Unpacking Baggage

It Takes A Village

2006-12-21T12:14:00.000-08:00

We grew up surrounded by mothers… a village of them. Most of the time you had to run and get daddy, but mother was constant. Most of them worked outside of the home, but there was always one around when least expected… an all too watchful eye… a dispenser of discipline. Aunt Christine was one of those mothers.

Robert, Pauline and Christine grew up in Mount Vernon, Georgia with my grandmother and great aunts. Their mother, Susie, was one of several women who dated my widowed great-grandfather. Mother Sue was most loved and respected because she was concerned with the children. At Easter when Pauline and Chris got new things, she made sure his girls had new too. She would go as far as to corner him where ever he was, regardless of who he was with to get what was needed so that the children didn’t go without.

When Georgia emptied out into Long Branch everyone pretty much landed within shouting distance of each other. Sometimes, back doors faced each other. The community was tight. Children were interchangeable. We could go into just about any house and be fed. We might catch a beat down if caught acting up outside the wrong door. Surely there would be one waiting at home. Long before Verizon, the mothers had a network. For most of my childhood I believed Chris and Pauline were my aunts because that is how they behaved. I felt the same love and familial concern in their homes that I felt in those of my aunts. They looked out for me like one of their own. They looked out for all of us.

When Cousin Lisa called to tell me Aunt Christine had passed, I rationalized and spoke logically about death being a part of life and something that we must accept. No one is meant to live forever, regardless of how much we think folks should always be with us. I spoke logically then, but now the loss is concrete and I realize that yet another great aunt has gone. There is another void that will never be filled. The best we can do is to cover it with memories and remember the lessons.

With each loss we are cast further apart. Along with our matriarchs, traditions pass. Sunday dinners go uncooked and holidays lack luster. The mothers are the glue that held us together. They soothed our hurts and mediated our arguments. Sometimes they disagreed as do sisters and friends, but always held fast to each other. We must follow their example and hold to each other. We must continue old traditions and create new ones so that those coming after us can have the bond that they shared… that we share. We must tell our mothers’ stories… of working in fields and migrating from Georgia… of cleaning another woman’s home to provide for us… of loving us even when they couldn’t stand us. We must tell how they aged with grace and dignity, grateful that all was as well as it could be. Then we must take up their cross and carry on. We must honor them by becoming the village it took to bring us this far.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

A History Lesson

2006-11-29T03:26:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I'm still here. I know I said I was done unpacking baggage and I am. I just need to sit my ass down and finish the template for the new blog (it's a mess!).

Once again, something has come up that I absolutely must comment on and since I am very careful about getting into discussions with people about their opinions, I thought why not post an entry based on fact (not gossip), while providing yet another opinion (there are so many).

There has been much hoopla surrounding the upcoming release of the film, Dreamgirls. Rather than join a debate about the merits of something I have yet to see, I figured I will say something about what I have seen. A fellow blogger writes that "when Dreamgirls hit Broadway it was a watershed moment in African-American history and Broadway history." I was compelled to ask myself in what way? I am old enough to have seen the Broadway production with it's original cast in 1982 and it was definitely a spectacle, but I believe the only reason the show was not forgotten is because drag queens refused to let that damn song rest!

Jennifer Holliday was clearly the runaway star of the musical. Her musical numbers were showstoppers that never failed to bring the audience to it's feet, but she looks a fool expressing anger and bitterness over not being part of the film, which is not true at all. Her vocals were used as a teaser during early production. A smart, resourceful girl would have quietly worked out a deal for monetary compensation (if she has a right to any) and showed up looking fabulous on the red carpet. Oh I forgot... she says she wasn't invited to the premiere. Again, a smart resourceful girl would have worked that out. Instead, she looks like a bitter, has-been complaining on tabloid T.V. about how she's been snubbed. I have no sympathy.

I am also old enough to have seen the original Broadway production of The Wiz in 1977 (Perhaps a greater moment in African American and Broadway history. It won seven Tonys compared to Dreamgirl's six), starring a 16 year-old, Stephanie Mills (don't worry about how old I am... lol). One might argue that The Wiz was based on an all-white musical (The Wizard of Oz), but Dreamgirls is loosely based on one of the uglier moments in African American history. Anywho... when the 1978 film version was being cast, Mills was passed over for the role of Dorothy, for which she also won rave reviews and a Tony, because she lacked name recognition. Rumors circulated that the actual reason was because she was unattractive. The role went to Diana Ross, who was clearly not suited for the role. She was too damn old! So much so that the story had to be rewritten. I have to ask which is the greater snub? Ever the smart, resourceful girl, Mills worked out a contract with Motown (the film's producer) for a record deal and used it as a springboard for a successful recording career.

I absolutely understand Holiday's bitterness. The industry was terribly unkind to her. A role that she originated is being played by someone who's performance may very well win an Oscar, but that's showbiz baby. Suck it up! And that's all I have to say about Dreamgirls until I see the film. Still, I remain disturbed with the Broadway production being looked at as the great turning point.

I elected to take music and theater appreciation as part of my undergraduate studies (no theater queen references, please) and believe that the "watershed moment in African-American history and Broadway history" occurred in 1940 when Cabin in the Sky, the very first all-black musical, opened. Since it was based on Faust, one might argue that the greater "watershed moment" was in 1970 when Ossie Davis' book, Purlie Victorious, appeared as the Broadway musical, Purlie. But since that very large cast had two supporting characters that were white, perhaps the greatest "watershed moment" has to be the 1973 opening of the musical adaption of Lorraine Hansberry's, Raisin in the Sun. I actually believe that Color Purple defines that moment simply for being produced by an African American (All hail the goddess!). Then again, that moment may still be in the future, but that's just my opinion.

Black Church Dictionary

2006-11-24T08:02:00.000-08:00

I know... I know... I'm supposed to be out of here, but this made my day. Hope everyone is still stuffed with bird!

Oooh... that didn't come out right. [And I already realize I'm probably going to hell... I don't need none of y'all to co-sign...lol]

1. Anointing: Used to describe any non-regular emotion (crying in the middle of a song when you forget the words, telling the church off (particularly when its over tithes and offering), doing the Olympic shout around the church (first one that hits the wall gets a white hanky tied around their neck!)

2. Trick of the Enemy: Used to describe anything that happens because you didn't do what you were supposed to, like your car getting repossessed cause you didn't pay the note, lights getting shut off cause you quit work to go on tour with the pastors choir, or your child repeating the first grade cause he missed the whole second semester to go on a 90 day/90 night fast and consecration.

3. Rhema Word: Any message from an out-of-town pastor or evangelist.

4. Prophetic Word: Same message from that out-of-town pastor, delivered 5 decibels louder, while the congregation is standing. Quiet organ music optional, but works better with silence.

5. Carnal: Used to describe a saint who goes to the movies. This term doesn't apply if you rent the same movie from Blockbuster.

6. Didn't God Move?: What saints say after a long service where the pastor doesn't preach and they just shout the whole service.

7. Unlock Your Blessing: What preachers say after they've finished preaching, and they say you must give $50 to "unlock your blessing." For a more dramatic effect, this offering can be started at $1,000 and worked down to $25.

8. He'll Do It If You Let Him (followed by inaudible tongues): Round one of shouting; will begin in 5 minutes. Organist get ready.

9. We Got To Move On: What the preacher says when he wants shout time to start up again. Organist, turn up the volume on the Leslie.

10. We Have Time for One More Testimony: Not really, we're just waiting on the pastor to come into service. If you're called on during this one, when you hear clapping, just stop talking, cause the pastor has walked in and people are no longer interested in what God did for you.

11. We Can Never Pay for the Word: Get your checkbook out, the auction will begin momentarily! This phrase always comes before the offering is taken for the guest speaker.

12. God Has Been Dealing with Me on Some Issues: I'm still doing what I was doing before I got saved, only now I just put in an extra $5 in my offering when I do it.

13. Is He Worthy?: Of course He is; why ask a question like that.

14. Let Us Go To God in Our Own Way: This is what you say when they ask you to pray in church and you don't know what to say.

15. Get Ready, Get Ready, Get Ready!!!: Don't really know what this one means, but if you're not careful, a shout could break out when you say it. It must be said three times to have real impact.

16. I Can't Get No Help: Preachers say this when no one says amen in the spot they thought would get a lot of amens.

17. I'm Blessed and Highly Favored: Said when a fellow saint asks "how are you?" Memo to saints: you CAN be saved and answer "fine" when someone asks how are you.

18. Where The Spirit of The Lord is, There is liberty: Whenever you want to disrupt service and holler out when it's quiet, use this statement to justify your behavior.

19. Get Ready To Go To The Next Level: This means the church will be hosting another revival in a few months.

20. Stand To Your Feet : This gives the illusion that the preacher is finished, but be prepared to stand up for at least 1/2 hour. May be cut to 15 minutes if the organist starts playing softly.

21. Give God a Shabach: Scream to the top of your lungs. Some church members may blow whistles and wave flags as well.

22. Every Head Bowed, Every Eye Closed: Quick! Everyone look around to see who's getting saved again this week.

23. Secular: Any person, place, object or event that's not in the church.

24. The "Yes Lord" Song: Signals the official end to shout time. Anyone still shouting when this song is over is considered to be "in self".

25. In Self: Used to describe someone who acts alone in church. For example, someone who is shouting alone. Add two more people to this display and its called...

26. In The Spirit: When three people are doing the same thing in a church service at the same time.

27. Prayer Partner: Phone buddy. 5 minutes of prayer, 1 hour of church gossiping.

More Last Words

2006-11-19T08:09:00.000-08:00

I know I'm supposed to be done unpacking, but my new spot isn't up yet and I had just had to get this out before I let the feeling pass unacknowledged.

The music industry has suffered a deep loss in the past week of which it will not soon recover and though he was a giant, I'm not referring to Gerald Levert.

I first became of Ruth Brown when I was about 12 or 13 years old. It was quite by accident. I was thumbing through the dusty bins of our neighborhood record store and ran across a double album from Mercury Records that showcased it's hottest artists of the fifties and sixties. It was a jazz and blues compilation that, little did I know, would shape my taste in music. I actually bought it because my great aunt Sarah loved Dinah Washington and I thought she would enjoy the recording of Salty Papa Blues. I'd never heard it before, but got it anyway just to please my auntie.

Ruth Brown's rendition of Shake A Hand began one of the sides and it quickly became one of my favorite songs. I actually did my own rendition in my very first cabaret performance. Ruth delivered that song like a directive. She told of the importance of greeting and touching your fellow man and how much better you would feel for doing it. For years it was the only thing I knew that she did. Around that same time I became engrossed in Sarah Vaughan and she became my obsession, but I never forgot about Miss. Brown.

When I became aware of Ruth Brown again it was for her performance in the John Water's film, Hairspray. She played the role of Motor Mouth Maybelle, a Baltimore disc jockey who hosted a dance show for black kids who couldn't appear on the Corny Collins Show because of the segregation of that era. In a display of civil rights activism, Brown's character, along with her fans desegregated the Collins show, making it possible for black and white youth to dance together in Baltimore.

In real life Brown fought an equally important battle for the rights of recording artists. While making a living cleaning houses, she embarked on a mission to reclaim unpaid royalties from Atlantic Records, often called "The House Ruth Built," because of the string of Billboard top-ten hits she recorded for the label in the fifties. Her fight not only recouped losses for herself, but those of other artists who had been swindled. Her effort led to the formation of the Rhythm & Blues Foundation, a Philadelphia-based nonprofit dedicated to providing financial and medical assistance, as well as historical and cultural preservation of the musical genre.

Along the way Brown emerged from an impoverished existence to receive Tony and Grammy Awards, but more importantly she lived to see how her contributions impacted the music industry and helped shape the careers of countless artists. Miss. Brown symbolizes so much for me, but I believe the most important thing is the humanity of artists. I used to believe that all artists were rewarded for their talent and never struggled, but then I grew up and realized that they too are subjected to life.

Her earthly presence will be missed, but if I ever get my hands on a turntable, I will be spinning Shake A Hand until my neighbors scream at me to stop.

Sayin' Sumthin'

2006-11-15T21:03:00.000-08:00

It took Bloopty to get me to say something. I will not have her disappointed at work on a Friday afternoon, after a two-hour, wine-drenched lunch because she has nothing to read. It is my duty to keep her amused, even though I know I'm no where near as amusing as she.

Life in Chocolate City remains interesting and, despite gentrification, I still get daily reminders that this town is very much negro. Today's reminder came, as they often do, during my Metro commute to work. At one of the 'hood stops, a family of four boarded. It was great to see the young mom and dad taking their two daughters to school. The girls, approximately 4 and 7 were neatly cornrowed, acceptably talkative and very well behaved. The parents were actually engaging them in conversation. At last, hope for the black family.

They sat on the row behind me, each parent taking an aisle seat, allowing the girls to have window seats. As I eavesdropped, the conversation shifted and the father started discussing the fact that he needed shoes to match his new brown suit. Perhaps he spied my chocolate brown Kenneth Cole boots that I bought on sale at Marshall Fields before they became Macy's. The boots are hot! Wifey told him he should get a nice brown wingtip. Then he said something that forced me to look up and make sure I was on DC's Green Line headed toward Columbia Heights and not Chicago's Red Line lumbering alongside the Dan Ryan (South Side!).

"I wish I had some yellow gators."

I almost gagged, but I held it together.

"For an interview?" Wifey asked. I could hear in her voice that she wanted to laugh, but she loves that man. She patiently let him explain that they would gain the attention of the interviewer. I couldn't see, but I felt her nodding her head in agreement. She, like I, probably knew that they might gain him attention, but not a job. As they exited the train at the U Street/Cardozo stop, I prayed that she would talk him into the brown wing tip.

The voters have also selected a new [black] mayor. Like the current, mayor, he's light and bright, but thankfully he doesn't look like an undertaker in a bow tie. He does wear a trademark fedora. I suppose it's charming, but he looks like a kid who raided dad's closet.

I am glad to report that Unpacking Baggage has reached its natural conclusion. I believe I have emptied the bags and have a handle on what I need for this trip. Sometime soon I will post the link to my next progression on this journey. The title, New Growth, is inspired by all the ladies in my life. While it's kind of redundant, those two words make a sister spring into action to get rid of that kink or gray at the root.

I'm springing into action too.

A Waste of Good Hair

2006-09-30T04:08:00.000-07:00

On any given Sunday during my youth, my grandmother and great aunts might be heard giving commentary about a little girl or grown assed woman whose hair wasn't quite right. Don't get me wrong. The ladies in my family aren't all blessed with the finest grades of hair. They're of varying lengths, ranging in grade from straight to nappy and texture from silky to coarse. The oldest was reputed to have hair so thick and coarse "if you tried to run your fingers through it, you'd pull back bloody nubs." My grandmother actually has both. She attributes the coarse grade in the top of her head to her mother and the soft, silky grade in back to her father. His mama was indian, so I'm told.

See... Black girls didn't just start using that "half indian" lie. And I'm not calling my grandmama and 'nem liars, but the closest some of these "half indian" sisters have come to a Native American is a casino in Connecticut, but I digress.

Since moving to the DC metropolitan area, I haven't failed to see hair lying on the ground. At first I was disturbed because my family's disposal of locks caught in the comb was a dark, mysterious thing fueled by superstition. It was believed that if someone "got a hold to" some of your hair they could "mess with you." I've since discovered, through visual inspection, that the hair I've been stumbling upon carries no human DNA, but probably came packaged in a cellophane wrapper. I have reached this conclusion because I've seen it hanging in the dollar store, which could account for why someone would be apt to leave it lying in the street. It's like a sister grew tired of her weave over the course of the day or realized how fake it looked and just snatched it out, leaving it where it fell.

