I Hear the Sea Calling Me

In all honesty, I wasn’t looking forward to attending the Umu Igbo Unite Conference, an annual event organized to bring together young adults of the Nigerian Igbo diaspora. The tickets were expensive and I didn’t know anyone else going. Would I fit in with the crowds of beautiful, Instagram worthy Igbo women? I thought of backing out, but my sister convinced me to attend and offered to go with me. She’d attended some years back and described it as a transformative (and fun) experience. The tickets were nonrefundable, but at least I’d have a buddy with me. Reluctantly, I caught yet another flight home. Since the conference was in the city, I could attend during the day and stay home at night, so I wouldn’t need to spend money on a hotel. A win is a win.

My sister and I missed all the events on the first day except the comedy show. I decided to wear a short skirt, and before I left Mom told me to bring a sweater. Being the (barely) rebellious daughter that I am, I skipped out. Upon entering the Hyatt Regency at McCormick, I immediately began to regret my decision. It was cold like a hospital floor. There were signs for directions, but these signs were for a sex conference that was apparently happening at the same time as the UIU conference. A part of me wanted to go to the sex conference, but then again, I’m not a sex-haver, so it wouldn’t be relevant.

We arrived at the ballroom, which was filled with well-dressed Igbo men and women. The event was behind schedule. There was a Kahoot game going on that my sister was enthusiastic about, but they didn’t end up posting the final scoreboard (Instead, they said, the winner would be contacted directly. We did not win.), much to the her disappointment. From the Kahoot, I learned: UIU had existed since the 90’s, and Phoenix was home to it’s newest chapter.

There was a point in the evening when the announcer called the name of each Nigerian state and asked the audience to cheer if they were from there. Of course, the loudest state was Anambra. Knowing Nigeria’s history, my sister and I wondering if this silly game was encouraging the brutal tribal divides that seemed to endlessly hold Nigeria back. But. Maybe a game is just a game. Anyway, go Anambra!!!

Then the comedians arrived. They were enthusiastic for sure, but I didn’t understand the jokes. My sister described it as “Instagram skits in real life.” I suggested we leave early and stop by the hotel restaurant before it closed to try the fries. My sister considered, then obliged. The restaurant had brooding lighting and was mostly empty. My sister wanted to get dessert as well, but the waiter convinced her not to (It’s too sweet, he said), so we settled on a bowl of fries to share. Contrary to the pictures online, they were mediocre - there goes $6. We headed back to the hallway outside the ballroom. The comedy show had just ended, and the crowds were clearing out. My sister was determined to talk to at least one person. We stopped a girl who had beautiful hair, a half-up-half-down style, and being as unoriginal as I am, I took a picture to show to my stylist. Before we departed, we stopped at the photobooth, where the lighting was dim and the flash was loud. Snap-snap! Captured like celebrities on the red carpet!

Chicago has several artificial biodomes they call “beaches,” which are really concrete slabs sprinkled with sand across the Lake Michigan coastline. My sister and I arrived late afternoon to one of these biodomes, 57th Street Beach, for the UIU Beach Party, me with my sunhat and umbrella and book. We’d brought friends, one of them a woman we met on a whim offering a ride for carpooling, and another that my sister had met at a previous conference. Thus, I had fulfilled my friend-making quota for the day. There was jollof rice, chicken, and ice pops, a cool relief to the humid air. I sat and opened my book, Ask and It is Given, assigned by my therapist many moons ago. It was repetitive novel, and occasionally insane. But there were good things to be said. Anything you desire can be yours was the message echoed. Truly? Anything?

The beach gradually grew crowded. I could see the lifeguards in their red swimsuits, sitting in the highchairs or on tiny boats in the water, turning their heads, surveilling the scene. All kinds of folks were frolicking in the blue, all types of bodies, in swimsuits of neon and neutral tones. The jutting gray buildings of the skyline cut the beach like a knife, and the sun bounced off the water like drops of gold. Anything I desire could be mine. What do I really want?

