Hi, I'm Sutton Tassai!

"Hood Dharma"
Favorite yoga pose is Savasana
80's baby with strong 90s influences

"International Greg"
Nickname: Inspector Gadget
Always wears cologne

Chapter 1

Hood Dharma stacks her well-worn hats on a single nail hammered into the fourth wall of her damp and dimly lit studio apartment. It wasn't that she hadn't turned on the light, just that the bulb was weak and therefore casted a lemony glow over the small space. She liked it like that--"unintentional ambience" she called it and chuckled to herself. Dangling from the metal post too were a few war badges. They held sentimental value because fashioning them herself by hand had been a cathartic DIY project. The war badges were meant to commemorate the combat she'd seen in the years she spent falling in and out of disparaging craters filled with a caustic brew of violence and heart-break. These craters, carved out in her path like a tic-tac-toe of sink holes and land mines checkering the labyrinth underbelly of urban life, were designed to implode or explode depending on the nature of the misfortune and the reaction of the misfortunate--boom, boom. If you can recall, Alice (blue dress, blonde hair) also sunk into the Earth, and she experienced Wonderland. Hood Dharma too often was left standing alone in the bottom of a claustrophobic pit of a well run dry, her eyes gazing upward--just wondering. Rounding out her collection was a prize ribbon dedicated to her naivity dressed up as hopeful idealism, and a button shaped like the black power fist for growing up semi-ghetto, eerily adjacent to chronic poverty. The button she kept pinned to her favorite denim jacket--even in the wash. It would be a slow reveal before she could see from a hunched view, peering down at pages of sophisticated text written by academics, of how her birthplace ran tangent to societal norms. There were only so many of the many vices harbored in systemic generational injustices that her parents could shield her from. The scathing gifts of puberty and the whimsical curiosity turned fiendish hunt for love came at a high cost in her part of town. She paid her pound of flesh with the nickels and dimes she bartered for sandbags of ridicule and thumb-tack sized droplets of validation. The memories of that harrowing odyssey found their resting place in the bedrock of her emotional landscape, woven into the gems of her childhood aspirations. It is a hearty and colorful mix of brick and stone fused with (at times, blind) determination that strengthens her stride to move forward in life now, stepping with purpose and maneuvering around avoidable bullshit. She pivoted her inherited ruby red slippers just so because hindsight is a motherfucker. Dorothy-Alice-Dharma, who by any other names would still be a woman with a story to tell. While history has often been said to lean toward repitition, herstory is the b-side mix that lingers, loops and stretches its way into the ears of babes yet born, targeting the hearts and mind of a future she longs to caress.

Education would get her oh so far. She was smart in her own way--creative, some might say-- however, she was reluctant to, incapable of or in some cases denied the opportunity to detach herself from her hood-isms, so she vowed to embrace them. Really she was just confident and that beguiled her onlookers who pitied her for reasons she would eventually come to realize were not far from the truth. It's just that their glass-damn-near-bone-dry misconceptions of who they thought she was offered them no resolve to the quandary of her actual being. They were wanton to shove their ready-made baskets of empathy into her arms and down her throat. Yet here she was, right before their very eyes: vibrant, optimistic, energetic, generous and brimming with capable and noble intention. Confronted by the resistence of her new surroundings, established just beyond the borders of the familiar, only reinforced her desire to affirm her blackness to the world at large. She was hell-bent on self-actualizing all the cultural insights that manifested themselves in a swarm of mysterious misgivings, combined with the supernatural code-breaking of shackles that defied the laws of social gravity, releasing her to soar far beyond the monochromatic vertical concrete pillars stamped into ribbons of horizontal tar that she would always recognize as home. The birth of awareness was a burden, then a gift that transformed into an automatic-turbo-rocket-fire propulsion fueled by the unrellenting call of communal restitution hinged on ancient storytelling to self-preservation.

Cool. The mission called her and she responded. Hood Dharma would be black unapologetically and she would look upon the world as her canvas to be reimagined to her liking. Still, there was the human desire for intimacy. Every superhero needs a band of heroic allies to confront the evils of the universe, right? And every good story has a romantic angle. Well, here and now (to reference the late great Luther Vandross) begins her quest for a love supreme, a rapture that reinvigorates the soul to survive unimaginable, unforeseeable calamities destined to thwart her course and deter her mission. Who then will be her counterpart, her mate, her significant other, her boo? In walks International Greg.

International Greg is the anchor that balances her quirky wild-child power. International Greg can number and name every pine needle, leaf and cone on every tree in Hood Dharmas' expansive forest in which she has a penchant for the aerial view. Hood Dharma finds comfort and serenity when she is nestled in the thick emerald green canopies that invade the tiny chiseled prisms of her brilliantly kaleidoscopic, richly hued, brown eyes.  Light danced in and out of her. She was a visionary artist. He was an engineering architect. She dreamed in color even when her reality bled sepia into the corners of black and white still-life. He built microscopes and telescopes and digital photon imaging devices. All the time he was tinkering away little did he know his devices would catch glimpses of the elusive Hood Dharma leaping and bounding through treetops, crouched on stoops, leisurely extending her legs as she reclined on porches, waiting on corners at bus stops that would transport her to free hot yoga classes across town, and changing her music streaming playlist from Lauryn Hill to Drake at redlights. He had her in his sights.

When Hood Dharma meets International Greg all the elements sing in perfect harmony, perfect key and perfect pitch. If you don't hear Earth Wind & Fire's "Love Holiday" as you're reading this passage, then my friend you are reading it wrong. The hidden caverns of time reveal their majesty and eternal bliss unfolds at their feet. They are cloaked in fragrant aromatic petals of patchouli and freesia as they glide across crystal clear waters that chime with bells and bass cresendoing into echoes carried by the piercing wind: it's pure love synergy.

