Why the Sparkly (Baltimore) Remembrances?


So my whole ‘how I started living in Baltimore’ ditty (see below post) began because I was reading the City Paper’s annual “Best of Baltimore” issue. Gliding through the issue I began laughing at the sheer ridiculous loveliness that is this city. Highlights follow. “Best Brand Mismanagement” (“The 21st century’s corporatization of undergraduate higher education is the latest disappointment in the American Dream’s Ponzi scheme…”); whoever wrote this, I love you! I hollered when I saw the picture accompanying “Best Reason for an Asteroid to Hit Our Planet” (two words: tagged deer). I was happy to see “Best New Shoe Store,” I’d been wondering what For Rent Shoes was whenever I’d drive up my old block on Cathedral. I thought it meant shoes were for rent. It didn’t help that the store space where For Rent Shoes now resides has rotated through several unsuccessful businesses during my nine years living on that block. Next up was  “Best Chicken Box” (BCB) which tickled my fancy mostly because chicken boxes, like half-n-half (iced tea/lemonade aka Arnold Palmer, not coffee creamer), are Baltimore- specific. If you are a Baltimore resident who has never heard of a chicken box you have either been here for a short amount of time or don’t feel comfortable in the less than visually stimulating locales where many chicken box establishments reign. The fact that BCB is a Best of Baltimore category is testimony to its fried tastiness (note: don’t let any chicken box place add ketchup or else it will look like your chicken is swimming in red gravy).

I know Baltimore is a special place and I constantly run the emotional gamut from full on hatred to mad love. I’ve listed things I hate first so I can wrap with positivity.


Witnessing a Baltimore Sun corner sales guy, squatting, pants down behind a dumpster dropping logs; dog-owners pretending they didn’t see their dog dropping petite deuces in tree boxes; the random homeless woman sitting on my stoop like it’s her living room, complete with burning Glade candle; the heron addicts weeble-wobbling all over the city, particularly in front of Lexington Market where I frequent Faidley’s (banging crab cakes) and Berger’s Bakery (this is a good/bad scenario); retinas burning with the plethora of stretch pants screaming over massive thighs and bellies and hoping to avoid broken car windows-Mt. Vernon is littered with curbside aquamarine glass.


Food-chicken boxes, crab cakes and Berger’s-oh my; ART ART ART-this city is ‘bout it when it comes to the creativity, don’t sleep Baltimore is full of amazing artists; murals galore-abandoned buildings, parking garages and concrete walls have not escaped colorful storyboards; the Billy Holliday statue on Pennsylvania Avenue; John Waters sightings; Artscape (the largest free arts festival in the country!); Charm City Circulator-free commuter bus and water taxi (make sure it’s marked as the circulator or else you’re paying); affordable apartment rentals-in my new spot I pay $865 for a two-bedroom in an apartment complex behind Seton Hill-the area scares the delivery guy from Strang of Siam (lots of section 8/MLK adjacent aka non-Huxtable black), poor thing is so frightened he darn near throws the food through the door, meanwhile nothing’s happening, just kids playing outside.

            The moral of this ramble is that I’m torn. Something that might help is a new city slogan or a vintage one, Charm City.  I get that, scratch beneath Baltimore’s gritty surface and you have a pretty magical place.  Forget The City that Reads or Believe (in who/what?). There is A LOT that needs to be improved and plenty to love, but if you don’t like it kick rocks or do something about it…like I keep promising myself I will. For now, I’m helping to enrich the burgeoning art scene by earning my MFA at UB. So thanks to City Paper for inspiring me and in the words of Big Freedia “You already knnnnoooowwww!” (pssst…if you don’t know about Big Freedia, ya better ask somebody)

Baltimore: Sparkly Remembrances of My First Solo Apartment


This is my tenth year living in Baltimore and my feelings remain complicated. Born and bred in Harford County I grew up in rural-suburbia. I went to college right outside New York City which is more urban-suburbia, then I migrated to Los Angeles which is posh-suburbia with urban options (i.e. fantastic music scene and every major musical/dance/play production, always touched down there). Post-LA I landed back in Harford County, Maryland– Aberdeen to be specific. It had the bonus of including my family but socially it is/was a snooze. Walmart, Target, McDonald’s and Panera do not a social life make, especially for anyone who has left its borders. Many nights I nursed my boredom at the Perryman VFW where Aunt P worked; she was good for conversation and a tasty beverage.  A couple of years back from LA and I began commuting to Baltimore for work; it took one major hangover to convince me to move there.