I took the train to visit the love of my life, Aryan. She was waiting for me at the Schaumburg Train Station with bright eyes and a beautiful smile. At her house, she was cooking up chorizo tacos with guac and salsa. I had about five which is way too many chorizo tacos for one sitting but it was good, so good - I couldn’t help myself. Her dog’s name is Teddy and he was recently groomed so he looked quite dapper. I caught some video of him on my camcorder (with permission, of course). He loves people and is a bit crazy in an endearing way. What is crazier is this is how many women would describe their boyfriends. Y’know, “golden retriever” types. Not that there is anything wrong with that…

On the subject of boyfriends, Aryan and I have made a pact: the usual oh-if-we’re-thirty-and-single-let’s-just-have-a-baby-togther type pact that every 20-something promises their friend (or is that just me?). Is it crazy that I would be so seriously honored to be Aryan’s baby mama and for her to be mine? Is it crazy that I also see that to be a more realistic life path than to ever settle down with some Erika’s Husband and live that heteronormative dream life? The future remains a paint-stained window, when I close my eyes, my dreams are opaque, vague - I say I want child(ren), I really do, but, like, how?

After chatting and showing off her mom’s katana collection, I went back to the train station to head off to the city. I heard a man on the train call someone a bitch about a 100 times. “Yeah, bitch, fuck you, bitch, whatever, bitch, shut up, bitch, stupid bitch, dumb bitch, ugly bitch, bitch bitch bitch-“ Another man shook his head fervently, “yeah, that’s what I’m talking about! That’s how I talk to these bitches.” (People talk shit about the south suburbs, but this is the glorious west suburbs. Whatever.)

Meanwhile, my stomach began to do backflips. Was it the suspicious smelling tortillas (no, as it turns out, chorizo and I don’t get along. Although I truly loved the tacos, truly, deeply, thank you Aryan)? I popped my emergency pepto bismos, and the man continue to say bitch bitch bitch.

When I arrived at Union Station I rushed to the bathroom. There was a line, so I waited, gripping my bag and my hat, breathing slowly to distract from the motions of my stomach jumping like a bouncy house. I heard two girls talking to each other in-between the stalls. Was this the 7th circle of hell? A punishment for all my misdeeds?

My sister and I were supposed to go to another event for the UIU conference, but my stomach told me to go home. All I can remember is we searched for ages for the door to the underground parking. We found it, and when she went to the machine, it printed her ticket receipt, and snatched it back before she could grab it. I’d never seen a machine revolt from human touch in such a dramatic way. The consequences of AI?

The next day, my sister and I were up bright and early to get brunch at the McCormick place. We’re paying for the event, so we had to maximize the free meals we were owed. While the food was mediocre, I hit my friend-making quota by having a conversation with one new person. The speaker during the panel discussion asked the audience to talk with their neighbor about whether it was valid to expect a man to provide in a relationship (typically Nigerian discussion topics), and that is when the man next to me introduced himself. He had had the appearance of a “Myron,” so I will refer to him as such. I don’t remember much of the conversation except that I said the phrase “The Art of Leisure.” Don’t we all desire a life of leisure and luxury? So much so that we will watch content of trad wives making their strange foods in their pristine kitchens with their stiff smiles. There’s an art to the presentation of leisure that we love to consume. I think that was what went through my mind.

After the event, there was a marketplace outside with different vendors selling clothes, jewelry, and other goods. I bought some Igbo learning books and a handheld cat game with vocab cards from @ChetaIgbo, who you should all follow, share, and support, because they are doing the lord’s work in passing down the Igbo language to the next generation. I have been embarking on a journey to learn my parent’s language, which has been bumpy considering my lack of knowledge, but what has changed in the past 10 years or so is the amount of resources available. Before, there was just one guy posting videos on his Youtube channel, now there’s classes, podcasts, books, and more. I am certain, it is an imperative, that I will be fluent before I have a child(ren)!

