This is a marked deviation from both of my parents. My mother hails from the South, and despite many Minnesotans' best efforts, she has yet to abandon the refined warmth and civility so many southerners seem to effortlessly exude. My Nigerian father, with his quietly dignified air, has similarly never been caught out. I have a small army of younger siblings who are way more successful and well-adjusted than I. We'll get to them at a later time.
Back to me and my expressive face.
Perhaps there is some self-preservational mechanism at play inside me which keeps me from shouting, "Are you freaking KIDDING ME?!" when presented with life's absurdities. After all, shouting in meetings, on the street, and (occasionally) in church, is kind of frowned upon. So I'm left with a face that sometimes betrays my spirited inner dialogue.
Here's what you can look forward to reading on this blog: Thoughts. Actions. Stories. Pictures. Occasional Rants.
My tenth grade English teacher is in front of the class, brandishing a cylinder of grits. She holds the container high above our heads. "This is a food commonly eaten by Southern BLACKS - I mean, African American people," she says, eyes wide with excitement. Like clockwork, every blonde, brunette, and red head turns in my direction to verify. "Is it true?"