I'm certainly not saying that every woman [and a few men] in the area swears by synthetic supplements. I certainly haven't reached that conclusion through observation. It's not like my trip to New Orleans years ago, when I noticed that a lot of the women I encountered bore the scar of a knife wound somewhere on her face, especially the pretty ones. It was like the ugly heifers decided that they would level the playing field. However, I have seen enough heads, sporting braids that cover the full spectrum of color to know that these girls buy as much hair as they grow. The amounts that I stumble upon DAILY also let me know that they change it as frequently as their underwear... maybe more so.

Even with the full knowledge that the hair I happen upon is most likely fake, I'm still disturbed. I have to wonder how this "hair" has come to find it's way to the ground and none of the scenarios are as simple as a sister just got tired of wearing something on which someone may have once placed a wager. My mind immediately screams CATFIGHT in a neighborhood where most problems are solved by bitchslap. I used to give women more credit for being... well... ladies. I grew up in an era with women who had respect for the human head. The hair was always a last resort and you had better finish the fight. I have an aunt who would pull off her wig before laying a bitch low. That kind of restraint, respect and good sense has gone the way of bamboo earrings... Oh wait! They're back. Okay it's gone the way of first-time grandmothers over 50.

Today's girls immediately go for the hair because they know a sister just spent 12 hours sitting on the floor between Shalala's legs, while she smoked a blunt and worked out those purple microbraids. I wax nostaglic on Friday nights when the house was just a confusion of smells. Every eye on the stove was working. Fish fried on one. Grits boiled on another. The hot comb heated on yet another and the marcel rods smoked on another as the heat burned off the excess Ultra Sheen or DAX pomade. Your auntie sat in a straight-backed chair by the stove, holding her ear saying, "Bitch, if you burn me I'm gon' whip your ass!"

I actually have a tear in my eye.

Autumn Begins

2006-09-25T17:16:00.000-07:00

Wow. I can't believe it's been this long since my last entry. Well... my self-imposed silence is over. Was I missed? Perhaps not, but I missed blogging and my fellow bloggers. Special shout to ShawnQT, a walking dream in a fitted, for checking in on me and sending text messages, which never fail to uplift and fortify me.

I'm nearing the end of a traditionally stressful period for me. For the second time in over ten years, I didn't have to plan or participate in a Fall Orientation (the first was 2001, the Chicago year). I definitely miss it… the new faces… the promise of fresh hope for the future. It's invigorating. Since I'm no longer working in higher education I have to find a new way to get rejuvenated.

Over the past five years I've had the stressors of September 11 and Katrina added to this period. This year I attended no observances nor celebrated any anniversaries and tried to avoid any news coverage, opting to read about them in the newspaper on the following day. The most disturbing stuff I read was about George Bush's address to the nation on September 11, in which he (once again) used those terrorist attacks to justify his war, which still confuses me. What is the real reason he decided to invade Iraq? Is it really an oil thing? If so, his presidential library should be built on one of the new islands that have been found in the Artic as glaciers recede due to global warming or Hell if what the gentleman from Venezuela said is true.

That's my sly way of telling you to get out and vote in your mid term elections. I don't care who you vote for (actually I do), but make sure it's someone who has your ear and cares about your issues.

I ride the metrorail home from work and what I witnessed today was nothing short of amazing. A group of pre-teens boarded at my stop and stood in the door to hold the train for a friend who was coming. A man in the car told them to move from the entrance so that the doors could close. Rather than move peacefully, one of the girls said, "The doors ain't closing," and shot the man a nasty look. He told her not to look at him in that way.

She marched past him and told her not to be looking at her.

He got up, walking behind her, telling her that he had children older and younger than she and he would not put up with her blatant disrespect. When they reached the other end of the train, he physically put her off just in time for the doors to close. Her friends that remained on the train were dumbfounded, as were most of the other passengers. I smiled, opened my paper and thought how wonderful it is that adults will still hold children accountable, even if they're not their own. What's really ironic is that before the train arrived, those same kids were running up and down the platform. If one of them had gotten hurt, all the blame would have fallen on Metro. The words of the man on the train keep echoing through my head.

"It starts at home."

The Sins of the Fathers

2006-08-24T07:47:00.000-07:00

"... He will by no means leave the guilty unpunished, visiting the iniquity of fathers on the children and on the grandchildren to the third and fourth generations."

Exodus 34:7

Back when I was a fresh, ink still wet on the degree, college graduate. I had the opportunity to substitute teach at the very middle school in which I served time. It was a sobering experience. For one, I was really able to see that EVERYONE was struggling. It wasn't all about me (which is something I still have problems with from time to time). It was also a bit unnerving because I was teaching children of people I knew in my youth. In some cases I knew things about those kid's parents that I hope are never revealed to them. What was unnerving to me also proved a great asset because once some of these kids realized I knew their parents, they were angels.

One day after after work was done and we had about 15 minutes before the bell, a small group (maybe 5) of sixth graders started talking about their parents. I'm not sure what prompted the discussion. It wasn't me. One little girl (I'll call her Tasha) shared that her father was "locked down." One of the boys in the group (Jerome) began laughing and making fun of the little girl. Since he was one of those kids whose parents I knew something about, I asked where was his father.

Crickets.

I vaguely recalled that his dad had gotten into some trouble, which didn't mean I didnn't remember him to be a nice person. And that is where I pulled the topic of my sermonette.

I began by telling them that the actions of their parents should have little bearing on them. An incarcerated parent is certainly no reflection and the child should not be ridiculed for it. I went on to tell them that not everyone was in jail for an offense they had committed. Some folks were unlucky enough to have been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. I reminded them that their parents were human and may have done things of which they were not proud and that mom and dad may share those things with them one day. I did tell them if they needed to know right away they should asked their grandparents, who were probably still mad about some stuff. However, the crux of my message was that they must not let who and what their parents were determine who they become.

Both Tasha and Jerome are juniors in college.

That all came back to me after reading an obituary for Jerome's 30 year old cousin in the online edition of my hometown newspaper. I can't recall ever having met the young man, but I recognized the name of his father as the community weed man of another era. I surmised that he had gone into the family business after a call to my sister revealed he was gunned down in a neighborhood bar. It seems someone owed him money and everytime he saw the person he would offer a beat down as incentive to get it. Someone got tired of a beat down.

I really wish Jerome's cousin could have heard my sermonette.

Honorable Mention

2006-08-16T10:16:00.000-07:00

The nominations for the 2006 Black Weblog Awards are in and our very own Marz has been nominated for Best Teen Blog. I am so very proud of him for receiving this wonderful honor. He is most deserving. Now I’m asking that everyone drop by and vote for him, but not before checking out his work. I think you will agree that he has earned the honor. Keith Boykin and Jamine Cannick have also received very-much deserved nominations.

I certainly can’t hide my disappointment that so many others in my Frequent Destinations were not nominated so I am giving out my own awards.

Blog of the Year
Best Blog Design

Adult Swim

Best Pop Culture Blog

Clay Cane

Best New Blog

HoustonNY

Best Humor Blog

Rebellion Lies

Best Original Content

Being Bobby Brown, Jr. (Not Whitney’s Husband)
My Four Dads

With honorable mention to Clay Cane for Attack that Snatch Part II

Best Personal Blog

Legend of O

Best International Blog

Now Voyager

Best Podcast

In The Mix With Trent Jackson

Best Political/News Blog

Angry Black Bitch

Blog to Watch

Bloopty Blop

I’m working on prizes for everyone but Shawn and Omar are already recipients of a weekend at our villa in Maryland. Bloopty is getting a bottle of her favorite booze. Being Bobby Brown, Jr. is getting a very special personal prize. The rest of you will find out what you’ve won when I figure it out.

Congratulations!

Is It Friday Yet??? DAMN!

2006-08-10T13:13:00.000-07:00

It has been a trying week. I’m recovering nicely from the acute sinusitis that landed me in the local trauma center last Friday night. I’m sending out much love to the alpha male. He checked up on me all week and when I called to tell him I was going to the hospital, he came and sat with me. Keep in mind, this was our very first face to face meeting. We chat on instant messenger all the time, but for some reason we just couldn’t synchronize the initial meet. It would happen with me, laying up in the hospital, looking like death warmed over on wheat toast. He didn’t run screaming into the night, which earns him the 2006 Best New Friend award.

Speaking of awards, nominations are now being accepted for the 2006 Black Weblog Awards. There are several categories and I’m encouraging all of my readers to head to the site and nominate Being Bobby Brown Jr. (Not Whitney’s Husband), Adult Swim, Bloopty Blop, In the Mix With Trent, Marz’ Teenage Years, Legend of O… Hell! Just pick anyone from my frequent destinations and nominate them. They are all worthy. I’m declining nominations. Not because I don’t think some of my stuff is good, but I’m all about uplifting others. Besides, I’ve already received some marvelous accolades this week.

Earlier in the week I received an email from a former colleague telling me I needed to update my profile. I was confused and called her. It turns out she’s been reading my blog! She praised my writing so beautifully, I almost cried. She’s among an impressive group of people who affected me when I started college. After speaking with her, I decided to call up my white women from the previous post. It seems that a few folks at my former place of employment are reading my blog. Shout out to the silent readers!

No less than five women have laid claim to Latasia and Boomshiqua. I even got a call from someone in Georgia that I haven’t worked with in years.

“How dare you put me out there like that!” she said.

How dare she admit to being dim and backstabbing? How dare any of them. I’m amazed that, of all the Black women I worked with, these five would be so quick to assume such an unattractive description. Poor self-image is what it boils down to. If these ladies are still reading, I will have them know that only one accurately identified. I’m curious as to why the rest were compelled.

Dr. Leary gives some suggestions in Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome, which I’m still reading. Latasia and Boomshiqua suffer from Vacant Esteem, which is “the state of believing oneself to have little or no worth, exacerbated by the group and societal pronouncement of inferiority.” She goes on to clarify “that vacant esteem is a belief about one’s worth, not a measure of one’s actual worth. The woman who accurately identified is actually a very competent professional and very adept at her craft, yet she exhibits all the characteristics described.

“Another indication of vacant esteem is the effort to undermine the achievements of other African Americans… Associated with this effort is the difficulty that many African Americans have in celebrating the successes of other Black people, particularly those we consider to be closer to our own socio-economic level. In general, the belief that one has little or no value produces behaviors that almost demands the devaluing of others.”

When another coworker; a Black woman, announced her engagement to a white man, Boomshiqua immediately began to question this woman’s judgment, basically calling her a fool, incapable of knowing what she was doing. She also blames this woman’s inability to advance, professionally, on her appearance yet I’ve never heard her divulge a single beauty secret. She breaks this woman down behind her back to everyone, but gives the illusion of being the only person who has her best interest. It’s so sad.

Speaking of sad… my Aunt Joanne passed away on Friday. She was 51. I am really losing folks this year, but we can’t stay here. I'm keeping folks too! HAPPY BIRTHDAY to great Aunt Letha! She turns 92 today.

I Know White People... or at least I thought I did

2006-07-24T08:12:00.000-07:00

*Before I begin this long ass post, I want to take the time to thank everyone who attempted to reach out to me in New York. Bloopty, Terrence and especially Ty, who went as far to plan an event that I was unable to attend, due to some rather unfortunate circumstances. Please accept my apology for what must appear to be blatant rudeness.

In 1903, social reformer and activist, W. E. B. Dubois wrote, “The problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color-line -- the relation of the darker to the lighter races of men in Asia and Africa, in America and the islands of the sea. It was a phase of this problem that caused the Civil War.”

He was astute in his observation and could have used the same quotation to make a prediction about the twenty-first century. Race continues to be an issue.

Last weekend I finished writing a new short story on the way to my anthology. It chronicles the professional and personal life of a black woman, employed as a domestic for a white family. The characters and plot are based on the Great Aunts and their experiences. I’m excited to have finally incorporated them into a story to showcase the ingenuity and savvy it took to maintain two households; one white and one black.

Simultaneously, I’ve finally been able to start reading Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome by Dr. Joy DeGruy Leary. Her work is showing me that nearly 150 years after its abolition, slavery continues to impact my life and those of others, Black and white. She is giving me a History, Sociology and Anthropology lesson; providing me with an increased understanding of my connection to Africa, by highlighting the rituals and traditions that Africans in America have maintained through "180 years of the middle passage, 246 years of slavery, rape and abuse and 100 years of illusory freedom." As with any condition, healing begins with acknowledgement.

I’m also gaining greater insight into racism. What is most fascinating is that it’s impossible for Black people to be racist toward white people. Dr. Leary writes, “while Black people have many have prejudices, and at times even feel hatred towards white people, perhaps even causing many fear, the reality is that Black people lack the ‘power’ to affect the lives of white people as a group. Black people’s feelings towards white people do not preclude a white person’s ability to get a loan, receive fair treatment by the justice system, acquire education, etc”

Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome has impacted my writing to help me better interpret the interactions between my Black characters and their white employers. I can portray the code switch in communication that occurred from the Black to white households. I can illustrate the rich, complex relationships these women had with white children in their care. It’s been an amazing process during which I have been forced to recognize that I don’t know white people like I thought I did.

It becomes increasingly clear that my perception of white people has been shaped more by the interactions of others in my life, than by my own. Family members taught me early to be courteous to white people, engage them, and show myself to be a good Negro, but never, ever trust them. Of course these admonitions came from my grandmother and great aunts who grew up in the depression-era south. For them, white people and black people should co-exist, but each in their own place.

By the time I entered kindergarten, I was already friendly with two white boys in the neighborhood, both named Tommy. Although our activities did not differ from those I shared with Black kids, I recognized our differences. They could do things that I couldn’t and, even at five years of age, I surmised it was because they were white. Thus began my disdain for race and the reliance on color to define people. Perhaps the most interesting thing about my childhood understanding of race was that I was very aware of ethnicity and culture. In error used them, with color, as indicators. One Tommy was Irish and the other Italian, which meant vast differences in the home life of each. Yet each shared similarities and what was even more revealing was that I could find in my home similarities to theirs. I was aware that, even with our differences, there was a sameness that transcended color.

By the time I reached high school I was very well liked by a whole heap of white folks. I even adopted a couple of families (one Italian and one semi Jewish). At one point I was spending more time at their homes than my own. I was accepted by one because I “wasn’t like most other black people (poor and angry)” and the other because I was (talented and gifted). I believe both kept me around, in part, for comfort and to illustrate a commitment to diversity. I was a “credit to my race,” which meant perhaps there was hope for the rest, but I don’t believe that inviting the most assimilated Negro into your home is a great show of diversity. And I was absolutely assimilated, from my Levi corduroys to my collection of Billy Joel CDs. What do you learn from someone whose practices are so similar to your own? A better display of diversity would be to invite a crack head. Truly amaze the community. I can hear the neighbors now.

"Honey, have you met the nice crack fiend that’s been staying with the Nelson’s?”

"Yes, dear I have, such a polite young man. He came over to borrow the VCR. The Nelson’s misplaced theirs."

I’m sure that both my white families believed having a black person around would disassociate them from racism. Still, I am most grateful for these interactions because they reinforced my belief that I can’t group all white people together any more than I could all Blacks. Both can lay claim to identifiable subgroups that defy association, despite their shared color. Imagine PETA, the NRA and the KKK on one side and the Crips, the NAACP and New Edition on the other. I recognize the absurdity, but you get my point. I will always keep some white people around for insight, growth and access. If they were to pack up and move tomorrow, I would find someway to go along. They possess the power and most of the money. I want some too.

