What I Lost
I had left everything to come to Denmark. I had left my job as an associate at Marie Brown Associates, a literary agency that nestled itself between the West Village and Soho. Marie Brown was not just my boss. She came from a tradition, a very Black tradition of overextending oneself. A tradition of raising other people’s children cause if you didn’t do it, nobody else would. She came from a tradition that most Christians ought to take note—Marie constantly got involved personally. There were no barriers between business and personal life. As a result she was not just my boss, but my mentor and spiritual mother. We took it as fate that we shared the same last name, and I had the exact initials as her daughter as well. Marie fed me when I didn’t have any lunch money, she wrote me checks when my rent was due, and she picked up little blouses she found at little sales. She introduced me to Balthazars and chic cocktail bars with no names. She took me to lunch at Noho restaurants owned by crazy Frenchmen who loved Black women where we ate mussels in creamy curry sauce and drank cosmopolitans.
Marie is a legend in her own right—a publishing star who everyone who is anyone in publishing knows and respects. That she took me under her wing and allowed me to spend time with her was a constant reminder that maybe, just maybe, I had something going for me. Her boyfriend, McKinley, partied with James Baldwin and was just as passionate about books as she. Ed Bradly followed her to New York, and then got his break on 60 Minutes. She gave me a shirt he had worn while covering the Vietnam war, which he did from atop a motorcycle. Marie, true to keeping her personal and professional life entertwined, had many of photo albums laying around the office. From these photo albums I saw a young Marie summering in the South of France, learned that her father was an engineer and her mother very much involved in the higher echelons of Black society.
Our workweeks went like this: Monday to Thursdays we were bombarded by visitors and work was hard to get done. Marie laughingly referred to the office as “The Sitcom”. There was the Jamaican Colin Channer, now a successful novelist. Debbie Cowell who later became an editor at a large publishing house and has now been traveling the East and chronicling her experiences. Theresa Howard a former dancer at Alvin Ailey Dance Troupe who had dined with the Danish Queen. There were celebrities like M.C. Lite, Chaka Kahn and the designer Diane Von Furstenbergh. The telephones rang constantly. Jimmy, the huge UPS guy, would come by to deliver manuscripts and pick up manuscripts. His visits usually consisted of his sitting down, picking up the phone and making his own little personal phone calls to whatever honey he had his eyes on at the time. There was Mimi, the Grandadian woman who cleaned the offices. There was C.G., our neighbor who was a publisher and graphic designer. C.G. was a forty-something year old Queen who sometimes collaborated with us or even Glen Thompson from Writers & Readers. And I'll never forget David Jackson.
David Jackson was one of those brothers who knew EVERYTHING. He was a true scholar, writer and thinker. Whatever you mentioned, David knew: Rudolph Steiner, obscure History, man, David was a walking encyclopedia. And as I sit here now, his round, bespectacled face, I swear, is smiling right next to me. I tell you, he put up with a LOT of abuse between Joanne and myself. (that's a whole different story!)David has also passed on...
Then of course, there was McKinley, Marie's partner in crime. He'd stroll in with a New York Times rolled under his tweed, professor-like jacket and smoke cigarettes as brown as he were. I could still hear him say to me, "Hey baby doll." And he's park himself in a chair and read the newspaper waiting for Marie. Mckinley had one of those really cool, calm, collected spirits about him which birthed Jazz:
The man I know
As Mckinley
Is not Irish.
He is tall
& red brown
and hung out’
with jimmy &
david.
He rolls
The New
York Times
Under his
Long arms,
Smokes
Brown cigarettes &
Wears cowboy
Boots.
He loves
Paris
& Marie.
He sees NYC
Come Alive
And then goes
To sleep
Hibernate
All her artists
Wait
Hungry & poor
Yet survive.
The man
I know as
McKinley
Makes a mean
Cocktail.
He talks about
The Master &
Margarita
& how bad he felt
being an
African American
In the Philippines.
(A black man
Causing others
Oppression.)
McKinley loves
Books,
A good glass
Of red wine,
Pancakes
Books
People
Bars
Traveling…
He devours
Life & in
That very spirit
Life Has in turn,
Devoured him.
625 Broadway was a trip in itself. It was an old building where, because Marie had been there for so long, rent was cheap. Right next door to us used to be the Independent Movie Office. The entire building was a cacophony of businesses from sheet music to shady dealings.
