have to use good judgement and really check people out before you think to stay with them, but I couchsurfed all over Europe and it’s no problem at all. It’s really a good way to make a friend and not spend much money. You have the right personality for it, I think. “

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. It’s more for people who are open and who like to get to know the other person’s culture and all of that. I think you would enjoy it! I made some really good friends from couchsurfing. We still keep in touch.”

Hm. If Yasmin was recommending it, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Besides, if I was really aiming to take advantage of travelling European style, maybe this was a great way to have the full experience.

“Mira!” She continued. “I have some friends in Barcelona who host couchsurfers. If you want, I can send them a message and see if they have a couch available when you will be there. That way, at least you know that someone else you know knows them. Later, when they make barbecue Kisha from the freezer, at least you will be shared by friends!” Yasmin barely finished the last words, before cracking up laughing.

I tried to resist laughing myself, but quickly caved and giggled along with her at her gruesome joke.

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Kisha Solomon is an Atlanta-based writer, knowledge worker and serial expat. She writes witty, poignant stories about the lessons she’s learned from her life, work and travels. She deals with the sometimes frustrating and often humorous side effects of being black, female and nerdy. When she’s not writing working or travelling, you can find her in deep conversation with herself or her four-legged familiar, Taurus the Cat. www.lifeworktravels.com

recipe for a good woman

A woman is an important somebody and sometimes you win the triple crown: good food, good sex, and good talk. Most men settle for any one, happy as a clam if they get two. But listen, let me tell you something. A good man is a good thing, but there is nothing in the world better than a good good woman. She can be your mother, your wife, your girlfriend, your sister, or somebody you work next to. Don’t matter. You find one, stay there.”  

~from Toni Morrison’s “Love“

After reading this passage from Toni Morrison’s novel, “Love”, I knew I’d found a morsel that would become a permanent part of my personal collection of life recipes.

The quote comes from the character, Sandler – a concerned father who is schooling his teenage son on what to look for in a woman. Fortunately, it’s an easy-to-remember recipe that includes 3 very simple ingredients.

Good Food

I don’t care how old-fashioned or outmoded I sound saying it, I’m going to say it anyway. If you’re a woman, you should know how to cook something. I’m not suggesting that you channel Betty Crocker and prance around the kitchen all day in frilly aprons and heels making biscuits and pies from scratch (but, if that’s your thing, by all means, go for it!). But every woman should have at least 3 solid dishes that she can whip up at a moment’s notice. That means not having to consult a cookbook or a recipe, but being able to prepare a simple, elegant meal from memory – preferably with easy-to-find ingredients. As they say, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”. Even in non-romantic situations, being able to cook something tasty for someone you care about (whether it be your man, your mom, your kids, or your friends) is not only a useful talent, but also a satisfying and rewarding experience.

Good Sex

I suppose this one should go without saying, since we’re all sexual creatures. But since everyone has different tastes and preferences, what exactly qualifies as good sex? Whether you’re the swing-from-the-rafters type or more of a missionary girl, I think that at the root of it all, a woman with ‘good sex’ is a woman who is equally skilled at giving and receiving pleasure.

Good Talk

I’ve heard numerous tales from my guy friends about dates or relationships with drop-dead gorgeous girls that they found extremely attractive… until they opened their mouths. A good woman cultivates interests in things that are worth talking about. A good woman stays abreast of current events (no, not just celebrity gossip), a good woman has a bit of ‘game’. A good woman knows how to give a compliment.

Recipe Notes:

Noticeably missing from this recipe for a good woman are inessential ingredients like: big boobs, long hair, thick legs, fat booty, expensive clothes, killer makeup, and similar decorative toppings.

Admittedly, a good woman who comes with one or more of these inessential ingredients will be just as fulfilling and even sweeter than the original recipe. However, a woman that possesses inessential ingredients yet lacks all of the good woman ingredients may be sweet, but won’t be nearly as filling. And really… who needs empty calories?

the superglue - my first taste of project management

One of the most interesting jobs I had was when I worked at a busy coffee shop in Midtown Atlanta. My coworkers were a diverse cast of characters from all kinds of backgrounds, and our customers were an often amusing mix of discerning coffee snobs and folks who just needed their morning cup of joe.

