Upon leaving a retirement dinner for my nally Henry, a former busdriver, a husband, a great father for his two grown children, and now a grandfather, the emcee asked all the people gathered in the Chapter House to put their right hand in the air and wave a congratulatory farewell to me as I exited the building. I laughed under my breath, slightly disentangled by all this attention, while my cousins teased me and asked for mock autographs.

This was truly a reservation rock star moment. I had to leave for an early flight to Atlanta the next day - so I put on my jacket and waved back after secretly slipping some small cash to my two grandmothers 'for pop and candy" which roughly translates to "slot machine tokens and bingo dabbers" in my intergenerational commod-bod tongue.

It was the first time I read a chopped-up version of the Northern Sun to the actual community that I come from, granted that I got choked up because the poem is a deep one, and that deepness wells up from time to time, especially when I look at the faces of my family members. I read the poem with my back to them and closed my eyes, in an attempt to soften the landing. My youngest brother teased me afterward, saying I looked like I was singing. My other sister imitated me, closed her eyes, lifted her chin and smiled mockingly. All those years of picking on and teasing them are coming back to me, I thought. It was funny too. I had to laugh at myself. Thankfully, I made it through the poem without heaving or passing out from an asthma attack in front of the audience. Afterwards, I sat down where the Chapter Officials sit to draw out resolutions and grazing rights to eat my first plate of mutton and hominy stew in a ages. It was all worth it.