Every time I hear a story about a young girl engaged in risky behaviors, I feel an urge to reach her in some way.  Anecdotes about my past and the hard lessons I learned about womanhood and self-love always swell just behind my teeth, awaiting the brain signal that would springboard them from my tongue or inspire me to pen an open letter to the young women my grandmother would’ve call “fast girls.” Only, the world doesn’t really need any more open letters, and I’d rather be more of an advocate than a mentor for those girls. That works for me because I was once a “fast girl” myself, hurtling toward an uncertain future at warp speed.

Mini memoir of a Warp Speed Girl:

I survived Washington, D.C. in the ’90s with all of my fingers and toes, no crack addiction (if you grew up in Washington, D.C. during that time you’d know that this was no small feat), and no chronic or incurable illnesses. What I do have is a chemical batch of craziness that trickled down from my father’s side of the family tree like sugar maple sap. Other than that, I’m OK. I even managed to get hitched and give birth to a strapping boy  with a penchant for video games, pizza, and Regular Show. So why revisit my past at all?  Because under all my layers of spackled-on adulthood, I’m still bothered to my bad-girl core by what young girls have to contend with today. I’m especially bothered by this: Read More