The following reflection was written in 2003, when I was between 25 and 26 years old.
On August 26, 1997, after a couple of tentative letters sent back and forth, I received a phonecall I didn’t quite know what to do with. I recall family being there, maybe for the week or the weekend. Or perhaps it was just busy as we were preparing for John and I to go back to school. Whatever the case, when I picked up the phone and my old flame Nydia was on the line, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next.
I recall that my parents had a cordless phone by now or else I stretched the cord of our corded phone quite a bit, because I do remember speaking with Nydia mostly standing on the porch. We talked about what had happened in February, though in hushed tones because I still hadn’t mentioned to my parents that I’d had a relationship with a black girl or that I’d given her my virginity. I felt a bit better about it, perhaps because I was horny or perhaps because I actually felt better.
We made plans to get together our first weekend back at school and then we hung up. I wasn’t sure what to make of it but I would go. I felt that, regardless of how it turned out, it was important to my constant rebuilding of myself that I see her at least one more time.