Each morning when I came into work, I was given a different position to play. Some days I’d be the cashier – keying in transactions and filling pastry and drip brew orders, other times I’d be the barista – creating all of the fancy espresso-based beverages. But my favorite team role was a position called the Superglue.

The Superglue was so named because it was the position that, quite literally, held it all together. If the cashier was out of change, the Superglue would go get it. If the barista was low on 2% milk, the Superglue would refresh the supply, so the barista could keep serving up the espresso. If the line got especially long, the Superglue would first get the queue formed in an orderly fashion, then start pre-filling orders so customers wouldn’t be too delayed. If there was a lull in the action, the Superglue would do a quick interim cleaning of the work area to make sure the back of the house remained presentable.

Unlike the cashier or the barista, the Superglue wasn’t assigned any one specific task, but assisted with all of them. I guess you could say that the Superglue’s one task was to make sure that all the other tasks were performed as efficiently as possible with maximum support to the team and minimal displeasure to the customer. I didn’t know it then, but by ‘playing Superglue’, I was getting my first taste of project management.

As a project manager you don’t really do any one thing, but you must be reasonably skilled at or have a deep understanding of everything that all the other players on the team do. You also have to possess a certain empathy for the customer, being able to see through their eyes and respond to their needs no matter how sophisticated or simple those needs may be. Like the Superglue, a good project manager is an enabler that has the ability to support a diverse set of personalities, and respond to ever-changing needs while making sure that the quality of the process isn’t compromised.

 And like the Superglue, you usually end up consuming a lot of coffee when no one’s looking.

ma annie

I wish my great grandmother hadn’t died when I was still so young. But I feel blessed to have touched her, to have known her smell, walked the floors of her little house out in the country where she made lye soap, tended a wood-burning cookstove and did all manner of hard handwork in the back yard.

I was only 5 when she left, so I don’t remember details like what her voice sounded like, or what color her eyes were, or how long her hair. I remember feelings. I remember how it felt to be near her – warm, moist, yet coarse and firm. I knew even then what it meant to be a woman of contrasts.

I remember the little girl who lived out there too. Her name? Long gone. But I remember her reddish-brown skin like the inside of pecan shells, her pigtails which hung low at the nape of her neck, while mine perched high on the sides of my head like rabbit ears. I remember the kinship we had – the mischief in both of our eyes. we would run around playing made-up little girl games in the tall grass out back, make our own social club clubhouse out of the abandoned school bus forever-parked next door. who did that little girl belong to? I can’t recall. it doesn’t matter. Our minds were not yet preoccupied with thoughts of belonging or ownership. we took such things for granted.

I remember the joy of how it felt to be wild yet loved. Of knowing that no matter how far we went, we would always be seen by eyes that knew us, that cared. and we would always have a place to return to. a place that smelled like lye soap and wet grass and wood and ma annie.

a conversation before takeoff

Flying a Kuwaiti airline from Spain to Greece. I find it somewhat comforting that the airline plays an Arabic prayer over the PA system before takeoff. I always say a small prayer before any major travel... for protection, for smooth arrival, for the flight crew, for new insights... and Arabic prayers are like musical meditations to me. My seatmate, a young Gaditano, reveals to me later that he (and i think everyone else on board) was freaked out when it started playing. 

”Is this some kinda joke? Are we about to end up in Egypt or the Middle East?” he says. 

We laugh about it. I assure him that the prayer is common for airlines based in Muslim countries. “Ahhhh!” he says. Its his first time traveling out of the country. I smile broadly and congratulate him.

“It’s good to travel. You have to travel a lot, especially while you’re young. Its like an education.”

He looks genuinely confused by that statement. '“Como?” he inquires.

“Well...” I say, (while thinking to myself, ‘Bruh. Didn’t you just learn something? And we ain’t even off the ground yet!’) “How do i know what I’ve been told about the world is true unless i go out and see for myself? Go to new places and learn about the people there, their language, their food, their music. Their... prayers?”

