The shenanigans of everyday public transportation never cease to amaze me. I thought the reckless driving of Mexican bus red drivers was the most exciting thing ever. I thought the train jumping of suicidal Dutchman was the most annoying thing. However, Chicago riders take the cake. We're on our way to the south side for some authentic Chicago barbecue when a mad driver in a minivan rear-ends the bus. Instead of stopping, they then squeeze between us and the parked cars. This is their rubbish attempt at getting away from whatever was chasing them. Recognizing that we were in fact on our way to Chicago's south side, instinctively duck below the windows. I open my eyes to see my travel companion sitting upright with their face pressed against the glass. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I want to know what happened.” Dread, this was not the time to be a mocco neighbor. Chicago is not a war zone but it was very likely that shower of bullets could follow. The minivan’s reckl

Holy high heaven! The world was about to realize that I'm a neglectful mother. My grade school girlfriend got pregnant during her first year in high school and asked me to be her godmother. Naive and not fully understanding, I asked for time to discuss with my parents before giving an answer. Naturally, my parents advised against it. If my friend died, I would be responsible for her child and raise them in their parent’s faith – even if it was different to mine. They doubled down on fear mongering by sharing teenage mothers mortality rates. “But if you’re up for the challenge, go for it!” I was thirteen going on fourteen and not up for parenting. Ten years later, an older friend had the same request. I still wasn’t ready. I hadn’t started dating. I still wanted to see the world. More importantly, should they die, I would be responsible for their daughter. I’m no statistician, but I think middle-aged people have higher death rates than teenagers. (Knock on wood) I coul

“Sorry, the dollhouse is full.” Those who know me know that my seemingly random quirks and habits are deeply rooted in past trauma. I’m a grudge holder with a long memory. I don't enjoy celebrating Christmas and most holidays. I especially don't like celebrating my birthday. The logic doesn’t add up: if my friends are grateful that I’m alive why am I the one spending money. My life if their gift; they should be giving me stuff. It was my second year in kindergarten. I was determined to spend time in the school’s dollhouse. This house with its kid-sized furniture was the greatest thing ever. On the first floor, there was a living room and a kitchen complete with plastic dishes and food. On the second level, there were several pillows and plush toys. Entry was first come, first served. The system was rigged. Our kindergarten teacher was running a botch social experiment about assertiveness and self-governance. The only kids who enjoyed the dollhouse were those w

Every Caribbean person comes out the womb bilingual. My goal in life was to speak at the least seven languages and maybe one day work as an interpreter at the United Nations. On my quest to mastering seven languages, I came across a little known tongue called Spanish. As a big headed teenager, I believe French, Dutch and English were the most important languages in the world. Spanish was not going to be a thing. School administrators should stop trying to make Spanish happen, readjust the budget, and double down on teaching French. ‘Cause honesty, anyone who only spoke Spanish probably didn’t do anything great. Obviously, I also struggled with history and world geography – as if you couldn’t tell from those strongly held and embarrassingly ignorant beliefs. The universe would later have me insert my foot – nay my entire leg – into my mouth because my future children are Afro-Latino. A moment of side eye and several seats for past Spanish-hating me. But back to masteri

Note: this post contains affiliate links but it is not sponsored. All opinions are my own. As an aspiring screenwriter , I needed a job that didn’t impede my writing goals. In 2015, I quit my call center gig and transition back to full-time writing. In preparation for the upcoming writing contest and fellowship submission season, I found myself with little time to write and edit my freelance assignments as well as my web series. Burning the candle at both ends made me slower and sloppy. Missing the deadlines was not an option. Submitting poorly-written work was a waste of money. I had a decision to make: should I hire a freelance copyeditor or should I buy grammar software? Hey Onicia is a series where I tap into my type-A side and answer questions from my friends about this starving artist life. If you find this helpful, share with your twitter homies or thank me with ice cream . Got questions or want to share something with me? Let’s chat. Hiring a Professional

“Good luck with your project. I hope you make friends soon. And remember to return the book next week.” Glasses. Braces. A backpack weighed down by books. Many would be surprised to know that I regularly ditched class. Yes, I skipped class to read books at the library. Insert montage of everyone who has ever known me saying “You too fooly nuh gyal.” Rewind to nine hours earlier. As I walked to the bus stop, I reflected on the lessons from family worship. I don’t remember what we discussed; I just remember having the intense desire to make some grand charitable gesture. Activating my nerd/good girl super powers, I convinced the gatekeeper to let me out the gate and headed towards the library. Here’s the thing: trashy romance novels were my guilty pleasure. Smut fiction wouldn’t have been my drug of choice, but that’s what the avid readers in my friend circle enjoyed. Mostly I read to laugh at the stupid decision these characters made in the name of love. Teenage me was vowed