A series of getting to know me, getting to know all about me... Part 2, or 'Blerd: An Origin Story'

    Every superhero has an origin story, while I am in no shape or form a superhero, I've found that every self-proclaimed nerd has one too. This is a bit lengthy, but bear with me.

    Now I am not a nerd in a “traditional” sense. I've always been super into sports, I get that from my Mom, I remember trying to rush my Mom to my grandmother's house in between morning and afternoon services at church to watch the second half of the Bears game. Two things to note in this story, Black churches traditionally have service ALL DAY:

• wake up for Sunday school at 9am
• go to morning service
• eat in the church basement
• go to afternoon service
• head home at around 5:30

So the fact that I could beg my Mother for a reprieve for a few hours to watch beautiful, beautiful football was a feat in and of itself; and probably proudly self-serving on her behalf.  The second thing to note, my Mom was an anomaly to me as a kid, that beautiful woman can name the entire 83 Cubs roster (although a Sox fan), and argue the merits of Tiger Woods' Master's win in juxtaposition to Arnold Palmer's. So yes I do in essence, get it from my Momma.

    I am also the daughter of a photographer and videographer, a girl who learned how to use my father’s video camera when I was 8. I also shared my father’s love of movies and music, so singing Al Green when everyone else was singing Hansen, didn’t make me any friends. Add the fact that I’d rather play video games than go on group outings, made sure that when the popular kids had parties that I wasn’t invited to, I was perfectly content to sit at home and read, and watch T.V., and movies, and make up stories that I dreamed would one day be on the big screen. I still love movies, and plays, and the writers of movies and plays, we all know they are the real stars.

Imagine caring a camera the size of the one's the News videographers have now, and connecting it to something that pops out of your VCR that you carry in a large shoulder bag so you can record things. My dad was pretty fancy in the 90s, and this wasn't heavy at all for an 8-year-old.

    My Blerdiness (Black nerdiness) never included opening computers, tearing them down and rebuilding them, although I did love science, I was never obsessed with Star Wars or space, or mechanics, and I still believe math sucks, but trust me my nerd game was strong. Somehow this creative nerd was built by parents that immersed her in anything she could dream about, and even though they probably knew she was a little weird, supported her in all her little nerd dreams. From any live sporting event they could take me to, to making special appointments with the Chicago History Museum because I decided I needed to know everything about the Garfield Park Conservatory, to moving the basement around to accommodate an extra science fair project that I wasn’t going to turn in, but that I just thought was really cool. They made home a very safe space, but school for a slightly overweight tomboy, on the other hand, was a different story.

    Moving through my elementary years, as a sports loving black girl, in a majority white upper middle class school, definitely set me apart from the rest of my classmates. I preferred playing Nerf football with the boys, and Horse, and kickball. I wanted friends to giggle and gossip with during lulls in class, but unfortunately in our little childhood minds both were not an option. So even though I loved my very diverse class in a not so diverse school (A class made up of Jews and Gentiles, Black, White, Asian, and Hispanic), I still felt like quite an outsider. I was a girl who beat the guys in sports they should be better at than me (or so I believed at the time), and I was a girl who played sports with the guys instead of hanging out with the other girls.

    That’s when Mr. Yana saved my life. I believe he took over in 6th grade for a Music teacher we all loved, but who had put in enough years with other people’s crazy rambunctious kids that she had the good sense to retire. He was our creative everything teacher, from building stuff, to music, to art and dance, his class was the respite for an overly talkative, awkward, Black girl. He protected me, because I’m sure he knew I needed it.

    I’d do assignments wrong, taking my own artistic direction, and while other students were ready to point out every flaw in my work, Mr. Yana always admired my creativity. He was the facility sponsor for Video/Tech Squad (which of course I couldn’t wait to join), and was happy to let me goof around on the keyboards during lunch, run around the school for absolutely no purpose with a camera on my shoulder, or let me write the dialogue for the stop motion videos and animations we made with clay, and a professional camera and animation set-up. I was also the go-to videographer for the school in 7th and 8th grade, allowing me to miss recess or classes at his behest for “important” school documentary work. He quietly let me build on my creativity with no judgement, and gave me space to be the biggest geek I could ever be.

    Every kid needs a savior during those middle school years, and he was mine. He gave me more confidence than I should have earned at that time.  Made me comfortable with my baggy clothes and self-image, regardless of the nickname of “Je-ne-ne” which classmates called me as apparently the only dark-skinned girl with a pronounced posterior they could compare me to was a man in drag on a popular 90s sitcom. I finally made friends with girls at my school, although a grade below me, who might have been just as crazy as I was, and I went into High School knowing I liked science, and history, but what I wanted most was to be creative in any space I could be. This was when I realized I wanted to be a writer, a story teller, and if I ever knew where that man was today, I’d treat him to dinner and thank him.

    I’d thank him because, today I am a Front End Web Developer, and therefore I am a writer. I’m a storyteller whose creative pallet has the capacity to reach millions on a daily basis. That is my origin story. Truncated, yet long, I know, but you got the most important part. The part where someone’s belief in my abilities, and unwavering support from my parents, created the still goofy yet proud Blerd you see (or read) before you.