A light is slowly dawning in him. He tells me that he’s studying psychology. That he also plays flamenco guitar. He shows me a video of him playing. He’s good. And he has a smoldering intensity for someone so young. “But flamenco isn’t valued much in Spain,” he tells me. 
”Ah, cuz there’s lots of people who can play?”
Yep. 
”Well, that’s even more reason to travel. People love flamenco outside of Spain, but they usually can’t hear or see it live where they are. In my country, se flippan!”

He stops and repeats what I said, then cracks up laughing at my use of the colloquialism. We continue talking, I tell him he should try to find other musicians on social media who play similar music or who would like to learn more about flamenco. Invite them to come crash at your place if you have extra room, offer to teach the something about flamenco and ask if they’d be willing to do the same for you when you visit their countries. Ask if they would mind introducing you to their network of other musicians and music learners. Post videos of you playing on your Instagram, Facebook, etc. Use what you know to take you where you want to go. 

He ponders this for a few moments.

“That idea would never have occurred to me,” he muses aloud. “It’s like you said, you learn things when you travel and talk to other people who have experienced a lot.”

I nod. This sobrino is starting to get it. I pray that he does. 

what the wizard of oz can teach you about business

“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”

That’s got to be my favorite line from the beloved Hollywood movie classic, The Wizard of Oz. I’ve heard and used the phrase a hundred times or more, but just the other day I caught the movie on TV, and got a totally new insight from the scene in which The Great Oz is exposed as just a regular man. The Great Oz, it dawned on me, fell into the same trap that many small business owners do.

Heavy emphasis on marketing, not nearly enough on infrastructure. Think about it. Everyone in Oz – from Munchkins to Flying Monkeys – knows who the Wizard is. He’s got Glenda the Good Witch sending him referrals out the wazoo. And not once when Dorothy mentions, “I’m going to see the Wizard of Oz”, does anyone reply “Who?” Obviously, his Ozness has got one helluva marketing strategy if he’s that well known in a place that’s full of so many other colorful characters.

He’s also got a pretty good brand image that emphasizes exclusivity (no one gets in to see the Great Oz, you know) and dazzling opulence. But as soon as customers come seeking his service, it all starts to fall apart. First, the great and powerful Oz makes them jump through hoops to get his service (What? You don’t take credit cards? You’ve got no website? You’re only open every other Tuesday? It only works on a PC? I gotta kill a wicked witch to get an appointment?). And even once his customers have completed the extremely difficult task he asks of them, he stalls for time. “Come back tomorrow,” he says. “I know I said that if you did this, then I could meet your need, but…”.

Time and time again, I see businesses of all sizes spend a fortune in time and money on creating beautiful presentation and packaging for their business, generating a lot of buzz and publicity, and subsequently falling flat on their faces or driving themselves insane with work, when the customers hit the door and they realize they’ve got to deliver on the unrealistic expectations their marketing created.

So, am I saying that you shouldn’t do a great job of marketing and branding your business? Nope, not at all. But I am saying:

Your marketing and promotions should match your infrastructure. If you’re marketing to the world that you make the biggest and baddest widgets on the block or that you’re the premier, most exclusive this-that-or-the-other, then dammit, you’d better have the infrastructure to back it up, or someone’s going to call shenanigans on you.

Only promise what you can deliver. Better yet: underpromise, and over-deliver. Don’t tell your potential customers that you can get their product to them in 2 -days, when you know it could take 3 or 4, or even 2 and a half days. If you think it’ll take 2 days, tell them it’ll take 3, and surprise them with the good news. Set realistic expectations, and meet or exceed them every time.

It’s ok to have limitations, just be sure to reveal them upfront. You’re a small business. Everybody knows it. There’s no shame in having a limitation here or there. You’ll be surprised how forgiving people can be if you just tell them (yes, even in your marketing) about your limitations, and let them know how you’re working to improve.