Marie’s office was a haven for writers—well known and not so well known. My experience there was an eye-opener on what it really meant to call oneself a writer. I realized that it was possible to be a very good writer and NEVER get published. I learned how racist the industry could be. Often times here in Denmark, when I try to explain that we worked with primarily with Black books, people cannot understand. They are insulted and wonder why we are so exclusive. The reaction is indicative of those ignorant of America’s racial politics. There are many things at work within the U.S. publishing system when one thinks about Black books and some of them are this:
Many book publishers don’t believe that Blacks read, despite the fact that many of our authors continue to sell. Many book publishers seem to think that the only Black authors who sell are those they feel that have white audiences.
Many publishers think that the only representation of Black life that sells is that based on dysfunction. Therefore, unfortunately many of the books written by Black authors about Blacks that ever see the light of day are those about the all-too negative sides of humanity. Many publishers either refuse to believe or wish to continue the stereotype of Black people as degenerate.
That’s not to say that there are not any good Black books out there. On the contrary. And what I’m proud to say is that many quality Black books that are out there are primarily through the efforts of Marie.
Every so often between the reading of manuscripts, the countless rejections, the book parties, every so often we’d sell a book, assuring a trickle in of some money for the agency—to keep it running. And thank god for that because not only was it my job, but I can not count how many people are directly or indirectly dependant on Marie for some sort of support. Marie understands the life of the artist, the hardships, the trials, and the poverty. And if you were willing to do a little work, whether it was filing or reading a manuscript or watering her plants at home, she’d hire you and give you some pocket money.
Her office was amazing. It consisted of books upon books. If you loved books, like I do, then you landed in heaven. She had rare books, like original printings of Paul Lawrence Dunbar poems, and books by some of her clients like Robert Allen (who wrote Black Awakening in Capitalist America, one of my favorite books ever), … .
What makes Marie so unlike many other literary agents in New York City is that Marie really cared about her writers and their careers. Often that meant that she would push her writers to create meaningful creations rather than follow trends and cash in quick. Often in publishing, like many other fields, trends come up—and editors would contact agents to supply writers for ideas. I succumbed to one such trend when in 1997 I was recommended to write a book on dating. At the time, The Rules, an archaic throwback to the rules of dating was a national bestseller and publishers, quite conscious of a faint connection if any between book successes were on the look out for Black versions. The project never panned out but it was with my advance money that I first came to Denmark. It was also my first lesson in publishing—to have a book contract did not necessarily mean that you will be published. And to make things even worse, even if you got your book published, it didn’t mean it would sell. Welcome to the real world of publishing.
Marie found it difficult to reject manuscripts. She ended up spending an inordinate amount of money getting manuscripts reviewed that would never even make it to a publishing house. As a result, most of my work consisted of reading really bad manuscripts. But there was a kind passion behind this suicidal business tendency, and that was Marie believed that if someone took the effort to write a book, that effort should be at least rewarded with a professional critique of that author’s work. And she was nice about it too. Sometimes in exasperation, after reading a horrendously awful manuscript, I would try to write things such as, “Maybe you should consider another hobby or career.” She would shake her head and cross the sentence out, rewriting, “Maybe you should consider writing another novel.” Sometimes I would think her ridiculous in fueling people’s unrealistic dreams, but deep deep down I respected her about it. It showed to me a genuine regard she had for her fellow human beings, a kindness that if we had more of in the world, then hey, maybe it wouldn’t be so riddled with problems.
There were the regulars too. African King who wrote to her monthly from college. His handwriting was large and clear, and he addressed her as Sister Marie. We carried on a correspondence with him for years, and when you think about it, it may have been the only correspondence he even had. There was Denize, a Haitian writer of Children books who called at least every day, frustrated that he couldn’t get his books published at the pace his work probably deserved to be published. He’d call, and very rarely would Marie not take his call.
What many people fail to understand about writing is that it is not a choice for many of us. It is a habit that is rarely supported by day jobs. It is a compulsion rarely rewarded by publication. But most of all, writing is a calling that is very little respected unless you have actually published anything. Marie understood the loneliness of writing. The poverty of it. The injustice of it. And she put every copper penny that she earned behind her belief. She knew that not all of us will be the next Terry McMillan or Toni Morrison although she had clients as talented. She knew that writing was not an occupation, but a calling that we often had no choice in whether we answered it or not. Sometimes, for many of us, the choice was literally between writing or madness.
