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     change for the A train for my journey into Manhattan. My old friend “the Rerun” was occurring nearly once a month and haunted
     me more intensely than ever before. One hot summer morning I awoke filled with anxiety, having had the recurring dream again
     for the umpteenth time. What did it mean? Feeling hopelessly inadequate and directionless in body and psyche, I decided to
     enroll in an African dance class to lift my spirits. I scrounged up some subway tokens, and headed out with the cash from
     one of my unemployment checks.
    My heart raced at the thought of this new adventure. As I walked from Washington Street to Myrtle Avenue, I noticed people
     looking at me strangely. I put my head down and quickened my pace, ignoring the looks. Why were they staring at me? Was it
     the way I was dressed? I always wore a colorful kente cloth, either as a scarf during the cold winter months in NewYork or as a sash or belt during the warmer weather. I took precious time to meticulously cut slits into the legs of all my
     jeans with my razor blade, and the stone-washed pair I wore that day was carefully ripped from my knees up to my thighs.
    I had African locks with a cowrie shell dangling from one of them and the sides and back of my head were closely shaved. I
     wore a necklace with a cowrie shell centered on a square patch of leather. Most of my fingers had various types of sterling
     silver rings on them and my wrists were adorned with several bracelets fashioned out of leather, copper, and cowrie shells,
     which I bought while attending the annual African Festival at the Bedford-Stuyvesant Boys and Girls High School. I must have
     looked like a walking African jewelry store!
    The bus arrived nearly full and I climbed aboard. I always enjoyed placing my token in the receptacle and watching it cling
     clang through the machine and disappear out of sight. It was always fun watching the bus driver slightly nod in appreciation
     to me and pretend not to notice our transaction and this marvelous piece of technology.
    As I walked toward the middle of the bus, I immediately encountered a heavyset but extremely beautiful woman standing across
     from me. I had noticed her staring at me when I boarded. I tried to ignore her gaze, but she persisted in looking at me. More
     people boarded the bus and I was forced to move closer to her. She smiled and said something I didn’t understand. I tried
     to avert my eyes away from hers, but she wasn’t having it. Again, she said something in a language I did not recognize. Sensing
     her growing frustration with me I said, “Hey.”
    “Why won’t you speak your language?” she said accusingly.
    “Excuse me?”
    She repeated, “Why won’t you speak your language?”
    “What language?” I asked.
    “Aren’t you Wolof?”
    “Wolof? What’s that?”
    She laughed and said “You are American? You look like my people in Senegal! Are you sure you are not from Senegal? Where are
     you from?”
    “I grew up in Houston, Texas.”
    “Texas?” she said, and then rolled her eyes as if she didn’t believe me. Suddenly, the bus came to its final stop and she
     got up to disembark. As she brushed past me on the now overcrowded bus she said, “You are not from Texas, you are from West
     Africa!” And with that, she got off the bus and disappeared into the sea of humanity that scrambled underground to catch the
     subway train.
    I was stunned, and left with a profound sense of confusion and curiosity about what had just transpired. Why was this woman
     so convinced that I was Wolof? What was it about me that evoked such a response from her?
    The memory of her musical voice and bright smile pierced my previous cloud of anxiety, lifted it up, and blew it away from
     me. Voilà! My feelings of inadequacy dissipated like sugar on my tongue and sweetened my sense of self. There was something
     here I decided I must follow, a seed planted that I sensed I must cultivate. I was determined to not