It’s not ok to have the same limitations forever. If you’ve been giving the same “we’re working to improve” line to your customers for years, eventually they’re going to get tired of hearing it. They will expect more of you. And you should expect more of yourself. Spend the time and effort to stabilize your infrastructure, or if you don’t know where to start, ask for help.

The moral of the story is: The hoodoo, magic, pomp, and circumstance of over-the-top marketing might make you a popular little business, but you’ll need to pay some attention to what’s going on behind the curtain to be a successful little business.

The good news is… you probably already have everything you need. Some brains, a lot of heart, and a little bit of courage.

And a pair of sparkly red pumps wouldn’t hurt either.

when hosting a dinner party

“As W.S. Gilbert said, ‘When planning a dinner party, what’s more important than what’s on the table, is what’s on the chairs.’ ”
~ from, “Giving a Dinner Party (I)” in Life Is Meals: A Food Lover’s Book of Days

I sometimes imagine the afterlife as a decadent feast that never ends. Only in heaven, you’re surrounded by all the wonderful people you love, and in hell, you’re surrounded by all the awful people you hate.

The finest meal can be a misery if the wrong people are at the table. And last night’s leftovers becomes a royal banquet when shared with pleasurable company. The best dinner parties are those where each person brings their own special something to the table, yet everyone shares a common trait: the ability to just let go and savor the moment.

how to survive a zombie attack

The recent flesh-eating incidents in Miami and Maryland may have you wondering. The zombie preparedness kits issued by the CDC may have you questioning. But believe me, Dear Reader, zombies are real*. They are already here. And… they’re coming to get you, Barbara.

You may have even had a few run-ins with zombies already and survived those incidents based on nothing but sheer luck. Well, let me tell you, luck isn’t gonna get you to the end of the movie with all your limbs still intact. Know-how will. So, since I’d like to see you on the other side of the closing credits, I thought I’d share these 10 tips for surviving a zombie attack (aka, 10 tips for dealing with the people and situations that suck the life out of you).

Learn How to Identify a Zombie

Aka, ‘What You Don’t Know, Might Eat You’. Some folks find it difficult to spot zombies since zombies kinda look like everybody else. But it’s actually pretty simple to identify a zombie once you know how. Zombies move very, very slowly and they stumble and stagger about without any sense of where they’re going. They always seem dazed. Everything that comes out of their mouths is either a foul, disgusting mess or incoherent babble. If you find yourself in the company of someone like this, you might be chopping it up with a zombie. No need to excuse yourself. Just bounce.

Don’t Go Where Zombies Go

This can be difficult to adhere to, since zombies can be almost anywhere. But there are certain places that zombies seem to have particular affinities for, such as: places where there’s not a lot of intelligent life around (like graveyards and shopping malls); Dark, smelly places (like graveyards or strip clubs); and places where there are a lot of plump, slow-moving humans to feed on (like crappy Chinese-food buffets and South Florida). Try to stay clear of these places as much as possible.

Wear Protective Gear

Even in their decaying state, zombies seem to have pretty strong choppers. They can chomp right through bone, flesh, and organs. A full-body suit of impenetrable armor probably isn’t practical, but you can minimize your risk by protecting your most vulnerable spots from suspected zombies, namely:

• Your head / brain – brains are zombie delicacies, remember?

• Chest/heart – without your heart, you’re useless

• Feet / hands – the two things that will allow you to either escape or fight off a zombie

Learn to Use a Weapon

Doesn’t matter if it’s a rifle, a pickaxe, a bow and arrow, or a slingshot. Get skilled at using something to defend yourself against the zombies when you can no longer outrun them. And the # 1 weapon you should learn to use? Your brain. It’s the one thing they’re after and the one thing you’ve got that they don’t.

Keep a Light on You

Zombies hate fire. Make sure you always have something on you (or in you) that burns brightly enough to send them scurrying away like roaches.

Go to a Deserted Island

Aka, ‘Go to Your Happy Place’. You ever seen a zombie swim? Me either. Find a place in the middle of a vast, deep ocean that the zombies can’t reach.