International Greg knows that Hood Dharma is his sanctuary and Hood Dharma relishes in the careful details that International Greg conducts exacting measure over in his execution of compassion, integrity and justice. She can color broadstrokes, he has mastery over the nuances and precision of order. She illuminates the nightscape with bright beams of light, he is the reason why the stars flicker and sparkle in perfect synchronicity. She is the moon: opal and iridescent. He is the sea: heavy with life yet calm and glittering at the boyant surface. In her eyes he sees forever, in his eyes she is rendered motionless by the tranquil power of his presence. In reality, time takes no prisoners and they both know instinctively that the mission comes first above all else. To preserve their unity they must sacrifice their will to the forces of good that guide them toward a journey unknown. The promises of faith and fate seal their inevitable reunion, even if only in their intertwined reminiscences of love.

They met at a fish fry 1998, July. International Greg was invited by his childhood friends to the park to celebrate Saturday. It was the summertime and that was good enough for them to pull out the coolers and lawn chairs, gas up the pimped out school bus turned food truck and park it in a shaded spot in the grass. They kicked back for a afternoon of scrumptious golden cornmeal battered fried whiting and catfish, complimented by sweet and sticky sides like baked beans, a fruit salad, several large watermelons to be cleaved open with a "big" knife, and of course, potato salad. A few bean pies and Shabazz cola let you know they were not to be remiss from enjoying some traditional regional staples.

Hood Dharma was in the park that summer day in July. She was drawn to the natural beauty of the open green spaces and loved to sit and daydream about running toward the juncture where the blue sky and the green grass met. She knew the earth was round and that they never intersected but at the right distance it always almost looked like they did and that was enough to make her smile. She was eagerly patient for the moment when inspiration would arrive. Sometimes it came like an epiphany. At other times it wrapped around her in an inviting breeze of floral and pollen. And still, there were times when inspiration warmed her toes at dusk as the sun made its way to the other side of the ocean. She knew it would come, floating in or striking her all of a sudden and so she waited with enthusiasm. Better than birthday cake, satisfying like a mid-day nap, fresh like cucumber and mint she was giddy with anticipation. Even if it rained she thought to herself, I will welcome it and be grateful. Oh yes, I will be grateful for the rain, grateful for my piles of laundry, grateful for my job(s) that pay my bills and put food on my table and grateful for today, right now, this moment to dream a colorfilled dream. A paintbrush, a rock, dried petals, music, loneliness, food--what would be her muse today? She sat wondering about her morning and how she had spent her time. She woke up, had coffee (and a cigarette), played some music, took a shower and put on her leopard print sneakers, matching leopard print pants with the zippers, a red and black plaid button down shirt and her newly acquired black leather bomber jacket with wide lapels and textured suede inlays. It was a deft call to the 80's and the whole ensemble made her cheerful. Never to leave the house without a pair of her signature sunglasses, because although she has exceptional vision it makes her eyes sensitive to the sun rays. She had an impressive and growing collection of sunglasses to choose from. Today she would wear the half-moon, red tinted, translucent framed sunglasses and away into the world she went. Her first stop was the library: so many stories, so little time she always thought to herself. Her next stop was the park. It was Saturday, a great day for people watching and sun bathing. She found a semi-secluded bench with just the right mixture of sun and shade and took a seat.


"You niggas always got jokes, huh?!" exclaimed Barry as he pulled a bottle of cold water from its ice bath in the cooler. Hassan and Rocko were laughing in stiches.

"Bitch, I told yo big ass balling is a grown man sport. You can have your precious football. But I'm king of the court, and-you-know-this-man!"
It was Hassans' customary retort to reference Smokey from the cult-hood-classic Ice Cube movie "Friday".

"Whatever nigga. Imma make me a plate."
"Yeah, you do that. Yo! DJ Scratch-A-Lot, where da music?"

International Greg knew that was his cue.
"I got you play boy. First Imma take y'all back in time...hit you with some oldies but goodies. Check this out."

International Greg pressed play on the stereo and out pours from two sub-woofers is the Isley Brothers "Caravan of Love". International Greg snaps his finger and taps his feet in the all too familiar two-step shuffle.

"I'm yo brother! I'm yo brother, don't ya know?!"
International Greg sings along to the chorus with his arms out stretched in an inclusive and inviting gesture to his long-time comrades. His smile and demeanor are infectious. Barry can't help but smile as wide of a grin as he can muster with his jaws filled with potato salad and fried fish. Hassan and Rocko outstretch their arms in unison toward Barry and International Greg, lip-singing the rest of the chorus, stepping in tandem to the sway of a collective unrehearsed musical consciousness.


Damn, something smells good, Hood Dharma thought to herself as she sat alone in the park. The smell of fried fish came wafting through the air tickling her sensitive sense of smell. All her senses were keen, smell, taste, hearing, seeing, touching. Her stomach agreed it did smell good. Her next thought was which one of my peoples is here in the park frying fish? Is there a nearby family reunion going on? Hell, I'm family! She looked around to see if she could see where the smell had originated. She spotted the food truck parked behind her. She narrowed her gaze to see if she could tell by the size of the party what kind of gathering it actually was. "Its only a few brothers, chilling out." Hmmm. I wonder if the fish is for sell. A sister sure could eat, I mean I did skip breakfast and one or two pieces of fried fish couldn't ruin my waistline that much, right? Plus, I'll be supporting a black business--win/win. She checked her pants pockets to see how much cash she'd carried with her: two fives and five one dollar bills. That might work.