From the McCormick place my sister, her husband, and I made our way to Washington Park for the annual Bud Billiken Parade. Unbelievably, even though I am a native of the Chicago suburbs, it was my first time attending. On the way to the parade route, there were tents set up by various local organizations, and we stopped by and got some free goodies, tote bags, luggage tags, and the like. At the Aetna tent I twirled with a hulu hoop and they gave me a medal! The last time I got a medal had to have been during my high school graduation. Maybe I will finally fulfill my obligation as an elder Gen Z woman and run a marathon, so I can get an even fancier medal.

As we headed to the main parade area, we saw Lisa Raye (the Lisa Raye) driving around on a golf cart. My sister and I followed like fans trying to snap a picture. Embarrasing, but so what? Does Lisa Raye come around every day?

There is nothing more distinctly Chicago than this day in August - the warm summer sun, children enjoying the days before school begins, the parade floats passing by, bursts of cheers and music. On the parade grounds, I bought an italian sausage and fried rice from a mom and pop tent on the side of the route. The sausage was grilled to perfection and coated in barbecue sauce. I could have an italian sausage everyday if I was living in the city. Was this my sign to move back?

Eric arrived as the parade began to wind down. He was dressed like a professional, which is jarring to me because I see him as a goofy high schooler, not a grown and professional man. In conversation with my sister, she came to the realization that she had no idea Eric had been a student at the Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy, not a residence counselor (in fact - that was a different Eric). What a shock for her to learn this man had been one of my classmates, and he was 24, soon to be 25, not 34. Not that he ever looked 34 - she just believed that for the past 7 years. I’m not sure how such a critical piece of misinformation came to pass as fact, but the situation has nonetheless been rectified.

The sanitation services began to clean the streets almost immediately after the parade ended. Eric and I departed the grounds, and as we left, a crowd of teens began running to witness a fight that was brewing. Instinct almost pulled me into the commotion, but logic overrided. The police began running towards the mix, yelling. The entire scene was, like the parade, very summertime Chicago.

I ended up getting pulled into Eric’s move from his Bronzeville apartment to his new place in the South Loop. Cassius (“Cash”) was also there to assist with the move. All of us had attended the same high school years ago, although Eric was a grade above us. I can’t say I talked to Cash during high school, but I was glad to see him doing well (he is now a mental health professional), and I felt like the three of us had a good dynamic as a temporary trifecta.

For a while, Cash kept apologizing to Eric for an unfortunate oversight on his part. The situation: Eric likes a girl (At the time, he refused to admit it clearly. But he very much likes this girl.). We’ll call her Daria. Eric met Daria at work, and my understanding is they had mutual work crushes on each other, although Eric was unaware, and being the cautious man he is (aware of the delicacies of workplace daliances, and an ardent advocate for the autonomy of women), he didn’t pursue the relationship beyond friendship. Daria arranged for some coworkers to give him a sign, a push to pursue, and thus, they went on two official/unofficial dates.

Now, my understanding of the situation is, Eric invited Daria to a trivia night in which Cash was also attending. And (this is my understanding) - Cash, being a go-getter, being a pursuant gentleman (shooter’s shoot!), approached Daria with romantic intent. I can say now, that Daria rejected Cash’s proposition (being that Eric and Daria are now intensely involved), BUT at the time, the state of the relationship was murkier.

Eric was not offended by Cash’s approach (being that he never informed Cash of his romantic interest towards Daria beforehand), because, as he said many times, “If she wants him, she was never mine in the first place.” Cash, however, felt like he broke an unspoken rule of male friendship, and was incredibly apolegetic.

My thoughts? I was surprised to see men so worried about disrespect in this realm - maybe I’ve inhaled too much “man-hating” propaganda, but I figured it was a dog-eat-dog world - may the best win. I’d be upset if one of my homegirls pursued my crush(es) but what could I do? Everyone has free will. It was all interesting debate - where should the line be drawn when it comes to romantic pursuit? Who is off limits? In any case, Eric’s new apartment is spacious and luxorious, so I’m happy for him.

