Cameron, Part I, Draft I

Out of all the places we've lived, Goldsboro, North Carolina was easily my least favorite. There's one thing about out time there, however, that I wouldn't trade for the world. 

Cameron Raphael Crockett first graced the world with his presence on May 19th, 2002. 8 pounds, 6 ounces, 10 fingers, 10 toes--everything was as it should be. He was my parents fourth child and first son together, my first baby brother. His birth was uneventful; no complications or anomalies stood out in the beginning. 

They were in the car when my mother's water first broke. Mom says one of the first things my dad did was complain that the amniotic fluid was going to ruin the car's interior. Dad doesn't recall any such thing. They drove to the hospital, and a few hours later, Cameron was safely delivered. I remember the first time I held him more clearly than I remember holding my other siblings. I had fallen and broken my wrist at school a few weeks before and still wore a cast. Cameron's little legs rested awkwardly on my cast while my right arm cradled his neck and head. Thick, spiky black hair, dark brown eyes, the tannest skin yet out of all us kids; his face all scrunched up in complaint against the overhead lights. He was a drop-dead gorgeous baby, and we all fell in love with him from the very beginning. Even Aleah, who was one and thought she owned the world, was gentle and tender with him. 

The Hair.

Complete strangers have been awestruck by my hair. So much so that, at times (5, to be exact), they have felt compelled to touch it without my consent or approval. To you, this might seem a little strange, maybe even slightly creepy. Well, that's because it is. I'm awestruck by the height of Snooki's hair, but that doesn't mean I'd touch it if I happened to come across her in a public restroom.
At the same time, though, I have to admit: It's kind of flattering. I was born with a full head of soft, dark hair, but from there it changed and grew into tight, corkscrew style curls. For most of my life, my hair and I have had an up-down-rollercoaster of a relationship. Not neccessarily because of how it looked, but mainly because of how much it hurt. When I was a little girl, getting my hair done was always an Ordeal. A lot of crying and begging on my part, and scolding and pulling on my mother's. I'm sure she tried, but I never really felt as though she was very gentle about it, and my whining definitely didn't help her mood.
In addition to having a lot of it, my hair is constantly tangled, especially in the back, where it grows the thickest. Because of this, for most of my childhood, my hair was almost always in braids of some kind, and the Combing and Crying ritual happened almost everyday. As I grew older, my hair style evolved from cute little girl braids to just being super short. Not a good look for a girl with cheeks as fat as that one kid from Goonies. It wasn't until my freshman or sophomore year of high school that I began to reconcile myself with the lot I was given. Now, I kind of like it. It's crazy and unpredictable and all over the place, but I know how it feels. I'm not the most organized or focused gal in the world, that's for sure.


We've got an understanding, my hair and I.

The Metro Ride

I hate riding the metro by myself. The constant stop and go. The feeling that you’re picking up every single virus known to man (plus some) every time your hand touches the seat, the pole, anything. Being surrounded by people, yet still feeling lonely. There’s set of unspoken rules here that most everyone abides by: head down, eyes averted. People-watch if you must, but avoid eye contact at all costs. Forget how to smile. Your smile is no good here. Smiling invites conversation, which you’re not about to have. Just keep your eyes closed or fastened on your e-reader or cell phone. You’re all on the train together, but you’re not “in this together”. Or—that’s what it seems like, at least. Every now and then, something happens that helps to remind me that I’m surrounded by people, real living, breathing, heart-pumping, blood-rushing humans. A well-dressed, middle aged businessman stops a girl from falling over as the train stops, starts again, then lurches to a stop. A young woman offers her seat to a much older woman standing by the door. A man and woman defy the rules of Metro Ride Etiquette and strike up a conversation over a book in the man’s hand. We are people, people who crave words and interaction with other people—why do we allow ourselves so often to get tricked out of this fact?