Get a Redneck Friend

If, during your zombie-fighting adventures, you encounter someone who regularly wears a cowboy hat or boots, speaks with a Southern twang, or sounds un-self-conscious saying the word ‘y’all’, stick to that joker like white on rice. A good redneck friend can be just what you need to help you survive in zombie land. They generally know how to make do in the worst of circumstances without letting it get them down; They’ve likely been shooting and killing things since they were knee-high to a Junebug; and they’re pretty much guaranteed to have a kick-ass batch of moonshine one them, which you’re probably gonna need to take the edge off. Just be sure to make sure your redneck buddy isn’t a zombie before you ride off into the sunset together.

Travel in a Group

It can get lonely in zombie land. So, if you can, find some like-minded non-zombies to keep you company. You’ve got the added benefit of safety in numbers, and you can even share strategies for zombie survival with one another. And remember, if and when the zombies attack, you don’t have to outrun the zombies, you just have to outrun your slowest friend.

Be Ruthless

As I mentioned earlier, zombies kinda look like everybody else. In fact, a zombie could be someone you thought you knew. Sure, that re-animated corpse looks like your Great Aunt Thelma, but it’s actually a brain-eating pile of rotting flesh. The zombie apocalypse is no time for being overly sentimental. If Aunt Thelma starts trying to nibble on your brains, don’t get all weepy and start screaming, “Why Aunt Thelma? Why!!??” Do both of you a favor, and put her out of her misery.

If All Else Fails, Blend In!

Yes, I know I said you shouldn’t go where zombies go, but in the off chance that you find yourself surrounded by them with no immediate way out, blend in. It’s pretty easy to fake like a zombie. Anybody with half a brain could do it (refer back to #1 if you’re not sure). Just be very careful with this tactic and use it only when you have no other choice. Because the longer you pretend to be a zombie, the more likely you are to end up a zombie.

*Of course, I don’t really believe in zombies. And neither does the CDC, in case you were wondering. But we’ve all encountered people who made you question that belief. You know them. People who drain your energy, people who’d chew you up and spit you out and think nothing of it, or just people who seem to be wandering aimlessly about in life without a thought for you or even for themselves. It helps to have some strategies for dealing with those kinds of people or situations, and I hope this tongue-in-cheek list of tips not only gave you something to laugh at, but also something to think about.

witches heal

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read simply, ‘Witches Heal’. I blurted out, ‘I LIKE that!” The Other looked at me strangely without looking at me at all. I think I scared him.

Today, I came home frustrated and sad. I didn’t even make it to the front door before the tears came hot, rolling down my face. Luckily it was raining outside, so the neighbor didn’t think twice about my wet face as I waved hello from the yard. I rushed to my room to have a good cry and as the fat, salty tears came sliding out, a poem flowered in my mind. I rushed to my notebook and scrawled out the words as fast as I could. When I was done, I no longer felt or wanted or needed the crying.

I wish I could make the Other understand that this is what witchcraft really is.

colored

I’m at a bar with my Cape Town host, Lionel. In the course of our conversation, I hear him use the word, 'colored' multiple times. Finally, I ask, 'You keep saying that word, what exactly do you mean when you say it?' Lionel: 'It means mixed race.'

Me: 'Ohhhh... ok. We use that word at home, but it's just another way to refer to black people. It's antiquated, so it's mostly an in-group term.'

I continue, 'You know, I did notice when I arrived here that there was a whole set of people in CapeTown that I didn't really see in Jo’burg.'

Lionel (laughing): 'Yeah, in Jo’burg, you'd be hard pressed to find 3 colored people in any place. Hell, you'd be hard pressed to find 3 white people!'

He 's exaggerating... but only slightly. Later, we are at a bottle shop, where i'm purchasing 'supplies' (cuz, #RetailDrinkingIsForSuckas). A clearly inebriated, but totally harmless brotha strikes up a slurry convo with us. After a few exchanges with Lionel, in which he reveals he's from Congo, then declares, 'All Africa, one love!!' he turns to me. 'So, my sister, you're from here? You speak Zulu?' Lionel jumps in, protectively. 'She's colored. She speaks Afrikaans.'