My most rewarding white people experiences that, helped shaped my “develop your white people” model occurred in college. Having attended an institution that was predominately white, in the city of Boston, which is painfully white, I had to learn to survive and thrive in a world where people just didn’t look like me very often. Of all the people I met and befriended, I learned the most from Lisa. She grew up in Queens with her crazy Italian family. We would talk honestly about discrimination and prejudice. She has an uncle and aunt that moved to New Hampshire to get away from Black people. I absolutely loved that she wasn’t afraid to challenge them for their beliefs. She talked about having heard the N word spoken openly in her home. I could relate because they used it at my house too. Of course the connotation was different. Lisa gave me access to a white person that didn’t use skin color as a factor for determining the worth of an individual. She’s not the first, and hopefully not the last to do it, but she has most affected me. She’s a credit to the race.

After the Boston experience I was just a little over white people and immersed myself in everything Black and my interactions with white folks became more formal. I no longer felt the need to prove that I was okay. Instead I chose to get in where I fit in and realized that getting in does not necessarily preclude fitting in. We might look alike, but there is a vast difference between colored folks in the ‘hood and the old guard. I fall somewhere in between. Here is one way to illustrate. If Massa George and Miz Laura were picking out house servants and field hands, I would be chosen for domestic service, but I still would not have the access of Condie. She’s the Head House Negress in Charge (HHNIC).

In the recent past, I had the opportunity to work with two dynamic women, who happen to be white. I also worked with two of the dimmest women, who happen to be Black. I love my white women, who I will call Jill and Lauren (Isn’t that typical?). They are amazing, supportive and caring. Our relationship is based on respect and mutual admiration and that’s important, regardless of race, ethnicity or gender. I trust them. The two black women, Latasia and Boomshiqua, can’t stand me and, at one time or another, tried to sabotage my career. I miss my white women, but I fully intend to dance at Jill’s wedding next year and spend a grip on her gift because she deserves it. When Lauren gets married, I will do the same.

I’ve learned to accept the concept of white privilege and the institution of racism and not blame individuals for a collective consciousness or perhaps, unconsciousness. Dr. Leary has helped me realize that most, if not all of the commonly held beliefs about race are based on archaic theories and practices that were perpetuated to reinforce the supposition of the inferiority of the enslaved, thereby justifying the institution of slavery.

The practices outlined in her book are barbaric and inhumane. A chapter that examines crimes against humanity is particularly graphic and disturbing. While it is very difficult to read and evokes anger and outrage, I know that I can’t direct that rage at the white people with whom I come in contact daily. If all this is news to me, it’s news to them. U.S. History classes have not been very forthcoming in their accounts of the slave trade, anymore than to acknowledge that slaves fought for the Union Army. The truth is this country is not comfortable with confronting its ugly past or acknowledging its sin. Yet shall it continue to expose the terrorist acts of others, which pale in comparison to the atrocities perpetuated upon the indigenous peoples of the Americas and the African people taken from their land to cultivate one to which they could lay no claim, all in the name of God.

In order to maintain any degree of sanity I must believe that the average white citizen really isn’t aware of the brutality this great country heaped upon a portion of its populace. The portion that is responsible for putting in place many of the comforts we enjoy today. I question why a talented and smart people are poor and angry. Grief can drive someone to anger and be clear African Americans are grieving. Perhaps not all of us express it in the same way, but imagine a wound left untreated. It gets infected and spreads poison throughout the body, eventually killing the wounded.

To illustrate further, I’ve had discussions with people, white and black, which say that slavery happened so long ago and we should forget it and move on. On the vast continuum 150 years is not so long ago. Imagine learning your spouse and children have been violently murdered and five years later I say, “That was so long ago. You should forget it and move on.” Would you not be angry and hurt? What if everyone pretended your family never existed? There are potentially dangerous consequences when severe trauma is left untreated. I firmly believe we must move on… by remembering.

Along with so many others, black and white, I stand on the backs of slaves. Some of us have the precious gift of names for some of them. For so many others that information is forever lost. In the nation’s capitol we have galleries and museums that honor the contributions of pretty much everyone. There is even a spy museum. Just like there is a Holocaust museum to preserve that moment in history, there should be a Museum of the American Slave. The exhibition should be factual and void of any dramatic effect. The truth told plainly will be quite enough.

Black and white, we are all traumatized and we need to heal together. When I get to that point in the book, I will share some thoughts. Meanwhile, you can get your own copy and start healing. Knowledge is power and we must have a clear picture of where we’ve been to chart a clear path to the future.

Project Beat Down

2006-07-10T09:10:00.000-07:00

I have an idea for a new reality show!

Project Beat Down would tape and air domestic disputes, playground battles and catfights from urban communities across the country. Let me explain how I was inspired.

We recently moved from rural, southern Maryland to the DC metropolitan area. We found a marvelous apartment at an EXTREMELY affordable price. The only trade-off is that the neighborhood is just a bit ghetto in a public housing kind of way. I'm sure I sound just a bit bourgie (elitist) right now, but I'm not used to living in an environment where everyone has access to each other's business. When I was growing up we visited relatives in public housing, but we didn't stay very long.

My inspiration came yesterday as I sat at my computer by the window, which looks out onto a lush, green wooded area. A young woman from another building came walking up the path to confront a woman who lives in our building. Apparently woman #1 (I'll call her Starlisha) believes woman #2 (let's call her Internesha) is "entertaining" her man. It seems that Starlisha's man came home in the wee, small hours of the morning. When faced with the question of where he'd been, he implicated Internesha.

Starlisha came to get the details and cornered Internesha outside her door demanding to know why she let the man in her house at that time of night. Internesha offered that he knocked on her door to get the plate of food she promised him from a cookout that had occurred earlier that day.

"I got food in my house, bitch!" Starlisha replied and went on to tell Internesha that if she knows what's good for her, she won't let the man in her house again. The consequences would be painful. Internesha spent a good deal of the exchange defending herself against allegations of impropriety, attempting to assure Star that nothing adulterous had occurred, that she and Star's man were just friends. Star wasn't hearing any of it.

"I don't give a f*%k!!! Let him in your house again, bitch and see what happens."

My grandmother often says. "Ain't nothin' open that late, but legs and 7-11." Starlisha is apparently of the same belief.

The exchange could have ended there had Internesha kept her mouth shut, but she continued to defend herself against the allegations and justifying her friendship with Starlisha's man. That just made Star angrier. She commenced to calling Internesha every type of whore, bitch and slut she could think of. She commented that Internesha's mother must have been the very best whore for having raised such a good one. Eventually she let Internesha go into her house, but not before spitting on her and saying, "You're my bitch now! Everytime I see you, I'm gonna f*%k you up."

Though intrigued and slightly entertained by the incident, I couldn't help but think how sad it is that a woman would allow herself to look that ugly in public over a man that she obviously doesn't trust. Starlisha's real beef should be with her man, since he is the one with whom she apparently shares a commitment. It is his responsibility to hold up his end of any agreement that he and Starlisha have made. On the other hand, I completely understand Star's anger at Internesha's lack of respect. It's not that she doesn't know that the man is in a relationship with Star and the mere fact that they all live in the same complex is an invitation for disaster, but it's the stuff that makes for great reality TV!

While on the topic of TV, KUDOS to Star Jones for a graceful exit from the The View. They tried to make her look like an idiot but she turned them by telling the the truth before they could leak another story. Shady! And how shady is it that Brandy was a guest host last week and Joy made a comment that she couldn't keep up with the sistas and their weaves and wigs. Brandy did the best she could with her limited resources, but you know Star would have laid Joy low over that comment. To me it is a clear indication that all black women need to make a pact not to sit at that table.

Another controversy on the tube involves Stacey Dash's nude photos. It seems that some folks are upset at the Clueless star's baring it all. One radio personality stated that not only is she alienating fans, but she is eliminating her chances at getting the teen roles that have made her famous. I believe the fact that she just turned 40 is doing more to eliminate her from those teen roles than those photos. I like to trust that people know what they are doing. Stacey Dash is a grown ass woman. Let her pose nude while she still looks good enough to do it without being airbrushed to all-be-damned.

Finally, I will be in Manhattan on business July 20 and 21. If any New York-area bloggers want to get together for cocktails, let me know. Bloopty... where you at???

The Slacking Blogger

2006-07-01T11:39:00.000-07:00

No... I didn't go on hiatus again although this period of inactivity is almost as long as my attempted hiatus. I've been slacking on the blog but it has definitely not carried over into the rest of my life.

Well... there was Thursday when I was so depressed I spent the day in bed. BBBJr got me together and I'm up and about again.

Pretty much anyone who has stopped by here on a consistent basis or slummed through the archives knows that I come from a fairly large family... ridiculously large... with folks ranging in age from 2 to 92. With all this family (and play family) death is as frequent a visitor as the Avon lady... wait... she's dead too. Don't let me forget to tell you about her! Death has come by once again without anything sweet-smelling or any cheap costume jewelry.

When I was home for Easter, my aunt Jane, told me that my cousin Red was very ill with cancer. In fact he was travelling in search of a treatment that would work. She let me know that whatever he was doing was not working and that the disease had ravaged his body. She was near tears as she described the sight when she visited him in Philadelphia. I still have a clear recollection of walking into another cousin's room and immediately crying at what the disease had done to his once-large frame. It was devastating. As she described the scene to me, I was almost certain that I would not see Red again in this life, but I never attempt to predict what God's gonna do. I simply prepare myself for the worst.

The call from my sister came early in the week to let me know that Red had crossed over. He was a fairly young man, somewhere between 50 and 60. He was one of the Georgia cousins so I didn't see him a lot. When I did see him it was always a happy time, which lends to making me even sadder. Truth be told, he was not related to us by blood (that I know of), but his brothers and sister were the children of my grandfather's brother E.C. His mother, Aunt Louise was clearly the person on whom Tyler Perry based his Madea character. She was no stranger to pistols and switchblades and even after having a leg amputated, she continued to fish at the pond. She once tried to get my grandmother to go with her and her reply was...

"Girl, I been away from here for 40 years. Them snakes don't know me no more."

However she had no issues with sharing the catch of the day.

I'm not sure if Aunt Louise had Red before or after she was married to my uncle, but it really didn't matter. We all came up together, regarding each other as cousins... close cousins. Those "if you mess with him you gonna have to mess with me" kind of cousins. I'll miss him.

But that's not the end. On the way to the funeral home to view his body, his wife had a accident that left her in critical condition. My sister called again to tell me that she didn't survive her injuries. She's gone too. It's incredibly sad, but I press on and try not to think of it. When I do, I tell myself that all flesh must pass away. But it's hard. What's been most hard for me this week is the one year anniversary of my great-aunt Frankie's passing. Sometimes I still believe that if I had not gone to Chicago and immediately took her to the hospital, things might have turned out differently, but I try not to agonize over it.

June has definitely been a little on the crappy side. All my dads are dead so Father's Day sucked, but I'm still blessed nonetheless.

I promise that my next post will be piss in your pants funny. I refuse to turn into my Aunt Beulah, whom no one sees until a funeral.

The Known World

2006-06-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

He was a handsome man, she said of Augustus. "I've never leaned toward exaggeration," she said to Anderson. "So when I say he was a handsome man, he was indeed. Henry was, too, but he never got old enough to lose that boyish facade colored men have before they settle into being handsome and unafraid, before they learn that death is as near as a shadow and go about living their lives accordingly. When they learn that, they become more beautiful than even God could imagine, Mr. Frazier."

The Known World, Edward P. Jones

I swear... no matter how out of sorts I'm feeling... one thing has the power to pull me together and make me believe my mojo is working right... PAYDAY! Don't get me wrong. I know where the credit really goes and make sure the glory goes where it's due, but I also thank Jesus all day long for the strength to get my ass up to go to work errday so that I can collect those coins at the end of the pay period.

Going to work is an adventure for me because it requires a two-hour commute in each direction. For someone who couldn't stand to take the A from 110th to midtown, this is the ultimate punishment. I guess I should explain my penance. In February I accepted a position that required we move to southern Maryland. After 2-months, the institution decided that our relationship wasn't working out and told me to vacate... punk bitches! Because I'm so cool with God, my job search was very short. I sent out one resume and had a new, improved position within three weeks. How's that for the power? (insert praise break here).

I love the new job, which is located in the Columbia Heights section of Washington DC, but getting there is the granddaddy of all pains in the ass. I have to leave the house by 5:40 a.m. to make it to the commuter bus (yes... you read right... BUS) that takes me to downtown DC. From there I have to jump on the Metro, which takes me to Columbia Road.

I could actually take the 6:30 bus and get to work on time, but Wes, who drives the 6 a.m. bus is worth that extra half hour. Not only is he the most pleasant operator of public transportation that I have ever encountered, THIS BROTHER DRIVES HIS ASS OFF! I dreamed he took a short cut through someone's backyard in S.E. D.C. one morning. I know it was a dream because there were some beautiful collard greens growing and it's too early in the year for greens. He drove down one street and folks were looking as if to say, "What the hell is that bus doing here?" But Wes is always on time. And his passengers absolutely LOVE him. There is a group of about 6 black women and one white woman that sit behind him and they trade banter for most of the trip. It's hilarious. Imagine Steve Harvey, Cedric the Entertainer and Red Foxx all rolled up into one bus driver.

This morning Wes decided he wanted to serenade the passengers with Minnie Riperton's "Lovin' You," a song that I absolutely adore until she starts screaming "Maya, Maya" at the end. One of the black ladies told him to do something from church. "I'm sure you know something," she said. Wes looked at her in the mirror and said, "Jesus Wept." Well the entire front of the bus just about lost it and they lapsed into a discussion of how that's about the only piece of scripture most men know. One of the ladies said that for years she didn't believe it was in the bible because she couldn't understand why Jesus would weep. That discussion ended with Wes asking if she'd been baptized on the internet. I howled. So you see why the 6 a.m. bus is my only option to make an evil trip more bearable. Another thing the bus has done is renew my interest in reading. Well I can't say that I ever lost the interest, but reading a book was a luxury that time wasn't affording me. Now time is just not a problem.

Last year I bought Edward P. Jones' The Known World because he came to read at my school. After his reading, it was my task to drive him back to his home in DC at which time he signed my book. I still hadn't cracked it to read a sentence. On Monday I decided to bring it with me on the bus and that was it. I was hooked. It is an absolutely amazing piece of literature with beautiful statements like the one with which I chose to open this post. It was not the easiest read because it moves around a lot. Flashbacks... flash forwards... crazy dreams... this book took me through the paces and I loved every minute of it. Toni Morrison has prepared me to read and comprehend just about anything. I highly recommend it. Next I'm going to tackle Dr. Joy Leary's book about Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome, which is highly appropriate since The Known World has given me some historic context. When I'm done I'm going to try to write a short story that takes place during that period.

With my renewed interest in reading comes my renewed interest in forming Brothas Well Read - DC, which will be the DC area chapter of a book club founded by my good friend, Roderick Tate in Atlanta. Rod and I started chatting years ago because I used to shout out whatever book I was reading on my BlackPlanet page. We began an intellectual exchange that has sustained, which proves that the internet is good for something more than trickin' and hookin'... no shade to the tricks and hookers. I'm so honored that Rod has even entertained the idea of a franchise. Trust that it will be done, maintaining the integrity of its mother. Look for a fall launch. And to all those DC readers out there... we're looking for you!

I Can't Do It!!!

2006-06-06T19:24:00.000-07:00

I know that I’m supposed to be on hiatus, but I can’t take it anymore. To quote Moms Mabley, who most folks have never heard of, “I got something to tell ya!” Life is extremely funny and I love having this outlet to share the funnies. I’m also flattered by the fact that folks stop by here to, not only read my madness, but enjoy it. So here goes.

Last week I had to go home for a funeral. I’m slowly becoming that person that goes home for funerals. I have no desire to go for anything else and one of these days I’ll have to go for my own. I really should be seen at other folks’ to make sure I fill a church when I go. I would really like for folks to come see me off (in lieu of flowers, send cash now!).

