Here’s my ABOUT YOU:  One thing that all people have in common is the facing of life’s trials and tribulations.  Black, white, Puerto Rican, Japanese, Hispanic-whatever the culture, everyone goes through the rollercoaster of life, and because of that, Shonell Bacon considers herself a ‘life write’ — her goal is not to paint the portrait of the black experience specifically, but to paint the portrait of the ‘human’ experience within her stories so that a dialogue about our commonalities can spark and help unite an entire society.

Favorite quote (from my grandmother):  God is.  Period.  My grandmother loved herself some God, and as a child (and a teen), whenever I questioned his existence, her response was:  ‘God is.  Period.’

My Favorites:

Favorite Flower:  tulips

Favorite Drinks (non-alcoholic and alcoholic):  non-alcoholic:  Diet Coke; alcoholic:  amaretto sour

Favorite Pastime:  Writing and/or MySpacing

Favorite Vacation Destination:  Never been, but would love to go to London  

Favorite Tea:  Peppermint

Favorite bath and body scent:  Calgon’s Hawaiian Ginger  

Favorite makeup brand:  Don’t wear makeup.

Manicure or Pedicure:  Don’t really do either.  

Facial or Massage:  Probably the massage.

Favorite Song (right now on your play list):  Israel and New Breed’s ‘Come Medley’ 

 And I Rise–A Tribute to My Grandmother, Audrey Marilyn Bacon(1931 – 1998)

I loved spending the weekend with my grandparents in their big ol’ house. I loved squealing as PopPop grabbed and tickled me. I loved playing Red Light, Green Light in my grandparents’ expansive yard or playing volleyball with my cousins out back, using the clothesline as a net. I loved taking trips with my grandparents down to Brandywine to see my great uncle and watching them go off to hunt squirrel and rabbit.

But most of all, I loved two things the most: 1) the smell of coffee and the warmth of Grandma’s inner thighs as she slid me up between them and brushed my long locks with warm coffee and 2) helping her make what seemed like a million loaves of bread for various family members and for Sunday dinner.

Grandma would give me my own small bowl and pan, and then would break off a chunk of dough for me to knead and beat down.

I’d cut my eyes over at her, watching her thin, nimble brown fingers knead, stretch, and caress the dough lovingly. She always wore the sweetest smile on her face when she molded the dough and placed it in a large bowl to sit.

Awhile later, we’d returned, and I was always amazed to see that the dough had swollen like a pregnant belly.

Grandma would grip the dough and slam it on the table – no, not lovingly like when she kneaded and stretched it. Even her always bright, heavenly-lit face appeared to darken, ready to pounce on the fat dough.

“Ball your fists up, baby girl,” she would tell me, and I would oblige, almost looking like I was ready to fight something or somebody.

“Hit it hard,” she said in a low tenor voice – her secretive voice. “Hit it like you mad at it.”

I closed my eyes tightly and tried to think of things that made me mad. Every hit create a small dent in the dough.

“Making bread helps…” Grandma said.

“Helps what?” I asked, still punching my dough.

“Makes you feel better. You can beat the dough down, and get all that anger inside of you out.”

I looked at my now flat and battered dough. “But it’s just gonna rise again.”

Grandma laughed one of her good-to-your-toes laughs, where she had to hold her back and lean forward. It always ended with a little cough and a loud, high-pitched whoo.

CLICK HERE  to read the entire tribute.

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