Wait. What?

when I get to heaven

When I get to heaven, in a section way off to the side somewhere, I know I’ll find a spot made just for me. It looks just like my favorite tapas bar in Ciudad Real.

When I walk in, it’s full like always. And Santi is holding it down all on his own behind the bar, like always.

Though the place is blindingly white (everything in heaven is, you know. It’s the lighting.), there’s still those little piles of used, wadded up and tossed away paper napkins sprinkled along the front of the bar. Things can be dirty in heaven, too. If that’s what your heaven is like. There’s also a perfect sized space for me to squeeze into near the end of the bar.

Santi eyes me and ask-orders in that friendly, gruff way of his, “Díme.”

“Una cañita,” I reply. Almost before I’m finished saying it, he’s sliding a frosted glass filled with a foam-capped amber beverage down the length of the bar toward me. It stops neatly into my cupped palm. I know Santi’s waiting for my food order. I’ll give it to him. But not before I say hello to this oh-so-refreshing-looking beer. I gulp once. Twice. Man this watered down fizzy shit is the best cure for a hot Spanish day. It is perfection. It is life itself.

Santi prods. “Y para la tapa?”

“Rejos,” I reply without looking up.

Santi’s gravelly voice erupts like a low rumble of distant thunder, “Dame uno de REjos!”

Behind the saloon doors leading to the kitchen, hands begin to move. Grabbing the octopus legs, quickly battering them, then dropping them into the screaming hot oil. I wonder if it is the old woman or the young woman working behind those doors today. Sometimes, if it’s very busy, the young woman overcrowds the oil and they come out a little less crispy. I still enjoy them anyway. I’m only wondering.

A few minutes later, the young woman emerges and places the plate at the end of the bar. The door swings open when she re-enters. The old woman is sitting on a small chair in the small space, watching the young woman cook. The doors close and Santi retrieves the plate from the edge of the bar, then delivers it deftly to the space in front of me. Several crisp, still slightly sizzling sections of suction-cupped tentacles are splayed on the plate next to small stack of steak fries. I inhale deeply, the aroma of fresh fried sea critter filling my nostrils. I wait several patient moments for them to cool a bit before spearing one of the little legs with my fork. I bite through the thinnest and crispiest of batters into the tender-chewy flesh of the octopus. My eyes close as I savor the taste that is salty, mildly fishy and sweet all at once. For the next few moments, I, the amber liquid, the crispy fried octopus legs, and the golden creamy potatoes have our own little rendezvous at the end of the bar. At the end of it all, they are depleted. I am replenished.

After the last drag of the beer, I catch Santi’s eye.

“Me cobras, porfa?”

He waves his hand.

“Te invito, yo.”

I smile. Nod my head in deferential thanks. Then get up and make my exit. The blinding white light engulfs me. It’s one of my favorite things about heaven besides the food. The lighting. It’s simply glorious.

work is play – what I learned from kickball

When I get the opportunity to work with larger, corporate clients I often hesitate, even cringe. My main reason for deciding to pursue a non-traditional career was because most corporate cultures are just too dysfunctional for my tastes. Bad behavior, internal politics, and power plays are often rampant in corporate environments, and no matter how long I usually succeed in avoiding them, I eventually either get pulled into them or fed up with them. Besides, I have my health to consider. Even though corporate gigs tend to pay well and offer more perqs, what good is it if I’m increasing my stress and blood pressure in the process? In short, I’m not dying to work.

Which is why I often prefer to work as an independent contractor (aka, freelancer). As an independent, I’m essentially a company of one, so any dysfunction is all my own. I can deal with that. But the downside is that, as a freelancer, I usually work alone. In my home office. With no one else for company other than the voices in my head.

As entertaining as those voices are, I like working with other people. Especially if they’re smart and talented. There’s something very motivating, inspiring, and well… fun about working on a common objective with people who have the talent and the drive to make it happen with you. I guess you could say, I like working with people who take their work seriously but don’t take themselves seriously.

