Dear Loves,

It’s 1:48AM and Valentine’s Day has just left me, alone. No, I don’t have a man yet—thanks for asking. Another year has passed and it’s just me and you. So, I feel compelled to let you know, Darlings, what has been going on. Sorry I’ve been so flighty. I know I promised to call more often. I haven’t yet deciphered the cure for the common cold. I haven’t spent anytime scaling the Andes or worrying about nuclear plight. I did get my black belt in toilet-paper-ology. I have been writing—working on a play—with some brilliant writers, which will open in May at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. Planning on returning to Bahia for a month this summer. Yes, I have gained weight—thank you for noticing. My grades are good. I can write a sit-com now. I can hold a camera, shoot, and edit. I am in my junior year, still studying, enjoying the lap of luxury. I currently have both cereal and milk in my dorm room. Moving on up, as they say. In fact, I’m an RA, charged with the wellbeing of some 40 residents, in a highly-prestigious residence hall, in the heart of the city.

Those of you pirates, savvy in Oakland cartography, will be tickled to know that I now live on E 14th Street in New York City. But it’s no International Boulevard. It’s in an area of town the people here like to call Union Square. It’s similar to the Union Square in San Francisco in that it is square, and there is a park-like atmosphere, concrete and skaters, bikers, protesters, men babbling to themselves, NYU film students shooting low budget productions. There is a Virgin Records that stays open late, and a 24-hour coffee shop called Coffee Shop where all of the famous people eat their diner food. About two months ago Dave Chappelle, who is NOT Rick James, had a very quiet evening there. I sat two booths away and, against every groupie bone in my body, let him enjoy his food. Three weeks ago, my friend Grayson and I partook of a lovely meal of turkey burgers and mango sorbet, and were graced with the presence of the greatest waitress of all time. She is called M. Najah, and had the most sparkling conversation anyone can serve up with coffee and extra ketchup. If you meet her, tip well. She commutes to Manhattan from Jersey.

This city is still an everyday challenge. It’s grimy, son. Honestly. And don’t worry about me too much—I’ve been going through it, for real, about my body. Feel fine, then feel fat. Feel gorgeous, then unproductive. I spend late-nights, early-mornings, staring down the barrel of my mirror and all these ugly feelings. I spend some days invigorated about time in Central Park and some days cocooned under down comforter. More woman than girl these days, and it frightens me. Maybe it’s time for me to know who I should become.

Plus, New York still has seasons. I just don’t understand. One would think that they’d just outlaw any temperature below, say, 45 degrees. I cope with winter by using excessively large headphones. They serve as both earmuffs and “Can’t-hear-you” devices. I have been listening to these albums incessantly: John Legend’s Get Lifted, Ise Lyfe’s Spread the Word, and Jean Grae’s This Week. As an East Bay native I am prone to get hyphy. If you don’t know what that means, check out Richmond’s own: Frontline. I am obsessed with remixes to Jay-Z’s Black Album and thoroughly underwhelmed with Kanye’s College Dropout. I am still deeply infatuated with Stevie Wonder. Oh, and don’t tell anyone, but I’ve also been showing heavy rotation-love to Dean Martin and Patsy Cline.

Okay. Now pretend this is the end of my Grammy acceptance speech. I’ve thanked everyone who needs to be thanked and can make this next statement without hurting any of my old, wonderful, generous homies. My favorite new people to build with in the city are: Chris Darby and Gabe Feldman. Both attend Columbia and will comfort the slightly awkward NYU junior, unsure of self, and the world around her. Who calls you when the President who wasn’t gets elected—again? Gabe and Chris check in on me. Gabriel calls just to tell me he likes my writing, to let me practice my broken French, to recommend good music, and to let me guest host on WBAR. Chris is a disc jockey at rival station WKCR. They don’t beef, though. They just play the finest in soul, hip hop, and late-night funk.

Last week Chris, Emma and I went to see an exhibit by Kehinde Wiley at the Brooklyn Museum. If you are unfamiliar with Wiley’s work and you trust me, as well you should, stop reading this update now, find Kehinde, and make him show you his newest collection. Passing/Posing is work that features young, black men in their contemporary attire, in poses from famous Renaissance portraiture. Picture 50-Cent posing as the Prophet Ann. Crazy to see the people I bump shoulders with in Harlem, become enamored with the 2 train window, deny my phone number too on BART, suddenly a part of the art appreciator’s cannon. Incredible to see images of my younger brothers and first boyfriends staring down in life-sized dimensions from the ceiling of these museums. Oil-painted into forever. Validated. Humble. Gorgeous. Respected. Wiley made me proud to know these men—men like them. He clearly understands the value of a Caesar haircut, a throwback jersey, and a fresh pair of Air Forces. The subtle beauty of a crease down the middle of a denim pant leg. And what it must be like when these men hold their women in sleep, or hug themselves, and have to cry so don’t nobody notice. Kehinde paints them brown, aglow, desirable, against ether and God, presents them to the world, and reminds me of what I must savor of this city.

I have a little more than a year left at the University. I vow to write you more often, let you know what albums to listen to. But I’d also like to get some conversation going with you, so that I know folks in radio-land are listening. Send me the questions that have been plaguing you, and I’ll respond, briefly, every two weeks or so, giving you answers to life’s toughest questions. If you’d like to know how to make pancakes, which rooms to request as an NYU entering freshman, the top 5 things to do in Oakland on a Sunday, or what its really like jean shopping as a black woman in New York City, I’ll tell you. ’Til then.

—Chinaka
chinaka.hodge@gmail.com