How I Met Your Mother

Love, Laughter, and a Late Brooklyn A Train

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Us in 2021: Brooklyn, Williamsburg - Photo Credit: Ray and Alyssa

22 Weeks Old

Dear Myles,

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…” That’s the furthest I ever read in Pride and Prejudice—sorry, Ms. Austen. But it must be universally acknowledged that when I met your mother eight years ago, I was still living with your grandmother, just finished my master's, and was about to start my first year of teaching High School in NYC. I had no good fortune, just suffered a massive heartbreak seven months prior, and was definitely not in search of a wife. I was outside—IYKYK.

I was walking down the stairs of the Utica A train platform in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, after getting a haircut, and I was feeling good. The kind of good I told you about before when a Black man gets a haircut. 

Your mother stood almost at the end of the platform. I caught only a glimpse of her face as she peeked, checking if the train was approaching. Hair styled in a high bun, she wore a dress with a stitched pattern that hugged her torso perfectly, flowing away from her legs and stopping just above her knees. With her, a large green and pink tote adorned with 'AKA' embroidered letters, taking up the entire panel on both sides.

There was a softness about her, a radiance that stood out against the grimy backdrop of the New York City Public train station –I knew she wasn’t from here. This is what Tupac meant when he talked about a rose that grew from concrete.

I’m walking in her direction to get to the other side of the platform, but truthfully, I am walking because I want to say something to her. Speaking to women on the street was not something I usually did. I convinced people it’s because I knew women get catcalled and accosted all day by men. But, between you and me, the real truth is I just wasn’t that confident in my ability to walk up to a stranger on a subway platform and strike up a conversation.

I walk past her.

Now, I’m at the other end of the platform.

She’s still gazing in the direction of the train, which is clearly running late. I am sweating like a large pastor preaching in a hot church with no AC, desperately trying to find the right words to say. I’ve never been more thankful for a late train until now.

How do you approach a woman to ask her for her time?  To let her know that, even though, outwardly, you matched every other man who approached her that day, that inside you possessed something worth knowing?

How do you express interest without being too forward, or crossing boundaries, or avoiding the risk of her pulling out mace or slapping you with a really sizable green and pink tote bag? Showcasing intelligence without sounding pretentious – what’s the right balance?

What words do you choose for a woman emanating a vibe distant from the concrete jungles of Bed-Stuy and Crown Heights?  How do you communicate that, although deeply rooted here, you stand apart - you’re more like a weed that broke through the concrete – Brooklyn tried to rid you, but still, you rose.

Clearly, I had internalized some issues related to where I grew up. Yet, when you encounter someone like your mother, and a train is about to come, and you're sweating profusely like a large pastor in a church with no AC, your critical consciousness around all the isms you ever learned goes away.

I don’t know what possessed me, but finally, I walked over and said, “Hey, are you an AKA?”

She looked down at the siding of her bag, as if she was wearing another bag that wasn’t obvious enough, and said, “Uh, yeah.”

Great, now she thinks I can’t read.

“Are you Greek?” she asked.

“Yeah, but not D9,” I responded.

Ok, now she knows I know my letters and, at the very least, went to college, or at a minimum, saw Spike Lee’s School Daze. From there, I learned she was born and raised in Birmingham, AL, and left there to come to NYC to pursue acting. I was in a trance—she spoke as beautifully as she looked.

Her words flowed together like her tongue Milly Rocked through the consonants—they had a flavor to them like someone took all her vowels and dipped them in butter. I’ve only read in books where women sounded like her - I just knew her grits had to be better than the watery ones my Haitian mother made at home.

She was living in Brooklyn but headed to Newark. Years later, she told me she was on her way to another date that ended up going horribly. The express A train still hadn’t come, but the electronic teleprompter began to signal the local C train was on its way.

We rode the C train, talking effortlessly from Brooklyn to Manhattan. She felt like a long-lost friend. I knew she was someone worth staying in touch with. As I bantered about Newark's dangers, I casually asked for her number, just to ensure her safety (yeah, right) – the best lie I ever told.

When I finally arrived home that night, I sent her a text that said something along the lines of “Hey, it's Marc from the train. It was great meeting you; hope you made it safely. By the way, I think you're gorgeous.” Seven years later, and neither of us can remember her exact response, but she says she was surprised I was interested because I gave no signs at all. – I think they call this GAME.

>>

The next day, I'm at Made In America in Philadelphia, an all-day affair. I'm with friends and having a good time. Rihanna is the closing act. Everyone is shoulder to shoulder. The crowd is in a trance, saying every word of every song word for word - I am the crowd. When she sings her last song and bids everyone farewell, the crowd begins to dissipate.

I’m tired and in a stupor – satisfied and ready to head back to the hotel and deal with the massive headache waiting for me tomorrow. Not even after 5 minutes of walking, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and it’s the woman from the train - your mother.

We smile. We hug. We talk, just a little - but text the rest of the night. I cancel the rest of my plans that I had lined up for that weekend. I cancel the dating apps too. I tell everyone - the women on the apps, my friends, my mother - I no longer want to be outside. I found someone worth knowing. I found someone I want to be inside with.

I see her every day the following week. Little did I know that the woman on the subway would become my best friend, my wife, and now the mother of my child.

Too many things happened too perfectly for us to have what we have now. A late train? A haircut that took way too long? A date she had that went terribly wrong? The bag she wore that day? Me meeting her at the end of a concert where thousands attended in a whole other state? 

God has a way of aligning the stars, much like maneuvering a massive Rubik's cube, to get us where He needs us.

Love, 

Daddy

PS: By the way, I can confirm - your mother’s grits are much better than your grandmother’s.

Us in 2020: Brooklyn, Williamsburg - Photo Credit: Ray and Alyssa

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Let me know your thoughts:

1. Got a life-changing encounter with a stranger? I need the tea.

2. Are there right words to say when approaching someone in public?

3. Ever had a moment where you wanted to talk to someone but 🐓ed out? Share your funny or cringey stories! This is a safe place.

4. How did you meet your significant other?

5. What’s an accessory that makes you feel like me when I get a haircut?

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Want more of Myles’ Letters?

• The most recent one is Remembering Your Place in His Plan

• Read about his Mother's Love Affair - It’s exactly what you don’t think

• Raising Myles feels like Cooking in the Bathroom