Or I could write about watching fireflies dance in the night.

There is just so much to write about, and at the same time, I am at a loss for words. I have attempted to write this blog entry on four different days, about twelve different happenings, but every time I sit down to type, the words escape me like David Davis back on the Lincoln School playground circa 1985 during an intense game of tag. The words are hiding behind rocks, under the slide, and in the corner of the entryway to the cafeteria, yet I feel like I owe it to you, my readers, to write something. I especially feel a responsibility to my mother, who out of love and pride, read my entire blog in one day. She's checking in (hi Mom!) and I do not want to disappoint her. 

Don't get me wrong, I have been writing, but mostly in my journal. See, there is stuff happening in Tennessee that I'm still trying to wrap my head around. I could write about the the dusty film of racism that covers Gallatin, (and greater Sumner County) like soap scum in the sink of a seedy gas station bathroom. Or I could write about getting pulled over by police officers for speeding (on the way to church) and praying fervently as they approached the car, "Please God, let these be the kind of cops who like black people."  Or I could write about feeling like a school girl when a certain guy comes around and flashes his beautiful smile. Or I could write about sitting by the lake on the swing, with Jack and my iPod, singing India Aire's "I am Ready for Love" at the top of my lungs. Or I could write about the way I get pumped while walking at the Gallatin Civic Center anytime Mary J Blige's "Just Fine" or Aretha Franklin's "Rock Steady" comes on my iPod. Or I could write about going three weeks without coffee (on purpose). Or I could write about talking to my mother every day (to ease her heart and mine) for the past twenty days, something that has never happened since I've been living on my own. Or I could write about Big Momma's house—real live Southern hospitality extended that has not left me alone, or without family, or without bangin' macaroni and cheese for the last three Sunday afternoons after church. Or I could write about questioning the effectiveness of integration of schools after hearing the stories of both the profound sense of pride and responsibility instilled in black children at Union High School (the only school for black students in the entire county) and the decline of education and nurturing of black students after schools were desegregated. Or I could write about tokenism.  Or I could write about white privilege. Or I could write about the way the thunder sounds like it is coming from God's belly. Or I could write about the warm kiss of a 98º breeze. Or I could write about watching fireflies dance in the night. 

But here, in this space—cyberspace—I cannot write about any of it in detail because to do so would be to invite you, my readers, into the depths of my heart. To do so would open the door to intimate places that few can enter. To do so would make me more vulnerable than I desire to be. So perhaps the words are not escaping me. Maybe, just maybe, I am holding the words back.