So I drove to New Jersey to attend the funeral of Mattie Williams Watkins… Aunt Mattie. I guess I could call her a “play” great aunt. She was my babysitter for a little while, beginning when I was about 2 or 3. Before that, it was Aunt Savannah, but that is long and sordid story. Aunt Mattie’s story is actually very sweet. She and her husband, Uncle Hank, lived across the street with their children. I think one or two were actually theirs. The rest were orphaned by some relative and came to live with them. One of the most interesting things about the arrangement is that all the children received the same treatment. Cousins behaved as siblings, with the full awareness they were not.

Aunt Mattie was a housewife. To supplement Uncle Hank’s income, she took care of other folks’ children. What she had going on across the street would, today, be called a day care center. Working parents from all over town would swing by after work to pick up their kids. Others, like me, who lived close by would be walked home by one of the Watkins children. They only thing that made us different from the Watkins kids is we didn’t live with them, but we all received the same treatment. I could leave my house and go to theirs and have the same level of security and comfort. Parents today don’t get that from daycare. It was a great place to grow up.

I found out she had died the day before the funeral. Every day I read the on line obituaries from the paper back home. Matter of fact, I just finished reading them. No one I know today. I struggled with making the drive back home, but after thinking about Aunt Mattie and what she’s meant to me I knew I had to jump on the road and make the trip. Besides, I needed to go back home to renew my driver’s license and I could kill two birds with one stone.

I left Maryland at 5 a.m. and arrived at the DMV in New Jersey at 10:21. They had me out with a new license in five minutes! I would make the 11 a.m. home going after all. One of the great things I’ve learned is reading between the lines of obituaries. For example… if one of the deceased’s children is listed with another surname, there is a good chance that you might need to do a little investigation to clarify that relationship. A “lengthy illness” usually means AIDS-related, people don’t mind acknowledging a “courageous battle with cancer” but AIDS gets tongues wagging. What I surmised from Aunt Mattie’s obituary is that the service would be rushed.

A service at the Refreshing Springs Holy Temple COGIC can go on for days… as dictated by the Spirit. Aunt Mattie’s obituary had the veterans’ cemetery service listed at 1:30 p.m. The cemetery is a good 45 minutes away and you have to be there on time. I’ve seen folks sent away who showed up late for their appointment. When my grandfather died, we didn’t even play ourselves. We scheduled his cemetery service for following day. We would not have our faces cracked by showing up late and having to take the body back home.

Aunt Mattie’s service started out regular, but by the time we got to my solo I could tell we were on fast forward. I didn’t even get a chance to do the two standard COGIC reprises. By the time the bishop got up to speak I had no hope of getting out of there on time. The real surprise came when the mortician pulled Bishop's coattail during the message, but I expect nothing less from Jackson’s Funeral Home… another long and sordid story. Within minutes we were outside assembling cars for the trip to the cemetery. I left early to get a 10-minute oil change and pulled behind the line of cars just as they were entering the cemetery. Vincent, the hearse driver is a beast. He had to be doing 75 mph!

The cemetery was very interesting. I met a man who was clearly shocked when told who my mother was. I was clearly shocked when he asked who my father was. He seemed pleased when I was able to tell him. This is why I go to funerals. You never know what might jump off.

Jane, I'm done!

2006-05-16T12:04:00.000-07:00

While it's been an absolutely amazing run, I just don't have the energy right now. I'm going on indefinite hiatus. Our time together has been incredible for me. One thing that has been extremely beneficial is to have constant interaction with people who are in various stages of growth and development. It felt good to count myself among that group.

I called this space Unpacking Baggage because I was emptying out my bags, but instead of sending the stuff to the good will, I just let it pile up on the floor next me and now it's all mixed in with the useful items. Now I have to start all over again. This will be an experience I can't share. Remember me fondly... Till we meet again!

Mother ≠ Maid

2006-05-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to everyone who took the time out of their day to send birthday greetings. Whether it was by phone, email or via the comments section of Unpacking Baggage, it was GREATLY APPRECIATED!

This entry is inspired by comments I left over at Grown People. In previous posts I have written about my grandmother and shared that she received little formal education growing up. In regards to math skills, the most she could show her children was how to count their change so as not to be cheated. However, she was able to to teach the inequality of mother and maid and she began as soon as the kids were able to stand on a chair and wash dishes. She did this for two reasons.

1. She wanted her children to be able to care for themselves. This was especially true of the boys. She didn't want them to suffer in the event they end up with a wife who was not domestic. As a result, any boy who grew up in her presence can keep house as good, if not better than any woman.

2. Having been lucky enough to be the last child born to her parents, she never had to do anything because her older siblings treated her like a piece of Jesus and made her lazy as hell. The result of that is she trained her children to keep the house in order so she wouldn't have to.

Don't get me wrong. She's not afraid of work. She worked in the sharecropping fields of Georgia as a child, but once she was married and knocked up, that activity ceased. She didn't bother to get a job outside of the home until her boys were old enough to complain about the weekly haircuts my grandfather would give them. My grandfather had an extremely steady hand. As a tailor, he was adept with a needle and thread, but cutting hair was not part of his skill set. So the boys complained LOUDLY! She got a job as a chambermaid so that she could send them to the local barber.

After they were old enough to pay for their own cuts she had grown used to the additional income and the routine of going to work so she kept it up. For most of my life she kept a full time job as a nurses aide in a rest home, but always had a side hustle cleaning houses. She balanced having a job with her laziness by working the third shift at the rest home because the patients needed less care at night and she only cleaned the homes of white couples with children who were old enough to be taught to tidy up.

Having accompanied her to the cleaning gigs when I was little, I grew used to seeing Betsy or Joey running the vacuum while she dusted or sat on her ass and polished silver. She would bring home their ironing to do at her leisure. Eventually she trained her employers to bring their ironing to the house. Miss. Ann would drop off her two baskets of wrinkled ass laundry, my grandmother would cook up some ARGO Starch on the the stove and commence to bumpin' wrinkles.

When I was 12 and laying around the house for the summer, Granny started paying me to do one of the baskets. Soon I was doing both baskets and collecting all the coins. I would also do my own shirts because I grew up in the Oxford shirt era. My collars and cuffs were so crisp, my teachers would comment. She made sure I knew how to iron a shirt.

All my life there has been a raggedy ironing board nearby. Either ghetto-rigged, with a coat hanger to keep it up or an old sheet for a cover or both (somebody know what I'm talkin' bout), there was ALWAYS one around. I am sad to say that I no longer own an ironing board. My shirts are now dropped off to and picked up from Miss. Lee and I certainly feel like a sell out everytime I stand at her counter. I just don't have the time to iron like I used to.

I would wait good till the first rainy Saturday, rig the board, cook me up a pot of starch and spend the day ironing everything in the house. Creases were sharp and I would get the greatest sense of accomplishment at the sight of all those crisp items hanging about the room. I would hate to give Miss. Ann her clothes when she came to pick them up, but the $10 tip made her items easier to part with.

My grandmother will never know albegra, but I'm thankful that she could convey the meaning of its symbols without knowing what the hell she was doing.

Happy Mother's Day!

Reflections at 100 and 40

2006-05-06T22:48:00.000-07:00

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me--
That is my dream!

Langston Hughes

Contrary to what I previously posted this is actually my 100th blog entry and May 10 will mark my 40th year on God’s earth. There is quite a bit to reflect on. Blogging has really been therapeutic and fun for me. When I look back at my first post I am very aware of what it was I was trying to do. I was very clearly writing to myself in an attempt to make sense of the way I think about things. At that time I didn’t really have an audience and never really thought that anyone would be interested in my musings. The more than 11,000 visits to Unpacking Baggage illustrates that I was wrong. Folks have dropped by and left some wonderful comments that have fueled more thought and inspired me to go further. I wish I had kept a journal over the years, but the blog has helped me remember things that I thought I had forgotten.

I have been seeking clarity and the search continues, but there is no question when it comes to family. Many of the comments I’ve received have been from my posts about my peoples. The very first comment I received was from BBBJr, who has been my biggest fan and supporter, not only in Bloggerville, but in life. Sometimes I forget to tell him how much he brings to my time on the big ball. The ride has definitely been better since I sat down next to him. The first comment I received from a stranger was from Eric G. In a recent post I remarked that his was the first blog I ever read. Now I realize why. He was the first to encourage me and he still does. So many have helped make this an enriching and rewarding experience. Most of them are listed in Featured Destinations. Those are the places I check in on regularly. I glean so much from those visits. One day I hope I can let those people know how much they have inspired me on my walk and the great value that they bring to my life.

Here are the highlights (my favorites) from the first 100. Thanks for the love.

Family or Friends
Happy Birthday, Daddy
A Long Hard Road
Bill Maher is my Hero
Great Aunts – Letha
Today
Relax! Relate! Release!
Great Aunts – Inspiration
Peaches! Peaches! Peaches!
The Greatest Voice of my Time
I’ve Been Tagged!

When I turned 30 I decided to subtract five years. I wasn't ready to be 30. That's why I honestly can’t believe I’m turning 40 and admitting it, but I look and feel better now than I have in the whole 40.

I'm sure I'll spend the next few weeks referencing my life and times, but here are few observations...

I’ve been around for eight presidents, their wars and scandals. I’ve seen the birth and death of disco and hip hop. Some folks may argue that hip hop is not dead, but when you compare Grandmaster Flash to Fifty Cent, hip hop is dead. Post-hip hop is what we have now. I remember when FM radio was playing whole albums. Hell! I remember albums (I still have some) I was around when audio and video cassettes were born. I was here for the first gas crisis and for the current mess. I remember Jim Jones and the Great Kool Aid Caper. I even lost some family members in that mess. I’ve been affected by the deaths of Elvis, Lucy, Sassy, Weezie, Ossie and Luther and countless others. I’ve been out of high school for 22 years. I’ve been driving for 27 years (20 with a license). The first movie I remember seeing in the theater was Bambi and that was in Georgia in the balcony, because segregation was still a fact in the early 70s. This year marks my family’s 36th annual reunion. I’ve attended all but three of them. I remember, vividly when AIDS and crack emerged. I’ve watched them both take a whole heap of folks out of here. I’ve seen bell bottoms and afros come, go and come and go again. I’ve seen black folks come a long way and go nowhere. I’ve seen us go from a black family on a few television shows to a whole network of shows. I’ve seen all that and so much more.

I’m not tired yet.

Back from the Dead

2006-05-04T06:03:00.000-07:00

I'm back! First, I'd like to apologize for falling off the face of the earth and thank you all for phone calls and emails expressing concern. Hiding out was terribly selfish of me and I promise to work on the ways in which I respond to trauma.

What had happened was... I got called into personnel and was told that things weren't working out and that I should clear out my office immediately. Right away I went into a panic and shut down. All I could see was debt, hopelessness, homelessness and despair and while those things are still very real, I am no longer unemployed. I just accepted a public relations gig in DC. This means I will be moving closer to the city. How cool is that?

This is also my 100th post! I can't believe it. And next week I will be turning the new 30, which used to be the old 40. If that's confusing, it's meant to be. Anyway, Happy Birthday to ME!!!

I'll holla.

Diversity Awareness

There was a black man, a white man, and a native American man, and a Latino man. All four of them were on top of a cliff discussing the difficulties that their people had gone through. The native American said, "my people have suffered the most, and in honor of what they have endured, I will fling myself off this cliff in hopes that my blood will change things" So he yelled out real loud "THIS IS FOR MY PEOPLE", and jumped off the cliff, the latino not wanting to be outdone, quickly looked at the other two and followed suit yelling "THIS IS FOR MY PEOPLE" and jumped off the cliff as well. The black man was touched by this and decided it was his turn, so he yelled "THIS IS FOR MY PEOPLE" and pushed the white man off the cliff!

Road Trip

2006-04-17T18:05:00.000-07:00

I love a road trip. After all those endless rides to Georgia while growing up, the highway is in my blood. So it was not a problem when Crofton called to say, "Let's go to New York for Easter." Bobby and I packed light bags and pumped on up to Crofton's to jump in his car and begin the drive.

Due to the holiday weekend, traffic was kinda thick, but Crofton managed to do 80 mph all the way up, his flow broken only by the senseless tolls that spring up to take your coins like a crackhead cousin your mama makes the mistake of telling you're in town. Traffic didn't get really sluggish until we jumped on the BQE to get to the LIE to drop Crofton's friend at his fam's home on Long Island.

I've been to Long Island before. My Aunt Frankie lived in Rockville Centre and Crofton owns property in Hempstead, both in Naussau County. We were both anticipating a hour delay to our foray into Manhattan. We were mistaken in our estimation. We simply assumed that Dude lived near where we were used to going. WRONG! We ended up at exit 63 on the Long Island Expressway. I don't remember the name of the town but we were in the middle of no damn where. We passed a Charismatic Catholic Church. What the hell is that? The best I can gather is they are COGIC Catholics. Somebody tell me how that works.

Anyway we rode and rode through what looked like the forest Hansel and Gretel got lost in. All at once we turned a corner and there was a neighborhood with nice little well-kept homes. It looked like a decent place to live, but I wonder how Dude got anywhere living out there. My guess is that he got back and forth by stage coach. After finally dropping him at Grandma's we pumped on back to Washington Heights, where we were staying at a friend's apartment.

After settling in, Bobby hopped on the train and went to meet up with some friends. I stayed behind with Crofton to unwind a little. Eventually we decided to go downtown to have a fat girl snack. We ended up at Rafaella's in the Village. The food was great, but the service was awful. I think we waited a half hour for our check. It was okay though because Bobby, Torah and Borris joined us and then my good friend Corey passed by with his friend Dee, both up and coming actors. Corey is in a soon-to-be-released film starring RuPaul and Dee was in a film released last year. The title of which I can't recall. I'm not sure how well it did in box office, but I hear the DVD sales were off the charts. I also ran into Michael, a sweet young man from Harlem that I met through Lawrence. It always amazes me that Lawrence lives in North Carolina and knows more people in New York than me and I lived in NJ most of my life.

Dee, Me & Corey

Borris, Torah & Bobby

To burn off the meal we decided to walk the hoe stroll. Christopher Street was many things that day. The NYPD had officers on horseback in anticipation of the craziness that would ensue once the sun went down and the pageant began. No shade, but it appeared to be already in progress. The kids were walking categories in broad daylight. Midway down the stroll we ducked into a bar to pour libation. Crofton's friend, Mario, having heard through the grapevine that he was in town, joined us. Mario is absolutely hilarious. He's the nephew of Judge Mablean Evans of Divorce Court. He was picking up his Easter Sunday gear when he got wind of Crofton's impromptu visit and came looking for him.

While standing in a dark corner sipping on a Heineken, who pops up but ShawnQT and Fuzzy, looking just a little too cute and young to be in a dark Christopher Street bar on a bright sunny day. Once they told me Omar was outside we hit the sidewalk to talk, bask in the sunshine and watch the prelims for the evening performances. Before we went in separate directions, I invited them to Easter dinner.

Shawn, Fuzzy & Omar

Bobby rode with Torah back over to the broken land (that's the Dutch translation for Brooklyn). I tagged with Mario and Crofton, who was supposed to be meeting up with his cousin in Harlem. We stopped at Mario's gym so that he could get the bags he'd been carrying. I learned something new and useful that afternoon. Mario lives in Inwood, which is the last stop on the A train in Manhattan. If he wants to dine or just chill with friends before hopping the train home, he will drop whatever he's carrying in his gym locker and retrieve it before heading for the train. Sometimes he will check a bag at one of the better midtown hotels under the pretense of checking in later. When he goes back to get his stuff he just tells them he had the wrong hotel (this works best with the Sheratons in Times Square that are directly across from each other).

