Last Saturday, I participated in one of the largest protest marches in the history of the world. For the most part the demonstration was peaceful, but I saw protesters spitting on cops, a man directly in front of me get pepper-sprayed, and an old woman who was nearly run down by a police van. I sometimes question whether or not marches and demonstrations are an effective means of demanding change. Even at our peaceful march we begat violence. The city was hectic, deafening. No room to move. At 66th Street and Third Ave., down to almost Times Square, everyone’s movements seemed sharp.

There was a blizzard last Sunday and Monday. It was the biggest snowstorm New York has seen in the last seven years. The silence of the snow was the only thing to compete with the clamor of the day before. I was in Times Square again, and I couldn’t find one taxi.

Seventeen inches of snow were moved by snowplows Tuesday morning to the sides of the road, burying entire station wagons.

On Wednesday morning, the sun arrived after a three-month hiatus. It’s been relatively warm since then. I’ve resisted the temptation to exit my building in flip-flops.

This morning (Friday), there was a raging oil fire at a Staten Island refinery. Silly the way accidents happen with fossil fuels, no? My roommate’s father was worried, and wanted us both to return to her house in Westchester. I declined. So did she. I am not afraid, for some reason.

Code Orange also doesn’t frighten me.

This is what does frighten me: In September 2002, I wrote an article that ran in Newsweek. This issue of Newsweek is in the library of Folsom State Prison. Recently, I’ve been receiving mail in response to this article from inmates at the prison. Of course, my address was not published in the magazine, but my university affiliation was. The inmates have been addressing their mail to me c/o NYU. The mail went to the front desk of the Gallatin school. My mail had been opened. My letter had been photocopied. Gallatin staff said that it was university policy. How many students receive mail from the Folsom State Prison? Any prison? Policy? Please. I am confused and upset. I feel like it’s wrong. It might be a felony. I don’t know.

Right now I am overwhelmed, over-committed, stressed. I’ve been catty with my friends. I haven’t been eating well. My back hurts. Body image issues are resurfacing; last week was Fashion Week in New York.

I am writing a lot. Three writing classes will do that to a girl. I am working on a project where NYU students will facilitate writing workshops for young folks recently released from the juvenile justice facilities. I still have my job. I am also working a couple of small gigs here and there. I’m performing new work every week.

Going to Puerto Rico in March. Going back to Cali in March. I hear spring starts for real in March.

I met Stevie Wonder. Whoa. For those of you who don’t know, I fell in love with Stevie over a bowl of grits at age seven. My father played Songs in the Key of Life at breakfast. I own a ridiculous number of his albums, starting with his work from age twelve. Oh. Oh. I can’t explain the joy. When I moved into the dorms in August, there was a man who made his home in the vestibule of a cathedral. Remember? Yes, well, that same cathedral is now under construction, and the scaffolding has an advertisement for Citibank. It takes up an entire block. I see a fundamental problem with an ad for money engulfing a church.

“‘Where’s your God?’
That’s what my friends ask me
And I say it’s taken Him so long
’Cause we’ve got so far to come…”
—Steveland Morris, AKA Stevie Wonder