There was something Cash said in the car, when I was discussing my so-called love life: (1) All the best guys have an on-again-off-again thing on the side. (2) You’ve got to go through the rain to appreciate the sunshine. I hope the first point isn’t true. Actually, I hope the second point isn’t true either. What counts as rain anyway? The storm obscures the destination, but the path beckons, just follow… I don’t know where it leads, but I have to trust in the tendencies of nature to lead me to sunny skies.

One last thing about love: The word “in” appended to “love” is very challenging for people to interpret. To say “I love-” vs. “I’m in love-” triggers two different reactions. During a conversation with Raul, he noted with no hesitation that he is (platonically) in love with his male friend(s). When I asked Eric, he hesitated on the in. In my eyes, between Cash and Eric, the platonic in was visible in their actions and the dynamic of care that exists between them. But to make that leap is difficult. I thought it was just a man thing - societal standards, toxic masculinity, etc., but when I asked Maya and Joyce how they felt about in love compared to just love (in regards to friendship, but also, in general) there was a visceral reaction to that in. Maya thinks to feel/be in love is a temporary feeling, one that emerges in the best of moments, but it is not something that just happens, and it can’t be freely and casually declared. Joyce feels that to be in love is a mirage, a fleeting feeling that requires someone to give themselves fully in a way that never lasts.

To say I’m in love is an omen of doom. A woman who opens her heart creates a wound that may never heal, and as such opens herself up to the potential pain of an unhappy ending. And yet, everyday someone will whisper these words to another: I’m in love. We open ourselves up to the most horrible pain on the hope that the verb in will be enough to hold some level of pleasantness. It’s worth it, because it has to be worth it.

When I say someone is the love of my life, in my purest heart of hearts, I believe it to be true. I continue to believe that I should live with a more open heart, which means, more bold declarations of love, grabbing hold of the in, letting everyone I love know yes I am in love with you- but- why does that feel so hard to say? I suppose I’m not fully there yet.

I headed back to the convention center to wrap up my time at the conference. However, there were a serious of mishaps that almost spoiled the night. First, my brother’s car was nearly totaled by a flood some days ago, and it was on the road (bad) after my Dad tried to fix it (smh). This resulted in a visit to the house from the sheriff, which confused and terrified my brother and Grandmother. Luckily, nothing came out of it (the car was towed days later). In addition, that night my Dad experienced an extremely low blood sugar rate that resulted in hospitalization. He was fine, but the suddenness of the event combined with the fact that he didn’t see it coming (when he usually does), stressed the entire family out. I sat outside the banquet hall looking frazzled, eating a pizza puff, taking in the rapidly occurring events of the evening. I asked a group of women walking by when dinner would be served, and I’m sure I looked insane, because they looked at me as if I was insane, and said they didn’t know. I wanted to take the train home, but Mom insisted that my sister and I attend the final banquet at the event and have fun, ensuring that everything was under control. So, my sister reluctantly returned to the convention center and we went to the banquet together. We were late, so we’d missed the food, although we did see the singer Ugoccie and her spirited band. Overall, the convention was an experience, a mostly good one, and I would attend again, but I’d make more of an effort to get involved with the ongoing activities, because I was a bit distracted seeing this friend and that friend and whatnot.

On Sunday my cousins came over for our annual “cousin hang.” Being that we are the “new adults,” my sister and I felt responsible for showing our cousins a good time and encouraging some level of family bonding, especially considering most of our family is back in Nigeria. What I learned about them is that the youngest boy is 15, not 12, and he is in varsity track as a 100m sprinter. The eldest girl is excited for college, has a roommate picked out, and likes to dance to K-pop tracks. She also cooks an excellent mac and cheese! We had an impromptu race outside on the neighborhood street - because when you hang out with your cousins, you’re required to compete in something, and Mr.Varsity Sprinter won (of course). We thought of ordering Beggar’s pizza but when we saw the price ($80 for 2 family size pizzas!) we opted for frozen pizzas, which was delicious and not a gazillion dollars and there were leftovers for the next day. And although I doubt they see me as the “cool cousin,” I think our hangout went well.