I like to blame my friend T. I met her through my cousin, who’d left a void when she moved to Texas. T and I began hanging on our own and struck up a friendship. That Baltimore to Harford County commute was so rugged I started stopping off at her pad in Rosedale (Baltimore Co) to break up the traffic-clogged ride home. One traffic jam led to another and next thing I know we had a regular happy hour going. One particular weekday, post one of our epic happy hour evenings filled with then-popular Grey Goose apple martinis, I stumbled outside for lunch. It was early fall. I quelled my rising nausea with a deep inhale of fresh air, setting off west on Centre Street passing the Walter’s Art Museum then heading south on Cathedral Street, trudging up the hill my light jacket pulled tight against the cool-in-the-shade feel of the tree-lined block. Cresting the hill I stopped in front of a darling row-house with a unique shape that rounded the corner to the smaller alley Hamilton Street. In the bay window was an 8×11 For Rent sign. I’d been playing around with the idea of moving to the city, checking out an apartment here and there but my desire for rent $700 or less was proving unlikely. In the quiet of this gorgeous block doubt plagued me, thankfully common sense saved me. What do you have to lose? So I knocked on the red door (I love red) and was buzzed in by the building owner’s secretary Barbara. I cut to the chase.

“How much is the rent?”

“We have two apartments: the basement and the second floor. The basement is a studio for $500 a month and the other is kind of a one-bedroom for $550. Do you want to see?”

Of course I wanted to see. Upstairs was weird all right; the kitchen was in what appeared to be a hallway anchored by a bathroom on one end and a huge room on the other. That room was supposed to function as a bedroom and living room but it would have taken some creative curtain hanging or more costly track laying for screens. Downstairs the basement apartment was a charmer although it was a bit dark. The well-situated studio was perfect with recessed refrigerator facing the kitchen rather than the general living area, plus there was a hallway (with a door!) with a small office on one side (my dresser and desk would work there!) and a sizeable bathroom (mini-me shower height? who cares, I’m 5’4”). My heart surged when confronted with sturdy built-in white-washed bookshelves tucked into what I imagined to be my reading nook. There was even space under the large living room window for a dining room table that could seat four. Granted that window was half underground but it still boasted great views of Baltimore’s canine community and pedestrian shoe styles. The piece de resistance was the backyard, the brick-walled secret garden. Weeds left over from the summer months sprung from patio bricks but the beauty therein was an afternoon of yard work away. The gate to the patio opened right on Cathedral. The brick wall about seven feet tall. The alley behind Hamilton connecting all the back yards/patios was clean and locked on the other end.

“Is this a community back yard for the building?” I asked Barbara.

 “Nope, you are the only one who would have a key.”

It hadn’t escaped me that both Barbara and I were speaking as if this apartment was mine. I quickly ran my stats: I commuted from Harford County, worked around the corner at George Peabody Library and could deliver half of the $500 security deposit to her the next day and supply the rest on payday the following week.

            “Call me Barb.”

We had a deal.

I lived in that apartment for nine years. It was in that apartment that I experienced solo living. For the first time ever I wasn’t living with my family or with roommates. I moved in at 29 and left at 37.  During that time I dealt with heartbreak—my boyfriend moved away; death– my father died suddenly and illness—an older and younger brother were hospitalized for various surgeries and illnesses. I had some beautiful too, hanging with friends under a clear full moon and hidden stars on the patio; smoking a cigarette under the backdoor awning while watching snow fall; enjoying the scent of the rose honey suckle bushes and hosting a massive 4th of July party one year, somehow fit the rotating cast of friends and family in my little spot. I miss my little honeycomb hideout (thanks J!).

Calling All Writers & Visual Artists! Welter Literary Mag Accepting Submissions

Welter 2014 cover

Welter Literary Journal is open for submissions for the 2014/2015 journal. We accept the following: poetry, fiction, non-fiction & visual arts. Entries open to all so feel free to share. October 1st deadline.

Submit and check out past issues here: http://www.ubalt.edu/cas/about-the-college/schools-and-divisions/school-of-communications-design/welter/

Fight The Power

Before the summer ends I want to share a City Paper article I just got around to reading today about Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing. This past June marked the 25th anniversary which means I was a mere 13 years old when it hit theaters. I didn’t get to see the 20 foot tall Rosie Perez gettin’ it, nor did I get to hear Fight the Power on movie theater speakers but that movie punched me in the chest anyway.  

One scorching July day about five summers ago, my cousin and I decided it was so hot we had to watch it THAT day so we ran out and picked up some tequila oranges and limes and made some fresh margaritas. We enjoyed them in the cool darkness of my basement apartment disappearing into Bedstuy for a few hours.

People still debate the merits or lack thereof of this masterpiece. I always appreciate the discussion. I’m so glad I stumbled across his 25th anniversary block party in Fort Green; I got to meet Spike, get a cool book signed and hear a DJ take me back to my high school and college years with Naughty by Nature, EPMD, and Tribe Called Quest. I am mad that I missed the real block party the following week with actual performances; I’m just happy I got to be there at all.

Check out this fantastic piece written by D. Watkins and Lee Gardner. Love the juxtaposition of race and age between the two.

Fight The Power