There was absolutely no hierarchy at Marie’s. Once you were under her employ you did everything from answering phones, letters, reviewing manuscripts, sweeping the floors. It didn’t matter if you had a Harvard education or lacked a high school diploma. We learned that no one was too good to do anything and no one was too dumb to do anything. There were many clashes, but in the end, at least for me, the experience humbled and enriched my life. And I got a salary at that. What more could I ask for?
Special people waltzed through the doors of Marie’s office. The poet Safiya Henderson Holmes who I was fortunate enough to see perform in the East Village. She wore her bright red dress, which hung elegantly on her shiny, dark thin frame. In her performance, she declared that this was the red dress she bought when she learned she had breast cancer. That finally, through a terminal disease, she had given herself license to do those things she dared not do before. It was with Safiya that I planned a surprise party for Marie. A party to let her know how appreciated she was. Safiya made me promise that I would quit smoking cigarettes (a promise I could not keep) and I was able to experience her joy as forty-something year-old who had just learned to drive. When I became pregnant she told me about all the joys she experienced as a new grandmother, how liberating it was to not be an uptight first-time mother. “Enjoy it Lesley”, she counseled, “Let your child do whatever he or she wants. I just let my grandchild go crazy in the kitchen. Pulling out pots and pans, oh, it’s great. I couldn’t do that with my own daughter, so caught up in stupid stuff.” Safiya passed away while I was here. Sadly, I tried to create a link so that you all could read about Safiya and her writing but found nothing. I know that some of her books are on Amazon, so definitely try to look her up. I will be writing more about her soon.
I met and worked for Glen Thompson, the publisher of Writers & Readers, which was the original publisher for The Beginner series. This was a series of books in comic book form, which introduced the readers to everything from Marx to the Black Holocaust. Unfortunately his publishing company, like so many other small and independent presses at the time, fell prey to larger ones and I witnessed how one larger and well known publishing company basically used its economic might in stealing his ideas and get away with it. Basically, Glen didn’t have the money to fight his case in the courts and no matter what people tell you about American court houses, it helps to have a LOT of money.
Glen was a legend in his own right. An orphan, legend has it that as a young aspiring publisher he happened to be on the same airplane with writer John Berger. By the time he had disbarked he had signed his first author…not bad for a not-yet-formed publishing house. Glen too succumbed to cancer, but his publishing company still lives on in London.
It was not just my job I had left and lost. I left my friends. Karen R. Good, my soul sister in every sense of the word. She wrote for Vibe and Rolling Stone magazines and was once voted as one of the best young journalists. Like me, she was struggling with her first novel and many of our nights out together involved dancing (she could dance her ass off) and conversations that ranged from men (of course) to William Faulkner. We spoke every day and traveled to Jamaica for the first annual Negril Reggae Festival and to Trinidad where she met my family. Karen was a beautiful rich chocolate Texan girl from Prairie View (Prayerview was how she said it) and she wrapped her hair way before Ms. Badu hit the scene. In her writing Karen deconstructed Little Kim and reinstated the genius of Chaka Khan (to those of you who had forgotten). Karen fried fish southern style and declared that if she ever saw Al Green in concert she’d throw him her panties. In short, she was a wild, creative, thoughtful woman who reminded me of all that I am constantly striving to be.
I left Flux Factory, that community of crazies I lived with in Williamsburgh for four years. It was a collective of at least 16 people who lived on the top floor of a warehouse. I went to college with many of them and others just found themselves there like jewels lapped up onto a beach. Williamsburgh in 1990 was not what it has become. Back then it was quieter, cheaper and on it’s way to being trendy. I liked it cause it was a mixed neighborhood full of Polish folk, Hasids, Puerto Ricans and it took just 10 minutes top to get into Manhattan. Even back then there was a sprinkling of satisfactory restaurants and bars, and an endless supply of other artists.
I left my crazy Trinidadian family who constantly discussed my Aunt’s late-life lesbianism, my mother’s flambouyant choice of clothes (leopard print skirts and large, obviously fake gold earrings were the norm), my hustling brother who cruised in and out of New York City like a fancy sports-car driver.