I was on the way to San Diego. Sitting in O’Hare, I noticed a man wrapped in loose fitting plastic, sleeping. Maybe it was one of those plastic ponchos? It reminded me of Euphoria (maybe spoilers?), that one scene with Jules and the weird man wrapping her in plastic. I saw another man, young and athletic, carrying a backpack that only held a change of clothes and a bible. He scrolled his phone occasionally, but mostly looked down intensely at his folded hands. Where was he headed? Perhaps a bible was all he needed to make that leap of faith through the air.

I fell asleep as soon as I boarded. I woke up in a panic, thinking I missed the snacks, but then a nice lady with beautiful locs came back around and asked Would you like a drink? Yes. Yes, I would like a Diet Coke.

I’m still reading Ask and it is Given, and now the author is saying there’s no such thing as wealth hoarding, that billionaires are billionaires because they wanted it more. Girl, what are you saying??

A flood of headlines arrived when I landed: An earthquake in Colombia, Kim Kardashian’s home in Hidden Hills evacuated, Trump hides in a cart for a secret flight out of Turkey.

San Diego was a 48-hour blur of beaches and fluffy dogs. Emma was in town all the way from the UK for a conference, and Grace was there and Annie too (there were some unfortunate delays in her arrival but! She made it!). What I learned from Grace is that Del Mar is not a part of San Diego but a seperate, ritzy town. In Del Mar I bought a beachy dress from a small botique. The owner said she used to live in University Park (south of Chicago) and remarked that it was quite boring - this is true. The dress was too expensive but I liked it, so I decided I deserved it.

In San Diego they surf or skateboard during P.E. In San Diego they do their senior ditch days on the beach. In San Diego it’s often cooler by the shore and there are towering trees lining the street on the way to the university, and in San Diego the university has new dorms that are tall and fancy and modern. That is where Grace and I picked up Emma, at a dorm that was much too fancy for some freshmen to live in, but maybe since I have graduated college, times have changed, and schools have to do more to impress and recruit kids to attend.

I learned from Grace that La Jolla is pronounced “La-Hoy-A” Not “La Jol-La.” And it is very offensive to say “La Jol-La.” Me, Grace, and Emma went to the beach in “La-Hoy-A,” and I wore my new dress and touched the sea for the first time. It was cool, and the sand was squishy and wet under my feet. I sat by the shore writing in my notebook, with the calm wind blowing and the seagulls harassing bikini-clad broads, and I understood, somewhat, the appeal of the ocean. I could hear the sea calling to me, or maybe whispering. Something Emma said in regards to technical interviews: imagine all the possible solutions. Never again will I do a job interview at my desk. Instead I will rest by the sea and hope that it passes all knowledge to my brain in ocean waves.

For dinner we went to a ramen place in Mera Mesa, where I did not indulge in the ramen, instead having entirely too much karaage. Good chicken. I thought the restaurant had a Michelin star, it did not, but it’s on some list made by Michelin. All this to say it was good.

I was happy when Annie arrived the next day even though we could only spend a few hours together. We went to Pokéz Mexican, a restaurant in downtown San Diego that felt very hole-in-the-wall, and their portions were huge - Emma got a taco the size of her head. Again, I had chorizo, this time in a sandwich - good in the moment, but a mistake. Then we walked around the pier and got one (and only one) good group picture. When I got to the airport, my stomach gnawed at my insides again. Longest plane ride ever… I reached my apartment and took an evening nap. I had work the next day, and I had no travel plans scheduled until the end of the year. It was the end of vacation, and therefore, the beginning of locking in.