That’s the basis of my primary philosophy about work: ‘work is play’.

I tend to view work very similar to the way I viewed recess in elementary and middle school. Back then, the playground game of choice for me and my classmates was kickball. We’d play every day without fail. It was less a game, and more like a recurring chapter in the ongoing daily saga of our pre-teen lives. Two people would be appointed team captains, and the captains would choose teams, making sure each team had a couple of really good kickers, a pitcher, at least 1 person with a good throwing arm, and some really, really fast runners. Once the teams were decided, the rules of play were agreed to – no bunting; you have to tag somebody out, not hit them with the ball; the foul zone was between the edge of the pavement and the monkey bars. Eventually, play would begin. Each game had its high points and low points, conflicts and petty arguments. There would be hilarious moments when something ridiculously funny would happen, and when recess ended, we’d recount the game’s highlights long after that day’s winner and loser had been decided.

Reflecting on those playground sessions has helped me realize some important facts about work and working that I consider fundamental principles of my ‘work is play’ philosophy. Namely:

The best teams have a diverse mix of people.

If everyone on the team were the same type of player, it wouldn’t be much of a team. The teams that I’ve had the most fun with and learned the most from were those that were made up of people with backgrounds, cultures, and interests quite different from my own. Besides, it makes water cooler conversations a treat, to say the least.

Be clear about the rules can you live with / without.

In kickball, some of the rules were standard for the game itself, others evolved as we played the game repeatedly. It’s only by playing a few games that you get a feel for which rules you prefer and which ones you absolutely have to have. I tend to prefer working in situations where the rules of play aren’t as rigid as most. Flexible work hours, casual attire, a short commute – these are some ‘rules’ I prefer, but aren’t absolute deal-breakers. But frequent travel, lack of autonomy, and weekends in the office are work rules that just don’t work for me.

It’s just a game.

Play stops being fun when games are taken too seriously. The game is a part of life. It isn’t life itself. You are not a great person because you are a great kickball player, anymore than you are a great person because you are a high-level executive. The position you hold in the game is not the source of your power or strength or worth. It is the qualities and traits that you bring to the position. If and when the game ends, you will still possess the qualities and traits that make you who you are. In short, the game should neither consume nor define you.

The game can go on without you.

You don’t always have to be in the game. I remember a period during middle school when, instead of playing during recess, I would sit by myself and read or write in my journal. This went on for months. Then one day, I decided I’d had enough and went back to play. Not much had changed with the game since the last time I’d played, and I returned to the daily routine as if I’d never left. It’s okay to sit out a few rounds, if you need and want to. Take time away from the game to do something for yourself, with yourself, or by yourself – especially if it’s something that will make you a better player when you return to the team. Not only can the game go on without you, but you can go on without the game.

After-game reflection is almost as important as the game itself.

Conflict was an inevitable part of almost every playground kickball game. Occasionally, tempers would flare so high that there would still be tension after recess was over. Fortunately, the class immediately following recess was one in which our teacher would take time to help us work through any unresolved issues. Because our class was so small and close-knit, it was important that our relationships remained intact. Our teacher (a truly wise woman), gently forced us to reflect on our own behavior and that of our classmates, so we could grow in our understanding of each other, and ultimately go back to play another day. Taking time to reflect after every job or project is essential. It gives me the chance to assess how well I performed, what I might do differently next time, and what lessons I learned from any conflicts or issues that arose during play. After-game reflection is the #1 way to get better each time you play.

When I think back on those childhood kickball games, I realize that all of those playground maneuverings, all of the wins and the losses, and the occasional accidental injuries were teaching us how to work together, how to navigate relationships, and how to achieve a common goal with a group of not-so-common people. For me, work serves the same purpose – it’s the ‘playground’ where I show up to contribute my talents, to learn something, and to have fun in the process.

Once you’re able to approach your work with the mindset of play, you open up the potential for some serious learning experiences, simply by not taking everything so seriously. In work as on the playground, you have the ultimate say in what game you’re playing and what rules you play by.