But most importantly, I guess, what I left, what I had given up was myself. That Lesley that had been in the lifetime in the making. That Lesley who came from Flatbush, traversed Manhattan and cultivated relationships based on love, respect and an excitement fueled by the creative process. That Lesley who was constantly surrounded by others who challenged the norms while at the same time spending hundreds of hours playing video games and skateboarding. Who knew the subway station like the back of my hand and felt as comfortable in a restaurant in Harlem as in the dilapidated rides of Coney Island. Living here in Copenhagen, realizing the cultural shock I had obviously been experiencing but could put no name to, yes, I realize that I not only lost my home, but myself. And now it was time I got myself back.
2002
Marie is a legend in her own right—a publishing star who everyone who is anyone in publishing knows and respects. That she took me under her wing and allowed me to spend time with her was a constant reminder that maybe, just maybe, I had something going for me. Her boyfriend, McKinley, partied with James Baldwin and was just as passionate about books as she. Ed Bradly followed her to New York, and then got his break on 60 Minutes. She gave me a shirt he had worn while covering the Vietnam war, which he did from atop a motorcycle. Marie, true to keeping her personal and professional life entertwined, had many of photo albums laying around the office. From these photo albums I saw a young Marie summering in the South of France, learned that her father was an engineer and her mother very much involved in the higher echelons of Black society.
Our workweeks went like this: Monday to Thursdays we were bombarded by visitors and work was hard to get done. Marie laughingly referred to the office as “The Sitcom”. There was the Jamaican Colin Channer, now a successful novelist. Debbie Cowell who later became an editor at a large publishing house and has now been traveling the East and chronicling her experiences. Theresa Howard a former dancer at Alvin Ailey Dance Troupe who had dined with the Danish Queen. There were celebrities like M.C. Lite, Chaka Kahn and the designer Diane Von Furstenbergh. The telephones rang constantly. Jimmy, the huge UPS guy, would come by to deliver manuscripts and pick up manuscripts. His visits usually consisted of his sitting down, picking up the phone and making his own little personal phone calls to whatever honey he had his eyes on at the time. There was Mimi, the Grandadian woman who cleaned the offices. There was C.G., our neighbor who was a publisher and graphic designer. C.G. was a forty-something year old Queen who sometimes collaborated with us or even Glen Thompson from Writers & Readers. And I'll never forget David Jackson.
David Jackson was one of those brothers who knew EVERYTHING. He was a true scholar, writer and thinker. Whatever you mentioned, David knew: Rudolph Steiner, obscure History, man, David was a walking encyclopedia. And as I sit here now, his round, bespectacled face, I swear, is smiling right next to me. I tell you, he put up with a LOT of abuse between Joanne and myself. (that's a whole different story!)David has also passed on...
Then of course, there was McKinley, Marie's partner in crime. He'd stroll in with a New York Times rolled under his tweed, professor-like jacket and smoke cigarettes as brown as he were. I could still hear him say to me, "Hey baby doll." And he's park himself in a chair and read the newspaper waiting for Marie. Mckinley had one of those really cool, calm, collected spirits about him which birthed Jazz:
The man I know
As Mckinley
Is not Irish.
He is tall
& red brown
and hung out’
with jimmy &
david.
He rolls
The New
York Times
Under his
Long arms,
Smokes
Brown cigarettes &
Wears cowboy
Boots.
He loves
Paris
& Marie.
He sees NYC
Come Alive
And then goes
To sleep
Hibernate
All her artists
Wait
Hungry & poor
Yet survive.
The man
I know as
McKinley
Makes a mean
Cocktail.
He talks about
The Master &
Margarita
& how bad he felt
being an
African American
In the Philippines.
(A black man
Causing others
Oppression.)
McKinley loves
Books,
A good glass
Of red wine,
Pancakes
Books
People
Bars
Traveling…
He devours
Life & in
That very spirit
Life Has in turn,
Devoured him.
625 Broadway was a trip in itself. It was an old building where, because Marie had been there for so long, rent was cheap. Right next door to us used to be the Independent Movie Office. The entire building was a cacophony of businesses from sheet music to shady dealings.
Marie’s office was a haven for writers—well known and not so well known. My experience there was an eye-opener on what it really meant to call oneself a writer. I realized that it was possible to be a very good writer and NEVER get published. I learned how racist the industry could be. Often times here in Denmark, when I try to explain that we worked with primarily with Black books, people cannot understand. They are insulted and wonder why we are so exclusive. The reaction is indicative of those ignorant of America’s racial politics. There are many things at work within the U.S. publishing system when one thinks about Black books and some of them are this:
Many book publishers don’t believe that Blacks read, despite the fact that many of our authors continue to sell. Many book publishers seem to think that the only Black authors who sell are those they feel that have white audiences.