While walking 8th Ave toward the train we decide to stop for a fat girl snack and a cocktail at Intermezzo, a lovely Chelsea bar/restaurant. The manager and bartender greet Crofton like the ushers at your childhood church when you visit on a holiday (seems he drank... I mean ate there quite a bit when he lived around the corner). Me and Mario shared a plate of mussels and proceeded to sop up the buttery juice with two plates of very good good bread... just kuntry! Already buzzing from the single Heineken I sipped on earlier (I don't drink), I decide to be grown and have a Cape Cod with Crofton. Mario had given up alcohol for lent along with some other stuff... "Child, I need some things," he explained.

Meanwhile, we are joined by Crofton's friend, Kuba who lives in the neighborhood. He gets the same warm hospitality from the management of the establishment. The next hour or so was spent in good conversation. Once Mario and I had sopped the bowl dry and cocktails were finished, we decide to head someplace else. Mario had to get home so we walked him to the train. Since I was just a little tipsy (I can't put away the juice like I used to), we elected to head to Kuba's where we proceeded to drain a very good bottle of red wine wine. We were joined by Crofton's friend, Jeff, whom we'd bumped into at Rafaella's earlier. We talked about everything from the state of the union to the failure of education. It was an orgy of minds.

By midnight I was good and buzzed. So we hopped the train back up to Washington Heights to turn in, but not before stopping by the chicken shack for a fat girl snack. By this time, Bobby is irritated because my evening has been nothing like I described it would be and he was ready come back to Manhattan to get some rest. When he arrives and is safely in the apartment, I pass the hell out.

I always get the same feeling of renewal on Resurrection Sunday. My plan to attend sunrise Easter service was foiled by the devil, but he couldn't steal my joy that Jesus died to blot out my sin and rose to justify me. We got up and tipped on over to the Twin Donut for some coffee and... well you know how we roll by now. Twin Donut has hateful coffee. It's like the concoction in that cloudy carafe in the break room at work, but the donuts are strangely reminiscent of the better franchise. On the way to my aunt's for dinner we had to stop at Starbucks so that Bobby and Crofton could get some super unleaded.

My Aunt Jane always puts out a spread. This year was strangely quiet due to the absence of the great aunts (they don't travel as well they used to), but it didn't stop us from dining on a sumptious meal of ham, turkey and the lamb that was slain. Omar joined us. It was a great meal.

"Happy Easter!"

Crofton, Aunt Jane & Bobby

After a drive-by visit to my mother's and grandmother's we pumped it to I 95 to get on back down to Maryland. The interstate was a parking lot so we diverted to my super secret short cut and made it home sans stress and tolls. Another great holiday weekend!

RANDOMMESS

2006-04-14T05:59:00.000-07:00

It's truly been a mess of a week and I'm so very glad to get to the end of this one. I'm broke, stressed the hell out and yesterday my doctor told me that I'm developing an ulcer. When it rains...

As I navigate through Bloggerville I become more amazed and amused each day. My Featured Destinations swell as I discover more people who brighten and enlighten. I owe much of the fact that I spend most of my morning reading blogs to ProfessorGQ, who tagged my ass last week to answer some revealing questions. I didn't take off much, but some of the tagged laid it bare! I love it!

New additions (that Additions not Edition BBBjr!)... the alpha male. I relate to crazy artists. Birds of a feather they say. If anyone in Atlanta reads this, jump in your Hyundai Excel with the spinners and head on over to the 4th Annual Spaghetti Junction Urban Film Festival (http://www.sjuff.com/) in Decatur this weekend. He will be there for the screening of his film "The Ties that Bind." Bring $10 to cover the cost of being entertained.

AngryBlackBitch has captured my heart. I love a woman who can use the "b" word and maintain grace and style. She tore me up earlier this week with a post about her late father. It was a wonderful testament to the little things that parents do that impact our entire lives. It made me think of my own Daddy.

Blah Blah Blah is killing me over at Blopty Bloop. This sista's stories of New York put Carrie Bradshaw and the rest of those Sex and the City Beckys to shame. Please check out the soap opera in progress. She will have you howling.

E's was the first blog I ever read. Once I started blogging, I stopped visiting. No shade. I was just engrossed in getting some stuff out of my head. I am now back to making frequent pilgrimages to half & half, tit & tat. Besides, I have love for all my Chicagoland peeps.

HoustonNY will have you standing in the middle of the floor with a puddle of pee between your legs. Well... maybe not, but I've laughed till the people in my office have come in to check on me. Terrance is absolutely hilarious. His Top Model series tops Tyra's HANDS DOWN!

I love the larry lyons experience! Now I understand the excitement surrounding his return to Bloggerville. Everyone was shoutin a brother out.

My Teenage Years has really taken me back to my youth...all those years ago! Charles X already amazed me with his insight and unique style of writing, but young Marz has taken it to an entirely different level with his observations of the world around him and his ability to write so honestly about them. I wish I'd had a friend like him when I was coming up.

I'd bumped into MDubb before in other folks' comment areas but I'd never visited his spot before. Glad I took the time. He talks about some relevant stuff... some trash too, but don't we all?

And I must really be as blonde and pretty as they say for not recognizing ReddMann as CW02 from Go.com and BlackPlanet... we go waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back! I'm glad to see that we never really lose each other. The universe finds a way to keep folks connected.

Of course I'm still committed to my other featured destinations and keep stumbling across new places I want to visit everyday. There's a certain Brooklyn Diva I'm about to fall in love with.

TOXIC PEOPLE

A few weeks ago an "old friend" wandered back into my life and I allowed this person to piss all over the personal growth I've experienced in the past 18 months. I forgot that we tend to lose touch with people for a reason. Sometimes it's for our own good. I permitted this person to convince me that I had fallen back into old patterns and habits that had plagued me before I recognized the issue. It's absolutely amazing how people will play upon insecurities until they get at your core and tear away at it.

Result... increased stress... heightened tension... betrayed trust. Bottom line: IRREPARABLE DAMAGE. If there are people in your life that constantly piss on the parade and you still claim them as a friend, cyber surf on over to BeingBobbyBrownJr and ask him about assessing the value of "friends." Better yet... email him.

BORN ON THIS DAY - ASA PHILIP RANDOLPH

Social Reformer, labor and civil rights leader. Originally from Florida, he started an employment bureau for untrained blacks arriving in New York City. He was a co-founder of a publication "The Messenger," and the organizer of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. He was also an organizer and director of the "March on Washington" Movement. He lobbied for integration of United States Armed Forces, and organized and directed the 1963 Freedom March on Washington, DC. He served as vice-president for the American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organizations (AFL-CIO), was a member of New York Mayor La Guardia's Commission on Race, and an honorary chairman of the White House Conference on Civil Rights. He was the founder and president of the Negro American Labor Council. Among the awards he earned were an honorary LL.D. from Howard University, the Spingarn Medal of the NAACP and a civil rights award from the American Federation of Teachers. He was cremated and his ashes are kept in an urn at the headquarters of the A. Philip Randolph Institute, Washington, DC. (bio by: Warrick L. Barrett)

Hillbilly Mirror

After living in the remote wilderness of Kentucky all his life, an old hillbilly decided it was time to visit the big city.

In one of the stores he picks up a mirror and looks in it. Not ever having seen one before, he remarked at the image staring back at him, "How about that! Here's a picture of my daddy."

He bought the 'picture', but on the way home he remembered his wife Lizzy didn't like his father, so he hung it in the barn, and every morning before leaving for the fields, he would go there and look at it.

Lizzy began to get suspicious of these many trips to the barn. One day after her husband left, she searched the barn and found the mirror.

As she looked into the glass, she fumed, "So that's the ugly bitch he's runnin' around with."

Great Aunts - Beulah

2006-04-07T11:49:00.000-07:00

I can't believe that I've come to the end of the great aunts. It's appropriate that I end with Beulah as she celebrates 81st birthday this week.

Aunt Beulah Mae was born on April 10, 1925 in Mount Vernon, Georgia. Like her sisters, she had a full head of thick hair, but hers was different in that she had soft "indian" hair like her father. All the other girls had thick, coarse "nigguh" hair [I'm quoting my grandmother]. Beulah's hair never needed a straightening comb. Her scalp was greased weekly with castor oil by Cousin Annie Julia Byrd, who nicknamed her "Pretty Coo." Her sisters, however called her "Pooda Coo."

Beulah's time in Georgia ended in the ealy 1940s when Aunt Letha brought her to New Jersey. It's a good thing because my grandmother says she spent most of her time drinking and going to parties with her good friend, Earline. When my grandmother arrived in New Jersey in 1946, she says she didn't recognize Beulah. She had cut off all her hair and was wearing a short bob. My grandmother was mortified. It was just what Beulah wanted. She was cute and cosmopolitan.

She was always somewhat of a party girl and fancies herself best-dressed among her sisters. One of her most-asked questions: "You think I look good?" My canned response: "How do you think you look?" She probably does spend the most for her fashions, but they are often not coordinated very well. I have seen her rock some items that had no business appearing on the same frame.

Back in the day she could always be found with a beer and a cigarette. She could put away some brews too. She would come to the function, drink all the beer and then dance the Camelwalk to Jr. Walker's, Shotgun. "Shoot 'em 'fo he run now!" She still attempts to shake her ass a little and remains faithful to her Newports.

For most of my life Aunt Beulah lived in the projects with her three "beautiful girls." She would often refer to them as her beautiful girls. It's a good thing they were genuinely well-liked, despite their crazy mama bragging around the neighborhood. And she is just a brick or so shy of a porch step. She is the only one of the great aunts that we have been granted permission to shut down.

Her big problem: SHE'S NOSY AS HELL!

She will ask you questions that she has no business asking and will expect you to answer. Often she will ask things to which she already knows the answer. Her questions are usually met with silence, but if they are particularly probing, she may get cussed out. That means nothing as she will ask the same question again. But don't ask her anything about her or her children because she will offer nothing, yet she expects you to spill all your business. I was grown [I think most of us were] before finding out she wasn't married to her children's father. I think the children were surprised too!

What had happened was... She met a man and had children with him. He already had a wife and family, but that didn't stop him from claiming his children with her. They grew up with his last name and, for whatever reason, Beulah decided she would use it too. It didn't become a problem until she went to collect social security. This chick had worked for damn near 40 years under an assumed named. Social Security Administration looked at her like Squeek from Color Purple and said, "Who dis woman?" Her face cracked! Eventually she got it straightened out, but I remain confused. I don't know how the hell to address cards and letters. Which reminds me that it's time to buy mother's day cards.

The great aunts have been so much fun to write about. They have provided me with years of entertainment and I am so excited to be able to share memories. There is so much more to tell, but I'm saving it for my book. I need to get paid for the manner of dirt I have to spill.

I've Been Tagged!

2006-04-06T07:53:00.000-07:00

If...

If you were to be the opposite sex for one day, what would you do?

One day is not enough to experience the joys of womanhood, but I guess I would spend the day shopping for shoes... not much different from my current existence, except they would be women's shoes. I love the way a woman's foot looks in heels. She must have good ankles and legs though.

If you had to name the most difficult thing about being a teenager today, what would you say?

Finding and maintaining individuality

If you had to name the most embarrassing moment of your life, when was it?

So many embarrassing moments, but I would have to say my first prostate exam... with a doctor.

If you had to name the most overrated actor in Hollywood, who would it be?

Terrance Howard, of course.

If you had to name the one personality trait that you have tried the hardest to change in yourself, what would you say?

Poor self-image

If you could go back for one minute to the Garden of Eden and give Adam advice, what would you say?

Watch her.

If you were to name the best “I told you so” you ever got to deliver, what was it?

The one where I didn't have to say it at all. A good friend was seeing a sociopathic motherf*cker and I warned him not to get involved. He did. Things got ugly. He ended up telling me I was right. It felt good because I think he realized that my warnings were for his good.

If you were Madonna, what would you do for your next publicity stunt?

Become a Baptist and release a CD that includes duets with Vickie Winans, Dottie Peoples and Yolanda Adams... call it Drag Queens for Jesus.

If you could have a lifetime 50 percent discount in any single store at your local mall, which store would it be in?

Macy's, but the 50% discount would have to extend to all departments and also be applicable to merchandise already sale-priced.

If you could have one more pet, what kind would you get, and what would you name it?

I've traditionally avoided pets because they limited my mobility, but now that I'm settled down I suppose I would like to have a boxer, named Evander.

If you could have God perform one miracle today, what would you want it to be?

A cure for AIDS and resurrection for all those we have lost to it.

If you could spend next New Year’s Eve doing anything, what would you do, and with whom?

I would spend it in Paris with BBBJr, of course.

If you were to set your country’s immigration policy, what would it be?

Illegals, if caught, would be immediately deported. Anyone caught aiding them would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law and don't give me that underground railroad/American slavery parallel bullsh*t! Black folks are still working on emancipation.

If you were given the power to settle the issue of gays in the military, what policy would you set?

Equal treatment for ALL. Anyone who didn't like... well that's too damn bad.

If you could have one person you have lost touch with call you up tonight and invite you to dinner, who would you want it to be?

Lisa Orlando, my good, good, girlfriend from college.

If you could change one thing about your love life, what would it be?

My feelings would always be considered and we would travel more often.

If you could have prevented one book from ever having been written, which book would it be?

On the Down Low: A Journey Into the Lives of "Straight" Black Men Who Sleep with Men

If you have to name the best music album ever recorded, which would you select?

Aretha Franklin's Amazing Grace

If you could have one thing made out of pure gold, what would you choose?

My drive way

If God were to whisper one thing in your ear, what would you like Him to say?

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord"

Washington Whispers

2006-04-05T17:42:00.000-07:00

"I thought she was Angie Stone. I just wanted an autograph."

Capitol Hill Police Officer accused of assaulting a U.S. Congresswoman.

From Washington Post.com

Grand Jury to Hear McKinney Run-In Case
By MARK SHERMAN, The Associated Press; Thursday, April 6, 2006; 6:03 AM

WASHINGTON -- The announced resignation of a powerful Republican congressman usually would be enough scandal for one week on Capitol Hill. Instead, a Democratic congresswoman has grabbed the spotlight since her run-in with a Capitol Police officer.

Rep. Cynthia McKinney, D-Ga., is accused of striking an officer after he tried to stop her from entering a House office building without going through a security checkpoint.
A federal grand jury will soon begin hearing evidence about the incident, a lawyer familiar with the case said Wednesday.

The lawyer, who declined to be identified because of grand jury secrecy, confirmed that federal prosecutors had agreed to get involved in the case.

Former House Majority Leader Tom DeLay, who on Tuesday abandoned his re-election bid under a cloud of ethics charges, weighed in on Wednesday, saying McKinney, who is black, "is a racist." The officer she allegedly struck is white.

"She has a long history of racism," DeLay, R-Texas, said on Fox News Channel. "Everything is racism with her. This is incredible arrogance that sometimes hits these members of Congress, but especially Cynthia McKinney."

U.S. Capitol Police Chief Terrance Gainer said McKinney turned the officer's failure to recognize her into a criminal matter when she failed to stop at his request, and then struck him.

"He reached out and grabbed her and she turned around and hit him," Gainer said on CNN.

"Even the high and the haughty should be able to stop and say, 'I'm a congressman' and then everybody moves on."

McKinney wasn't backing down. She charged anew that racism is behind what she said is a pattern of difficulty in clearing Hill security checkpoints.

"This has become much ado about hairdo," she said Wednesday on CBS' "The Early Show." McKinney recently dropped her trademark cornrows in favor of a curly brown afro.

