The number 11 has been a personal favorite of mine since my mom mentioned it being her basketball number when she was a kid.  It’s more than a sentimental gesture, really.  What was peculiar to me was that my mother, at least the woman I have known the past 33 years, has not one iota of athletic ability but yet she had a basketball number.  At some point in her life my delicate, non-competitive, scrawny, athletically disinterested, mother (#11) had the balls to shoot hoops on a team.   As bemusing as it was to find out she wanted to be a rockstar as a child, it had nothing on the number 11.

Once the time rolled around for me to be on a basketball team, I shot out of formation and ran to rummage through the cardboard box that coach threw to the gymnasium floor. Unfortunately, so did everyone else.  I had one eye on the numbers being lifted out of the box and the other on the goal at hand; finding the number 11 jersey.  10, 8, 12, 22, 45, 50, 2, were the numbers of the jersey that were being ripped out of my hand.  To underestimate the combative nature of a thirteen year-old girl searching for a piece of her mother’s legacy in a cardboard box with twenty-something aggressive hands doing the exact same would be a tremendous oversight.

Ah ha!  There it was near the bottom of the box alongside number 25 and to my right was a tough-as-nails teammate who had her eye set on my number. Had she not elbowed me in the kisser, I would have ended up with it in the first place.   25 was a sufficient enough number for a bench warmer, but the following year there were no holds barred; I was #11.


Cross Post #6: Hipsters, defined.



“But what about their legacy?” I was recently asked by New York magazine. “What will they have left behind after it’s all said and done?” This question gets on my nerves. “Music and fashion,” I answered incredulously. Since when are young people responsible for leaving us with anything more? Have you heard their politics? I don’t want these people voting. I want them doing what they do best: Fun. The greasers were about rock ’n’ roll and making out in rumble seats. The beatniks gave us some good books, but they were mostly about shocking their parents by dancing with Negroes. The only thing the mods cared about outside of dancing and getting laid was fighting Elvis fans. Boomers, who are masters at glorifying their past, insist they stopped a war, but we all know it was Kissinger’s relentless bombing that ended it. Hippies were horny stoners. Though I was one of them, I’m happy to admit punks were more preening peacocks with guitars than anarchists smashing the state. Rap evolved from parties in the South Bronx. The list goes on, and it’s always just teenagers partying.




What I Lost and Want Back


My childhood mornings seemed so much more pleasant than the adult ones now do. I woke up wide-eyed and ready to explore the world. Bright were the rainbows that reflected on the wood-paneled hallway created by the bright sun hitting the diamond-shaped windows on the front door. My own personal kaleidoscope had me looking deeply into wood grains at an early age. My brother, Jeffrey, sat less than five inches from the television with the sound screaming loudly into my soul. What I remember about that particular moment is how awake I was back then, and how impressions moved me. Something as small as colored light reflected from the sun onto the wall kept me in awe, imprinted in my memory, and conjured up happiness. I haven’t seen the little prisms of inspiration that echoed so loudly in my youth for quite some time, and I want it back.

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