Many publishers think that the only representation of Black life that sells is that based on dysfunction. Therefore, unfortunately many of the books written by Black authors about Blacks that ever see the light of day are those about the all-too negative sides of humanity. Many publishers either refuse to believe or wish to continue the stereotype of Black people as degenerate.
That’s not to say that there are not any good Black books out there. On the contrary. And what I’m proud to say is that many quality Black books that are out there are primarily through the efforts of Marie.
Every so often between the reading of manuscripts, the countless rejections, the book parties, every so often we’d sell a book, assuring a trickle in of some money for the agency—to keep it running. And thank god for that because not only was it my job, but I can not count how many people are directly or indirectly dependant on Marie for some sort of support. Marie understands the life of the artist, the hardships, the trials, and the poverty. And if you were willing to do a little work, whether it was filing or reading a manuscript or watering her plants at home, she’d hire you and give you some pocket money.
Her office was amazing. It consisted of books upon books. If you loved books, like I do, then you landed in heaven. She had rare books, like original printings of Paul Lawrence Dunbar poems, and books by some of her clients like Robert Allen (who wrote Black Awakening in Capitalist America, one of my favorite books ever), … .
What makes Marie so unlike many other literary agents in New York City is that Marie really cared about her writers and their careers. Often that meant that she would push her writers to create meaningful creations rather than follow trends and cash in quick. Often in publishing, like many other fields, trends come up—and editors would contact agents to supply writers for ideas. I succumbed to one such trend when in 1997 I was recommended to write a book on dating. At the time, The Rules, an archaic throwback to the rules of dating was a national bestseller and publishers, quite conscious of a faint connection if any between book successes were on the look out for Black versions. The project never panned out but it was with my advance money that I first came to Denmark. It was also my first lesson in publishing—to have a book contract did not necessarily mean that you will be published. And to make things even worse, even if you got your book published, it didn’t mean it would sell. Welcome to the real world of publishing.
Marie found it difficult to reject manuscripts. She ended up spending an inordinate amount of money getting manuscripts reviewed that would never even make it to a publishing house. As a result, most of my work consisted of reading really bad manuscripts. But there was a kind passion behind this suicidal business tendency, and that was Marie believed that if someone took the effort to write a book, that effort should be at least rewarded with a professional critique of that author’s work. And she was nice about it too. Sometimes in exasperation, after reading a horrendously awful manuscript, I would try to write things such as, “Maybe you should consider another hobby or career.” She would shake her head and cross the sentence out, rewriting, “Maybe you should consider writing another novel.” Sometimes I would think her ridiculous in fueling people’s unrealistic dreams, but deep deep down I respected her about it. It showed to me a genuine regard she had for her fellow human beings, a kindness that if we had more of in the world, then hey, maybe it wouldn’t be so riddled with problems.
There were the regulars too. African King who wrote to her monthly from college. His handwriting was large and clear, and he addressed her as Sister Marie. We carried on a correspondence with him for years, and when you think about it, it may have been the only correspondence he even had. There was Denize, a Haitian writer of Children books who called at least every day, frustrated that he couldn’t get his books published at the pace his work probably deserved to be published. He’d call, and very rarely would Marie not take his call.
What many people fail to understand about writing is that it is not a choice for many of us. It is a habit that is rarely supported by day jobs. It is a compulsion rarely rewarded by publication. But most of all, writing is a calling that is very little respected unless you have actually published anything. Marie understood the loneliness of writing. The poverty of it. The injustice of it. And she put every copper penny that she earned behind her belief. She knew that not all of us will be the next Terry McMillan or Toni Morrison although she had clients as talented. She knew that writing was not an occupation, but a calling that we often had no choice in whether we answered it or not. Sometimes, for many of us, the choice was literally between writing or madness.
There was absolutely no hierarchy at Marie’s. Once you were under her employ you did everything from answering phones, letters, reviewing manuscripts, sweeping the floors. It didn’t matter if you had a Harvard education or lacked a high school diploma. We learned that no one was too good to do anything and no one was too dumb to do anything. There were many clashes, but in the end, at least for me, the experience humbled and enriched my life. And I got a salary at that. What more could I ask for?