Last Wednesday's incident in a House office building has caused a commotion on Capitol Hill, where security in the era of terrorist threat is tighter than ever and where authorities had to order an evacuation just Monday because of a power outage. Capitol Police have turned the McKinney case over to U.S. Attorney Kenneth Wainstein.

Republicans, meanwhile, presented a resolution commending Capitol police for professionalism toward members of Congress and visitors, even though they "endure physical and verbal assaults in some extreme cases."

"I don't think it's fair to attack the Capitol Police and I think it's time that we show our support for them," said Rep. Patrick McHenry, R-N.C., a sponsor of the measure.

Some GOP members have said the McKinney incident serves to underscore Democratic insensitivity to security concerns.

Gainer said racism was not a factor.

"I've seen our officers stop white members and black members, Latinos, male and females," he told CNN. "It's not an issue about what your race or gender is. It's an issue about making sure people who come into our building are recognized if they're not going through the magnetometer, and this officer at that moment didn't recognize her.

"It would have been real easy, as most members of Congress do, to say here's who I am or do you know who I am?" Gainer added.

Police also have said that McKinney was failing to wear a pin that lawmakers are asked to display when entering Capitol facilities.

Associated Press Writer Laurie Kellman contributed to this report.

What Flavor Haterade is That?

2006-04-04T16:46:00.000-07:00

I'm depressed this week.

I've been besieged with a stress-related ailment, which I don't feel like going into, but I will say that it's causing extreme discomfort in my life. Regardless of my discomforts I have been privy to some personal revelations. The first of which is to stop hating people for their personal views.

Last week BET aired programming aimed at the "down low" phenomenon. They are a day late and a dollar short to use the title of a book written by their celebrity victim, Terry McMillan. I missed the show, but was able to catch some of the footage of McMillan's appearance on Oprah. It was absolutely annoying to see Oprah and McMillan gang up on McMillan's former husband. Terry is bitter and feels deceived because her husband admitted he was gay. McMillan feels deceived for a number of reasons, but she has failed to take responsibility for her part. She married this "boy" when he was 19 or something ridiculous like that. She was in her 40s. She should have realized that the "boy" was still growing up. She should have been prepared for anything! But that's not the reason for this post.

J. L King was the another commentator on the BET program. King was another guest on Oprah after publishing On the Down Low: A Journey into the Lives of 'Straight' Black Men Who Sleep with Men. I did happen to catch that Oprah show and was immediately appalled at King and what I viewed as his attempt to cash in on the statistics about the rise of HIV infection in straight women. I later found research that showed married men sleeping with other men are not spreading HIV, exclusively. It seems that they are so completely paranoid about being exposed that they go to great lengths to protect themselves from infection.

I felt that King's sole purpose was to create a panic among black women by demonizing men, not to empower women to take responsibility for their choices or actions. As a result I began to publicly condemn King as a person. Keith Boykin's Beyond the Down Low did very little to improve my opinion of King. He was a bottom-feeder and I absolutely despised him. I even went so far as to discourage a group from contracting him to appear. I denied him work. I still don't feel bad about that, but I'm not pleased with myself for doing it based solely on personal dislike. I mean how can I personally dislike someone I don't know?

Last week a friend in Atlanta asked had I read King's new magazine. In so many colorful words I assured him that I had not and had no intention. He said the magazine was very good and basically called me a hater. I had to think about that thing. Then last week some nastiness broke out in blogland because one blogger said something offensive and caught a foot to the throat from another blogger. The offensive statement was from someone that I know and like as a person and I felt compelled to defend his right to feel as he does, no matter how much we might disagree. I encouraged the enraged blogger to open a dialogue and discuss the situation, realizing that opinions can change through discourse. The trouble is we [black folks] don't practice critical discourse. The minute someone hits a good nerve, we want to cut them. We have not learned to argue and end our discussions over dessert and coffee. What happens is we just sort of end all chances of enlightenment by shutting a person down. Example: "J.L. King ain't sh*t and I don't want to hear anything he has to say..." That is some nasty haterade.

I feel compelled to issue a public apology to Mr. King. I had no right to condemn him for his views. I have every right to challenge what he has to say, but I must not attempt to shut him down. Even though I disagreed with his book someone got something out of it. It may not be what I think they should have gotten, but that's my opinion. Everyone has a right to their feelings. We just have to remember to ask why they feel that way instead of immediately damning them to hell. I know what it's like to be on the receiving end. My criticisms of Beyonce have earned me some nasty insults from people, but I can truly say that am not bitter about her success. I actually like her personality. She seems sweet despite her limited vocal range and lack of polish. I also realize that it's more a reflection of the time, not her.

What flavor Haterade is that?

The Talent Pool

2006-03-29T13:34:00.000-08:00

Periodically I'm going to use this space to shout out folks who are doing great things and making me proud. There are some extremely talented people in my life and they are not concentrated in one area. They are all over the world! That means that all you cool people that drop by my spot every now and then can experience them too.

First big shouts to my buddy Roderick in Atlanta. I have to admit that I find ATL to be one of those cities that's great for a weekend, but no place at all to live. For years I thought that they [white citizens council] were trying to lure us all there so they could blow it up, but it's still there. The economy is not as good as it once was, but folks are still living well. It's just so damn sprawling and KUNTRY. All my cousins from rural Georgia now live in the metro area and these are folks who are still getting used to indoor plumbing... no shade.

Anyway... my friend is the founder of a wonderful book club called Brothas Well Read.

Celebrating 5 years of

Reading and Brothahood

Founded in September 2000 in Atlanta, Georgia by Roderick Tate, Brothas Well Read was started to share his passion for reading amongst his friends. He invited several friends to the first meeting, not knowing what to expect. As a result of the strong interest and support, Brothas Well Read was created. The group consists of African-American men with diverse backgrounds. Each member’s uniqueness and creative energy adds to the group’s success.

Brothas Well Read Book Club is for like-minded African American men to come together to discuss a variety of fiction and non-fiction books. It provides a warm comfortable atmosphere in which we can fellowship, engage in intellectual discussion, and enrich each other’s lives.

One of the great things I like about the organization is its membership criteria and selection process. In order to keep the meetings more intimate and personal, the group decided that membership will not exceed twenty members. Each member is encouraged to host at least one meeting in the Metropolitan Atlanta area.

Each month members are encouraged to bring suggested readings for the upcoming month. The suggested books are placed in a pool and randomly selected for reading. In some cases the group may strongly suggest a title and unanimously vote on reading that particular book for the month. The member who recommends the selected book facilitates the book discussion.

Dues are $5 a month and used to cover administration fees.

BWR is open to suggestions and welcomes inquiries. Simply contact Roderick Tate at info@brothaswellread.com.

I'm extemely excited and proud to put my dear friend, LaVarnga Hubbard, on BLAST! I first met LaVarnga back in 2002 when she joined Just Friends, a gospel chorale that I co-founded with my friend Crofton. Just Friends was formed in late 2000 to back up Dorinda Clark Cole at the Monmouth University Gospel Explosion. LaVarnga was not an original member but once she came on board, the group took on a brand new energy. Her star potential was clearly evident. Last year she went into the studio to begin work on her first solo project. The result is Nobody Else Compares To You, realeased in February and fast on its way to becoming the runaway hit of 2006.

LaVarnga G. Hubbard, affectionately known as L.A., was born and raised in the city of Chicago. She is the oldest of ten children. L.A. began singing at the age of nine in a small church on the southside of Chicago; Christian Doctorine Missionary Baptist Church. She has been a member of Greater Mt. Carmel Church since 1989 where she served as the Minister of Music for five years, 1990-1995.

L.A. has been happily married for over 27 years, with two wonderful children who are also in ministry. You can hear her daughter (ReRe) singing on the title song "Nobody Else Compares To You," written by her son, Rodney Jr. It is sure to be a number one single!!

With more than 20 years as an accomplished soloist, L.A. has recorded numerous songs with other great gospel artists. Among them are: "The Chicago Mass Choir ("Call Him Up" which can also be heard on her debut CD!), Walter Howard & Dedicated to Christ ("My God's Got It" which was the title cut), and Bishop Larry D. Trotter & The Sweet Holy Spirit Church Choir ("I Got What I Needed").

Listen To " Don't Judge My Praise"

Finally, my friend, Jason Webb, an accomplished composer and keyboardist at Greater Allen Cathedral of New York gave me the scoop on Pure Praise Sundays.

Come celebrate Palm Sunday with MoJaCreations and Club Pure as they present Pure Praise Sundays in Yonkers, NY! On Palm Sunday, April 9th at 2pm, come and enjoy an all-you-can-handle Southern-style buffet and the hottest gospel performers in New York at 320 Yonkers Avenue inYonkers, NY, just off the Cross County Parkway at exit 3. Dinner and Live Performance is $20 with flyer and $25 without. Limited seating is available. For reservations, menu, directions and more information please call (866) 540-2044 or log on to http://www.purepraiseny.com/.

Things That Make Me Go Hmm....

2006-03-29T09:29:00.000-08:00

And I'm not implying a damned thing!

Hard to Find... Part 2?

2006-03-28T04:20:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I posted about how Steve Harvey pissed me off on the morning drive. Well it seems all the radio personalities are chiming in about the "DL" brothers. The following was posted in one of my Yahoo Groups last night:

I was listening to the Doug Banks Show in my drive to work, this morning. In the entertainment section, Co-host Dee-dee mentioned that once again, B.E.T. will have a show focusing on "DL" Black men and the secret lives they lead. Of course, one of the main people on the show will be J.L. King and DL "victim" Terry McMillan. As the announcement for this show continued, one of the co-hosts said: "Why don't they just tell people and be upfront about it and everyone will be ok?"

There in lies my question(s) for the day: even though i hate the term "DL", In the black community as a whole, is being a "Down Low" man a necessary thing for some men? As a hypothetical question: could a man like LL Cool J come out and say he was gay or bisexual and everyone be ok with it and he still keep a successful career? And remember, we are part of a culture where black males are supposed to be athletes, straight thuggish, strong and screwing 90 in a week, and any deviation from that is a sign of mental or spiritual illness and weakness.

When this whole thing got started, many gay men jumped up and said they can't stand even talking with a married man that still wants to be with men. Is that fair? Gay black men, most of all should understand how our society shuns and instantly hates a thing it doesn't understand.

For those of you interested in watching the BET DL special, the in formation is listed below.

Posted March 23, 2006 -- Have you ever found out that a guy you know was on the down low? Are you a brother on the down low?

After watching "Down Low Exposed" on Tuesday, March 28 at 10 p.m. (ET/PT), chat with J.L. King, the controversial author of the tell-all book, “On the Down Low,” and the follow up, “Coming Up From the Down Low,” Wednesday, March 29 at 1 p.m. (ET), 11 a.m. (PT).
On a revealing Oprah appearance, King exposed a subculture of men who sleep with men and also with their wives or girlfriends. King admitted to sleeping with men while married to his wife.

It appears to me that America still has no handle on what being on the down low really means. Keith Boykin's book does a good job of explaining things, but Oprah hasn't had him on her show yet. I suppose I can't fault a sistah for cashing in on sensationalism before enlightening the people.

In attempt to answer those questions I have to begin by saying that being on the down low is necessary for some men in every community. What if a man is a married preacher or politician and he's running around with his secretary? That's something he would want to keep on the low. Down low = discreet.

As for sexual orientation, there is no need to run around disclosing unless there will be some skin slapping and even then, there are exceptions. However, it’s best to be honest if there is a chance someone could be hurt. Public disclosures are certainly not necessary. People’s sexual habits should not be news, unless of course, they result in public trials.

I do believe LL could come out and be ok. He’s already had a successful career. Far too successful, considering the amount of talent he brings to the game, but I do believe he could survive an admission of homosexuality or bisexuality.

If he was gay, I do believe Luther was out to his friends and family and I don’t believe he made a conscious effort to deceive the public. I believe he would have remained successful, simply because he was talented. Diz Ya Boy did a wonderful post about Paul Winfield, who was a successful, working, GAY, black actor. He worked right up to his death and lived well.

I don’t agree that we are bound by cultural expectations to be any of those things mentioned. I can use Will Smith as an example. He’s not “an athlete, straight thuggish” or “strong and screwing 90 in a week” and he’s very successful. Babyface is another example. Maxwell has already been called out. John Legend and Kanye West have been suspected. I believe each of these brothers’ careers would survive if the world discovered they were getting their backs blown in on the regular.

As for the last ridiculous question… of course gay men should shun the advances of men who are married or in committed relationships. What the hell do you want with someone else’s trash?

The Greatest Voice of my Time

2006-03-23T03:43:00.000-08:00

March 27 marks the 82nd anniversary of the birth of the Divine Sarah Vaughan, Jazz's greatest diva. Jazz critic Leonard Feather called her "the most important singer to emerge from the bop era." Ella Fitzgerald called her the world’s "greatest singing talent." During the course of a career that spanned nearly fifty years, she was the singer’s singer, influencing everyone from Mel Torme to Anita Baker. She was among the musical elite identified by their first names. She was simply Sarah, Sassy -- the incomparable Sarah Vaughan.

Born in Newark, New Jersey, in 1924, Vaughan was immediately surrounded by music: her carpenter father was an amateur guitarist and her laundress mother was a church vocalist. Young Sarah studied piano from the age of seven, and before entering her teens had become an organist and choir soloist at the Mount Zion Baptist Church. When she was eighteen, friends dared her to enter the famed Wednesday Night Amateur Contest at Harlem’s Apollo Theater. She gave a sizzling rendition of "Body and Soul," and won first prize. In the audience that night was the singer Billy Eckstine. Six months later, she had joined Eckstine in Earl Hines’s big band along with jazz legends Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker.

When Eckstine formed his own band soon after, Vaughan went with him. Others including Miles Davis and Art Blakey, were eventually to join the band as well. Within a year, however, Vaughan wanted to give a solo career a try. By late 1947, she had topped the charts with "Tenderly," and as the 1940s gave way to the 1950s, Vaughan expanded her jazz repertoire to include pop music. As a result, she enlarged her audience, gained increased attention for her formidable talent, and compiled additional hits, including the Broadway show tunes "Whatever Lola Wants" and "Mr. Wonderful." While jazz purists balked at these efforts, no one could deny that in any genre, Vaughan had one of the greatest voices in the business.

In the late 1960s, Vaughan returned to jazz music, performing and making regular recordings. Throughout the 1970s and '80s she recorded with such jazz notables as Oscar Peterson, Louie Bellson, Zoot Sims, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Don Cherry, and J.J. Johnson. Her recordings of the "Duke Ellington Song Book (1 and 2)" are considered some of the finest recordings of the time. While for many years her signature song had been "Misty," by the mid-70’s, she was closing every show with Sondheim’s "Bring In The Clowns." In 1982, while in her late fifties, Vaughan won the Grammy for Best Jazz Vocalist for her album, "Gershwin Live"!

While she continued to work without the massive commercial success enjoyed by colleagues such as Peggy Lee, Rosemary Clooney, and Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan consistently retained a special place in the hearts of fellow musicians and audiences alike. She continually performed at top venues, playing to adoring sell-out crowds well into her sixties. Remarkably, unlike many singers, she lost none of her extraordinary talent as time went on. Her multi-octave range, with its swooping highs and sensual lows, and the youthful suppleness of her voice shaded by a luscious timbre and executed with fierce control, all remained intact. In 1990, at the age sixty-six, Sarah Vaughan passed away. Shortly after her death, Mel Torme summed up the feelings of all who had seen her, saying "She had the single best vocal instrument of any singer working in the popular field." From PBS American Masters

I first became aware of the melodious voice when I was 12 years old. There was always music in my house and I would listen to everything. My grandmama and 'nem would go to garage sales in ritual fashion and someone would always bring back a stack of vinyl record albums. The Lonely Hours, one of Sarah Vaughan's Roulette recordings showed up in one of those stacks. It became my one of my favorites. It was with that recording that I learned to sing. I can truly say that Sarah Vaughan taught me now to breathe. Over the years I collected other recordings, mostly through the stacks at garage sales. Still, it was something I listened to at home... in secret.

I first heard Sarah Vaughan away from home in my Aunt Jane's basement when I was about 19. My late Uncle Charles was a jazz fan and would spend hours listening to his favorite recordings over scotch and cigarettes. He would tell wonderful stories about live performances. He also introduced me to After Hours, the quintessential Sarah Vaughan recording. She is accompanied only by piano, bass and rhythm guitar. It's one of the sexiest albums you will ever hear. After hearing that I began my bi-annual pilgrimages to New York's famed Blue Note supper club for Sassy's regularly scheduled appearances. I was blessed to see her a total of twelve times before she died on April 3, 1990.

At the time of her passing I owned over 30 of her recordings. Though she died in Los Angeles, she was returned to her native Newark, New Jersey to be eulogized at Mount Zion Baptist Church and laid to rest near her father in Bloomfield's Glendale Cemetery. Devoted fan that I am, I attended the funeral and continue to drop by her grave periodically, just to show love. It's the least I can do.

"Though she was neither as iconic as Billie or as universally loved as Ella, 'Sassy' was possibly the most technically gifted jazz singer of all time. Her incredible vocal range coupled with a daring improvisational ability made her a favourite with Dizzy Gillespie and Earl Hines. She died too early but remains an influence on singers from Dianne Reeves to Anita Baker."
From BBC Music.

Wednesday Random Ish

2006-03-22T07:40:00.000-08:00

Michael ain't dead after all!

Since it's still early on the West Coast and Trent Jackson just hasn't gotten around to posting his Wednesday Wit, I thought I better amuse myself, since I've done all the work I feel like doing this morning.

Interesting discussion going on over at Grown People... very reminicent of my Good Man post with a lot more substance. What are we to do about relationships? People really do think in extremes though... Either you have yourself a penitiary brother or you have to marry a white man. Sistahs are either hoes or virgins... It's all too trifling and confused.

But not as trifling and confused as the Bush Administration.

Yesterday at a press conference, this idiot basically says that our troops will be in Iraq after he has left office. That's not acceptable is it? When confronted with a call for Rumsfeld's resignation, Bush said, "He's doing a fine job." So was Brownie for FEMA. And how the hell does one of your former flunkies get busted for theft... AT TARGET??? I mean COME ON! I did that return scam at TJ Maxx years ago!

How many blasts can an administration take? I guess it really wasn't worth it to keep a lid on Claude Allen's activity. That's if it's true. He could very well be innocent. I mean he is a Black man after all.

Big ups and congrats to Madosi for landing a gig at Black Enterprise! I am so proud!

I'm also sad because I am unable to attend ShawnQT's birthday bash in New Jersey this weekend. I was really looking forward to it, especially since he is one of the most beautiful people I know... inside and out. I know he's going to have a great party with some really great folks. I swear... he gives off the best energy. If you stand next to him, you can feel it. Makes me feel warm all over.

Mo big ups to Briian Dargon and his clothing line BSIXTEE6.

I'm really proud of him too! He's come a looooooooong way from... well... from where we first met. Well not that far. He's always been on the fast track... fast ass! 4real doe... check out his spot and buy something. I have a few items coming.

Lawd hab mussy! There's a new party in Harlem of Saturday nights. I know I don't live in the metropolitan area anymore, but Nathan is really trying to get this one up and off the ground. Of course no one can go this week until ShawnQT says it's ok for folks to leave his party.

I'm LingMAO at the comments I've received about the red undies on the beach. The subject has responded with,

"if they're hot boiz with a phat, juicy ass asking or doubting what a brutha' was blessed with naturally, show 'em my dick pics and tell them simply that I'll be down there at your slumber party in late April, most likely wearing something to further prove that it's VERY real, indeed! (laughs) Either that, or you can tell them to peep a brutha' at the nude beaches in the NYC area (Fire Island, Sandy Hook, etc.) since that's what I frequent a lot when it's in season and my being a nudist can come outdoors to flourish!"

A brotha has spoken, but I am not posting his nude pics.... This is a family show!

Ok.. that's enough randomness... and I think my boss is coming.

On All Fours... So To Speak

2006-03-20T13:50:00.000-08:00

Beware of the blog snatchers! Trent Jackson shouted us out on Friday Finale, but I had to jack this cute little list from Madosi.

Four jobs I've had:

1. Mental Health Worker
2. Video Store Clerk
3. Manager at Sam Goody
4. Higher Education Administrator

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. The Women
2. Auntie Mame
3. Which Way is Up?
4. Jackie's Back

Four places I have lived:
1. Washington, D.C.
2. Chicago, IL
3. Boston, MA
4. New Jersey

Four shows I love:
1. Law And Order (CI and SWV too)
2. Six Feet Under
3. The Wire
4. The Nanny

Four highly-touted TV shows ... I don't get the hype:
1. Lost
2. 24
3. American Idol
4. Desperate Houswives

Four books I'd recommend to anyone, anytime:
1. Ugly Ways by Tina McElroy Ansa
2. Let The Dead Bury The Dead by Randall Keenan
3. The Talisman by Stephen King
4. Africans Who Shaped Our Faith by Jeremiah A. Wright, Jr.

Four places I have vacationed:
1. Paris
2. London
3. Mexico
4. Munich

Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Lasagna
2. Meat Loaf and Mashed Potatos
3. Macaroni and Cheese
4. Turkey Wings and Collard Greens

Four sites I visit daily:
1. Google
2. Half.com
3. Washington Post.com
4. Hotmail

Four blogs that give me what I need:
1. TravlinAllAlone
2. grown people
3. Victory Is Personal
4. Quaheeeeeeeeeeeeeem!

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. At home
2. Haulover Beach, Miami
3. NYC
4. Shopping

And I'm tagging:
1. BBBJr
2. Dizyaboy
3. No4Real4Real
4. Texas Tiger

Back In The USA!!!

2006-03-18T20:25:00.000-08:00

Now I know how white people feel when they wander into the 'hood. I know how Becky from Omaha must feel when she realizes that just a few steps from the Starbucks on 125th Street is a land where her lily white ass has no place. I have felt the frustration of Biff from Boston as he scans the street with hopes of finding just one face that looks like him. I know... I am a Black American, which means I should be used to finding myself in situations where I am outnumbered by the whites and I am. But I also know where I can go and never see one of them.

Bobby and I spent last week in cold ass Prague, the capitol of the Czech Republic. Prague is located in the very center of Europe and has the distinction of being the only city on the continent that has never been bombed, which means there are buildings dating back to the ninth century. We actually took a tour of Prague Castle, a sprawling complex situated atop a large hill. It's located on the left bank of the Vltava River, which runs through old town Prague. It is not exactly a "classic" castle because portions of it were built in different styles, and it spreads out more horizontally than vertically. But inside the castle, there are lots of sights and attractions. The main feature is St. Vitus cathedral, an interesting 14th century Gothic structure adorned with gargoyles that can be seen easily from ground level. Inside St. Vitus are some very elaborate tombs, a lot of Czech history. I would have been more intrigued had it not been so damn cold... and lily.

It was a good week, mostly because we were together, but my next vacation will be in the tropics... with some people of color.

Is a Good Man THAT Hard to Find?

2006-03-09T06:13:00.000-08:00

I have to say that Steve Harvey accompanies me during my morning drive. I know he can be somewhat over the top at times, but he is perhaps the best thing to happen to morning radio since I first discovered Doug Banks and his sidekick Dee Dee. When Steve first appeared on the radio in New York, WBLS had assembled a group of comical local folks to host a morning drive show after they, very suddenly, packed Doug and Dee Dee. I mourned the loss of D & D, but I got used to the new colored folks, which included Ellen Cleghorn, formerly of SNL and Paul Mooney from Chappelle's Show. They were absolutely hilarious! One morning, Steve appeared on their show. A few weeks later Steve was on for a week. Next thing I know Steve Harvey is the show.

I have settled in for a long run with Steve. He's funny... keeps the show moving... loves Jesus and has the tendency to offer very sound advice to listeners. Steve kinda pissed me off this morning. A female listener wrote in to complain about how hard it is for her to find a man. She cited some reasons being her strong values and old-fashioned girl nature, she was of the belief that the man needs to approach the woman. Before going on to give some pretty sound advice about finding a man, he prefaced it by listing some of the reasons there is a shortage of black men... women outnumber men 7 to 1, incarceration rates, good ones already married... then he cited the downlow phenomena and the gay population, which pissed me off just a little.

Ok... I admit that the gay population might be a reason there is a shortage a shortage of black men for black women, but that's about it. The downlow phenomena... come on! Is it really a phenomena at all? And why do Black men continue to bear the brunt of men leading dual lives? Hasn't Bareback Mountain taught the world anything? And I'm curious. Don't white women have the same problems? After all. There are more openly gay white men and I'm sure a proportionate number of white men are living on the low too. Wouldn't it be safe to say that there is a shortage of available men for white women also. That could explain why they snatch up all the black pro atheletes which, by the way, has backfired on their asses from time to time.

Yes Steve really pissed me off with the preface, but he went on to give a sound piece of advice. He basically told a sista not to expect a man to come along and be everything that she wants in a man. However, if you find one that's on track, doing the damned thing, so to speak, work with that man to make him everything you need him to be. I thought that was kinda cool. I would have gone a step further by telling her to get out of that white, european, patriarchial idea of how men and women should interact. African Americans descend from female-centered cultures, where women are innovators and initiators. This idea of being the shrinking violet, victim who sits around waiting for a prince to come is medieval and archaic and REAL WHITE.

Black women didn't just start being strong as a result of the emasculation of the black male during slavery in America. Black women have always been smart. I remember when I first saw Color Purple and Nettie wrote to Celie about how the Olinka didn't educate girls. They didn't need to. The girls were already smart. It was the boys that needed to be taught something. I know that's probably not the case, but it was the way I saw things at the time. I was also thinking that Steve should tell his female listeners that if they are so upset with the low-quality of Black men out there, they should raise better sons. But that's a whole notha Oprah.

And the winner is...

2006-03-06T09:04:00.000-08:00

That statement was followed by some pretty amazing titles at last night's Oscar ceremony. Folks seem to be knocked for a loop at the announcement of Best Original Song. I have one friend who is actually stunned and appalled at the behavior of the artists at the ceremony. I shook my head a little too at the buffonery, but I value diversity.

The academy values diversity as well. I believe they are proud to award artists of color, who deliver performances worthy of recognition. I truly believe the lack of African American Oscar winners has more to do with a lack of worthy vehicles for performance than inherent racism. George Clooney said it best during his acceptance, when noting that the academy honored Hattie McDaniel at a time when Black folks were sitting in the back of the theater. She deserved it. I still have issues around Cuba Gooding, Jr for Jerry Maguire and Whoopi for Ghost, but who am I to judge?

For me, the song announcement wasn't that much of a shock. The nomination was a surprise, but after that, I knew there was a good chance it might win. True, throughout history, the category has been dominated by songs that have gone on to become part of the American popular song canon. Over the Rainbow, White Christmas, Moon River, The Way We Were, Can You Feel the Love Tonight, and My Heart Will Go On are examples of the kinds of songs that have won consistently throughout the years. Eminem's 2005 win and 3:6 Mafia's 2006 honor are only incredible because they move Hip Hop further into the mainstream.

Diversity has never really been an issue in this category. After all, Isaac Hayes, Stevie Wonder and Lionel Richie are all Best Original Song honorees. Other winners represent a variety of genders, ethnicities and nationalities. I think true diversity is exemplified in Ang Lee winning for directing the quintessentially American film Bareback Mountain and for Crash receiving the Best Picture award. Though not exemplary of diversity, big ups to my American sweetheart, Reese Witherspoon for honor. Now someone give her husband a job!

Saturday night we screened Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?, the vehicle for Katharine Hepburn's 1968 Best Actress award. If you haven't seen it, get your ass over to Blockbuster. I had forgotten how absolutely marvelous it is. Hepburn's portrayal of a mother whose daughter brings home a Black fiancee (played flawlessly by Sidney Portier) is riveting. Though the film's main theme revolves around shock...

Weezy sizes up the new negro

Katharine's trademark shake first becomes obvious

Deer Spencer Tracy trapped in the headlights

The Blacks get the shock of their life

Roy Glenn finally shuts his mouth and Beah Richards let's go of her pearls

once they get used to the idea, tongues sharpen and everyone gets to slice someone. The knives they use make Trent Jackson's Ginsus and Bobby Brown, Jr's. Lucy Lius look like dull butter knives.

"Don't Speak. Just go."

"Nigga!"

William Rose's masterful writing, which also received an award that year, is as fresh today as it was then. What's even more interesting is how this film accurately reflects attitudes today, letting us know that not a whole lot has changed in regards to race relations. Folks still got issues.

ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN KINDERGARTEN (a guide for global leadership)

2006-02-27T06:08:00.000-08:00

Alice Evans Schlenger, my kindergarten teacher, died on Saturday. She was 97 years old! That means she was probably too old to be teaching our class. I clearly recall that we were a wild, eclectic bunch. Even the white kids were hood saavy. They had to be. They were interacting on a daily basis with kids who were living in some crazy conditions. Many of our parents were single. Some were struggling with drug problems. One kid's mom was killed by his dad, who was serving time in prison. We were all poor, but really had no idea.

I remember us being happy and oh so boisterous. Mrs. Schlenger, even moving toward the end of her professional career, was able to shape and develop a crazy group of youngsters, making them ready to receive the years of education that would follow. I thank her for that and for a marvelous year in my life that I can look back upon and only remember good things.

All I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate school mountain, but there in the sand pile at school.

These are the things I learned:

Share everything.
Play fair.
Don't hit people.
Put things back where you found them.
Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours.
Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush.
Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.
Take a nap every afternoon.
When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together.
Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.
Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die. So do we.
And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned - the biggest word of all - LOOK.

Everything you need to know is in there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation. Ecology and politics and equality and sane living.

Take any one of those items and extrapolate it into sophisticated adult terms and apply it to your family life or your work or government or your world and it holds true and clear and firm.

Think what a better world it would be if we all - the whole world - had cookies and milk at about 3 o'clock in the afternoon and then lay down with our blankies for a nap. Or if all governments had as a basic policy to always put things back where they found them and to clean up their own mess.

And it is still true, no matter how old you are, when you go out in the world, it is best to hold hands and stick together.

[Source: "ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN KINDERGARTEN" by Robert Fulghum. See his web site at http://www.robertfulghum.com/ ]

Settling in Nicely

2006-02-26T07:16:00.000-08:00

FINALLY! A link to civilization.

The modem arrived yesterday and you would have thought it was Christmas up in through here. At the moment there is no wall jack in the computer room so there is a line running from the kitchen, which looks real ghetto, but OH WELL! I'll make a more attractive connection this week.

The new job is great. I'm getting used to being in charge. It's a strange transition from having been a very hands-on, action-oriented person. A few days ago the office assistant told me not to answer my phone. I am to send all calls through the main line. That just blew my mind. It's all good, though. I never listened to my voicemail anyway.

I thought that being on such a remote campus would bore me, but it really hasn't. The students are great and we've already had dynamic speaker on campus for Black History Month. Dr. Julianne Malveaux, an economist, author and commentator came and delivered a marvelous lecture that links the rise in racism to Black economic empowerment. It seems that each time Black folk make strides toward economic equality, some kind of racial divide pops up to make it more difficult for us to achieve.