Special people waltzed through the doors of Marie’s office. The poet Safiya Henderson Holmes who I was fortunate enough to see perform in the East Village. She wore her bright red dress, which hung elegantly on her shiny, dark thin frame. In her performance, she declared that this was the red dress she bought when she learned she had breast cancer. That finally, through a terminal disease, she had given herself license to do those things she dared not do before. It was with Safiya that I planned a surprise party for Marie. A party to let her know how appreciated she was. Safiya made me promise that I would quit smoking cigarettes (a promise I could not keep) and I was able to experience her joy as forty-something year-old who had just learned to drive. When I became pregnant she told me about all the joys she experienced as a new grandmother, how liberating it was to not be an uptight first-time mother. “Enjoy it Lesley”, she counseled, “Let your child do whatever he or she wants. I just let my grandchild go crazy in the kitchen. Pulling out pots and pans, oh, it’s great. I couldn’t do that with my own daughter, so caught up in stupid stuff.” Safiya passed away while I was here. Sadly, I tried to create a link so that you all could read about Safiya and her writing but found nothing. I know that some of her books are on Amazon, so definitely try to look her up. I will be writing more about her soon.
I met and worked for Glen Thompson, the publisher of Writers & Readers, which was the original publisher for The Beginner series. This was a series of books in comic book form, which introduced the readers to everything from Marx to the Black Holocaust. Unfortunately his publishing company, like so many other small and independent presses at the time, fell prey to larger ones and I witnessed how one larger and well known publishing company basically used its economic might in stealing his ideas and get away with it. Basically, Glen didn’t have the money to fight his case in the courts and no matter what people tell you about American court houses, it helps to have a LOT of money.
Glen was a legend in his own right. An orphan, legend has it that as a young aspiring publisher he happened to be on the same airplane with writer John Berger. By the time he had disbarked he had signed his first author…not bad for a not-yet-formed publishing house. Glen too succumbed to cancer, but his publishing company still lives on in London.
It was not just my job I had left and lost. I left my friends. Karen R. Good, my soul sister in every sense of the word. She wrote for Vibe and Rolling Stone magazines and was once voted as one of the best young journalists. Like me, she was struggling with her first novel and many of our nights out together involved dancing (she could dance her ass off) and conversations that ranged from men (of course) to William Faulkner. We spoke every day and traveled to Jamaica for the first annual Negril Reggae Festival and to Trinidad where she met my family. Karen was a beautiful rich chocolate Texan girl from Prairie View (Prayerview was how she said it) and she wrapped her hair way before Ms. Badu hit the scene. In her writing Karen deconstructed Little Kim and reinstated the genius of Chaka Khan (to those of you who had forgotten). Karen fried fish southern style and declared that if she ever saw Al Green in concert she’d throw him her panties. In short, she was a wild, creative, thoughtful woman who reminded me of all that I am constantly striving to be.
I left Flux Factory, that community of crazies I lived with in Williamsburgh for four years. It was a collective of at least 16 people who lived on the top floor of a warehouse. I went to college with many of them and others just found themselves there like jewels lapped up onto a beach. Williamsburgh in 1990 was not what it has become. Back then it was quieter, cheaper and on it’s way to being trendy. I liked it cause it was a mixed neighborhood full of Polish folk, Hasids, Puerto Ricans and it took just 10 minutes top to get into Manhattan. Even back then there was a sprinkling of satisfactory restaurants and bars, and an endless supply of other artists.
I left my crazy Trinidadian family who constantly discussed my Aunt’s late-life lesbianism, my mother’s flambouyant choice of clothes (leopard print skirts and large, obviously fake gold earrings were the norm), my hustling brother who cruised in and out of New York City like a fancy sports-car driver.
But most importantly, I guess, what I left, what I had given up was myself. That Lesley that had been in the lifetime in the making. That Lesley who came from Flatbush, traversed Manhattan and cultivated relationships based on love, respect and an excitement fueled by the creative process. That Lesley who was constantly surrounded by others who challenged the norms while at the same time spending hundreds of hours playing video games and skateboarding. Who knew the subway station like the back of my hand and felt as comfortable in a restaurant in Harlem as in the dilapidated rides of Coney Island. Living here in Copenhagen, realizing the cultural shock I had obviously been experiencing but could put no name to, yes, I realize that I not only lost my home, but myself. And now it was time I got myself back.
2002
Comments
Love Miss1AB
ciao bella
Love,
lab