Malveaux writes monthly for USA Today and Black Issues in Higher Education and a weekly column that appears in more than 20 newspapers. She is also a frequent contributor to national magazines including Essence, Ms., Crisis, Emerge, Black Enterprise and The Progressive. Check a sister out. She will engage and empower you. It has truly been a a great month for me.

Things are great on the artistic front as well. We saw Color Purple on Broadway on Tuesday and it was an absolute amazing production. I was absolutely exhausted, but pressed my way to the theater. I am so glad I did. I need everyone who can to make an effort to get there and don't expect to see an exact replica of the movie. There are a few similarities, but I believe those come from Alice Walker's book on which everything is based. One of the most hilarious moments of the evening occurred when Celie meets her children. A over enthusiastic audience member (why did I know her?) shouted, "Bwani Mama!" The entire audience howled. I thought I was at a chitlin circuit musical, speaking of which...

We saw Tyler Perry's, Madea's Family Reunion (gotta keep those opening weekend numbers up!). Perry is really a gifted film maker. Parts of the film had me absolutely spellbound. There was a moment at the family reunion where Cicely Tyson addresses the whole family. It was very "Beah Richards in the woods" from Beloved. Of course Madea was herself. She had more screen time than in Diary. I am really going to miss her when Perry retires the character. There's no one else like her and I personally prefer Perry in "character." Daddy Charles was also hilarious. He really comes alive in heavy make up. And I'm not trying to be messy, but why does he pack his productions with half naked muscle men? There was one scene on a basketball court that was pure homoerotica. The only thing that dissapointed me was that Jenifer Lewis was not a member of the family. THAT would have been HILARIOUS. But as always Perry made some powerful statements about forgiveness and healing, the stuff that we really need.

Reality slapped me in the face as we were leaving the theater. The county sheriff was posted by the door just to make sure the Blacks exited in an orderly fashion. The least they could have done was sent an officer of color. This boy looked like Opie Taylor from the Andy Griffith Show all grown up. I was slightly offended. Did they expect we were going to fight after seeing a family movie? You would have thought we had just seen Get Rich or Die Tryin'. It gives me the impression that it must be policy to have police protection when Black films are shown, no matter what the genre. The fact that there was only one officer also leads me to believe that it's not about crowd control, but elimation. If something were to really pop off, all he could do is shoot somebody. I am really living in the kountry!

Happy Valentine's Day and Welcome to Maryland!

2006-02-14T11:49:00.000-08:00

With all the running around and starting a new job, I haven't had the chance to run and get a Valentine's Day gift. I did get a card, but I haven't got a cute stuffed animal or a bouquet of wilted roses and I feel a little bad about it. I had big ideas but moving to another state last weekend really took its toll. That's my story and I'm sticking to it!

The real truth is that I can't think of anything to buy that adequately expresses my love. The flowers and candy hearts fall significantly short. Dinner reservations are always impossible to get and I really don't want to be around other people anyway. I think what will happen is I'll either cook or get some take out... light a fire... pop open a bottle of wine and do the whole cuddle thing in front of the fire. Keeping it real simple.

Enjoy the special people in your life and however you choose to celebrate... remember that how you act on February 14 shouldn't be radically different from the way you did on February 13 or the way you will on February 15.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Time to Heal

2006-02-08T19:39:00.000-08:00

Last night I was priviledged to experience the brilliance of Dr. Joy DeGruy-Leary. This is a complete departure from what I had expected to say the day after her visit to our campus. To be honest, I was considering staying home. I went because I wanted the evening to be special for my students.

Upon first hearing about Dr. Leary I was bit perturbed. Her theory of Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome troubled me because I saw it being used as an excuse to explain why black folks can't get ahead, which offended me tremendously. My grandparents and others like them succeeded despite being slaves well into the 20th Century. What does the existence of Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome suggest about those successes? I was armed with a barrage of questions meant to challenge a sister and in the space of a two-hour lecture she answered them all without me opening my mouth.

Dr. Leary, a social scientist with a Ph.D. in social work research, believes that many of the social, educational and health issues that plague many black Americans today are the result of generations of untreated trauma resulting from the atrocities of slavery and race-based violence and oppression.

Answering critics who say slavery was too long ago to be connected to what ails us today, Dr. Leary insists that she is “not alone in recognizing the need for greater understanding and research with regard to historical multi-generational trauma. We must explore the consequences of extreme suffering on successive generations, if we are to heal as a people,” Leary professes.

"Today, the legacy of slavery remains etched in our souls. Understanding the role our past plays in our present attitudes, outlooks, mindsets and circumstances is important if we are to free ourselves from the spiritual, mental and emotional shackles that bind us today, shackles that limit what we believe we can be, do and have. Understanding the Post-Traumatic Slave Syndrome plays in our evolution may be the key that helps to set us on the path to well-being.” -- Excerpted from Chapter 5, Slavery’s Children

She made it most plain during her lecture with loads of historical data and examples of present-day behavior that give creedence to the theory. One of the examples she gave that really helped win me over illustrated how we often fail to celebrate our children because of slavery. She told a story of two mothers of sons -- one white and one black -- with equally impressive children. Both are accomplished in so many different ways.

One day the mothers meet and white mama begins to go on and on about her son, very obviously bragging. Realizing that the black mother has just as much to be proud of she says, "Oh but you must be proud of Brandon too.." and goes on to talk about his many talents. The black mother lets her finish and says something like, "That's all well and good, but he was a handful this morning. You don't know what I go through." I can tell you how many times I've witnessed similar exchanges, even from my own grandmother!

Dr. Leary went on to explain how this is a throwback to slavery. If a black mother was working on a plantation and the white master or overseer would comment on how well the child was growing, the mother would say something like, "Don't let looks fool you. He dumb, shiftless and can't work." The rationale -- her child wouldn't be sold away from her. However the child would often hear what was said and think mama wasn't proud of him. It's a behavior we never unlearned because there has never been a healing period in the existence of African Americans. Our trauma has never stopped.

I encourage EVERYONE to look for Dr. Leary in your area. Her talk will change your life. As I read her book I will be sharing.

A Flag for African Americans

2006-02-06T16:39:00.000-08:00

On a blistering cold morning, last Wednesday, we raised a flag to commemorate the start of Black History Month festivities on our campus. We didn't raise the traditional red, black and green flag is most recognizable, but a new African American flag, created by Tonya and the late David Harvey of Baltimore, Maryland.

The idea for the African-American Flag came into the minds of the Harvey's when they were singing the Black National Anthem at a 1991 African-American Banquet. Tonya and David decided that the BIack National Anthem needed a flag to symbolize the meaning of the Anthem.

The purpose of the African-American Flag is to be a symbol of the past, present, and future value of the African-American life in the United States of America. The flag's motto is "Perservering Through Time."

The colors are red, white, blue, black, green, purple and gold. The purple bar symbolizes the regal history of African Americans. The gold flashes of light around the star symbolize perseverance, love, knowledge and spirituality. The black stripe near the purple base symbolizes African-Americans are close to regality. The green stripe symbolizes abundant life in Africa. The gold stripe symbolizes the riches in Africa. The red, white and blue stripes symbolize the integral part African Americans play, have played, and will play in America's greatness. The eight pointed black star symbolizes each individual African-American.

It was the Harvey's vision that the flag be raised during the singing of the Black National Anthem at institutions across the country. Ours is one of the many institutions that is proud to further that vision.

Some Type of Way

2006-01-31T05:08:00.000-08:00

My sister said it when I announced I was moving away.

"I'm feeling some type of way about you leaving."

I wasn't really sure what she meant by it, but a friend pointed out the beauty of the ambiguous statement. It allows you to feel without having to disclose the feelings. She could be despondent that I'm going or she can be happy as hell. It's up to the person hearing the statement to attach meaning. I have to admit that, this morning, I'm feeling some type of way at the news of the death of Coretta Scott King.

I'm not really sure how to react. As I was watching CNN in the cafeteria, I began to get a little choked up. I shook myself out of it immediately. After all, I didn't know her. When I got the news that Ms. Vivian, a celebrated member of my church and community had passed on Sunday, I kept moving as if someone had told me I had just stepped in doo doo. I said "Oh damn" and scraped the bottom of my shoe. Ms. Vivian deserved a little more reflection than that.

Here was a woman I knew to be kind, caring, committed and conscious and all I could do was comment on how good her timing was, because if she'd waited until next week I would have been gone. Isn't that foul? But yet I get all teary when I hear about a woman I didn't know. She wasn't even a friend in my head. I even got a little bent a few years back when I heard that Morehouse College paid her a substantial salary for being visible. That kind of irritated me. But shouldn't they? She's iconographic.

Just like Jacqueline or Ethel Kennedy, Mrs. King raised her children in an unkind spotlight without the benefit of their father. No less than Jackie, Coretta carried on with grace and dignity. Surely, the children acted out as children do, but she pulled that hair back and went out to greet the day. Someone once referred to the Kings as black royalty. Again, I disagreed. To me, she was always just a woman doing her very best to make it.

I now realize why I got emotional at the news. CNN did it! They got me with all the images and commentary. It was like being at a wake for your mama. She meant so much to so many and she will be missed. No less than Ms. Coretta, Ms. Vivian will be missed. I'm just trying to keep it together so that I can sing her favorite song at her service.

And the joy we share as we tarry there

None other has ever known

Re-Post: Peaches! Peaches! Peaches!

2006-01-27T12:48:00.000-08:00

By popular demand! Here is a Re-post of a favorite in honor of 3000 visits.

It was never meant to offend, but somehow, someone in my circle coined the term "fat girl snack." No one was attempting to make fun of the obese. I have some big girls in my family and I would never do anything to piss them off. But lets keep it real... fat on the body doesn't appear out of no where. Sometimes it's brought about by a physical condition, but more often than not, it's the result of too many poor dietary choices... fat girl snacks.

A fat girl snack can be virtually anything edible. However, there is a criteria that must be met in order to earn the FGS label. First there are certain foods that are, without question, a fat girl snack. Pretty much anything made by Hostess, Drake, TastyKake or that bitch, Little Debbie make the grade. I bake a homemade poundcake as well as three-layer caramel and coconut cakes. They too are fat girl snacks. Candies, cookies, or anything that comes packaged in a bag, marked by Wise, Lays, Utz, or Herrs... FGS!

There are also items that are considered fat girl snacks, simply based on the time or intention of consumption. A stack of pancakes at 7:45 in the morning is a meal. A stack of pancakes at 3:45 in the morning is a fat girl snack. In fact... most foods eaten in the wee small hours of the morning are indeed fat girl snacks. Exceptions apply if you have a) spent the better part of the night, dancing at a club... b) are on some kind of service and have been up for three days... c) just had marathon sex or d) all of the above. You need something to eat. Treat yourself!

Intention is also a great factor especially when considering fast foods. A lunchtime dip into Mickey D's, BK, KFC, Popeyes, etc., still borders on the verge of fat girl snackness, however the fact that it's a noon day meal removes some of the stigma. On the other hand, anything handed off through a window and consumed before you get halfway down the block is what??? A fat girl snack. The same rules apply to to take out. Anything fried and encased in styrofoam is a fat girl snack at any time of the day. Just as an aside... having a diet coke with your meal makes it no less a fat girl snack. You might as well get you a Tahitian Treat or some kool aid, the red kind real sweet.

I am by no means condemning the consumption of the fat girl snack. Matter of fact, I'm a fat girl snack connoisseur. Wherever I am I will find the spot. A trip to Chicago is incomplete without a dip into a Harold's (pick a good one... a wrong number could result in the runs). Ain't no way you can go to DC without going down to Horace and Dickie's for a 4-piece fish sammich. When in Philadelphia, eat a cheesesteak... just because. New York has a soul food cafeteria off 125th Street above a KFC called, Manna's. If you go to Georgia, get you some boiled (bald) peanuts and some red velvet cake, preferably in the same sitting. Child, it don't matter. Just eat. And if you know of a good spot... let me find out. Holla Back!

So bottom line... A fat girl snack is ANYTHING you know you shouldn't be eating, but sometimes, it be's dat way.

Teach Them Well...

2006-01-23T06:29:00.000-08:00

Each day I discover more ways that my grandmother (that's not her in the picture, but the first to identify her gets 2 Loews Movie Passes) has influenced my interactions. I had to go to Kinko's this morning to pick up the campus newsletter and spent an hour in conversation with the customer service representative. She began the exchange by inquiring if she had seen me on television (people really watch my little show!). I told her yes.

"You were interviewing a young man with his own business (Bobby Brown, Jr.), she said.

From there we got on the subject of education and the lack of diversity among educators at her daughter's school. Having spent time as a substitute teacher in that particular school system, I knew the realities of her concern. She spoke of the differences in how black children are treated compared to white students.

"When the white students act up, very little is done to address the behavior.
When a student of color acts up, they are sent to the office or to stand in the
hallway. It's almost as if the white teachers are afraid to interact with our
children."

She went on to tell me that one of the few black teachers had been struck by a white third grader and nothing had been done to address the behavior. Can you imagine how quickly a black student would have been suspended for that action? That same teacher described ill-treatment by her white colleagues. They wouldn't include her in discussions or ask her to sit with them at lunch. I know it sounds a little childish, but I'm firmly believe that grown folks can act out the same way that children do.

So now I'm intrigued. Has anyone else been treated differently in the classroom because of color? I've never had any problem as an instructor, but I have heard from others that white students will challenge them.

Great Aunts - Iola

2006-01-20T06:39:00.000-08:00

My great aunt Iola should be the least familiar of all the aunts because she lived in Georgia, while I grew up in New Jersey. However, we made enough road trips in my life that it's almost as if she lived around the corner. Truth is... I've seen her more in my lifetime, than my father's sister, who lives 5 blocks from me.

Iola is the fraternal twin to Viola. They have similar facial features, but the physical resemblence ends there. While Viola is tall and full-figured, Iola is shorter and more petite. Aunt V says it's because she is the runt. It's explained that, in the womb Viola got most of the nourishment, which lead to Iola being a sickly child and adult. For as long as I can remember she has had a nasty, racking cough brought on my bronchitis. My grandmother says that Iola could never work in the fields because she would have terrible nose bleeds that would leave her incapacitated for days. As a result, she was banned from the fields and sent home to become the family cook and the sister can REALLY cook.

Like her twin, no one calls her Iola except, quoting another great aunt "them crackers down home." All my life Iola has been called Aunt Nut Pie or Aunt Nut. The reason, I've always been told, is because of her pecan pie. Still, I wonder. If that is truly the case why wasn't Aunt Zora called Banana Pudding or Aunt Letha called Caramel Cake? I think it might be because she's just a little nutty. Aunt V has always said, "Nut is mental." She attributes it to her having lost her 29 year old daughter, Roberta.

On January 16, 1975, Roberta, a secretary for the local school system, failed to report to work. This was extremely unusual. Phone calls went unanswered. Finally someone was dispatched to the house where they found Roberta's husband, his grandmother and aunt all dead in their beds. It was later determined that they asphyxiated due to fumes from an incorrectly installed heating system. Roberta was still alive, having been pulled halfway from the bed, by her frantic 2 year old daughter. The little girl sat on the floor next to her, crying hysterically. It was a traumatic experience for our entire family and certainly most trying on Aunt Nut, who found herself in the role of mother to a toddler.

On our frequent visits to Georgia, we stayed at Aunt Nut's house, which consisted of a front room that served as a guest room, the middle room, where everyone in the house slept and the kitchen. The front room and kitchen opened onto porches that ran the width of the house. Notice, I make no mention of a lavatory. Although there was running water, bath or bathing water was achieved through the heating of water on the stove. The relief of bodily functions was achieved through a trip to the free-standing shed, located near the hog pen, called the outhouse. I can only assume that it was located near the hog pen so that the odors would co-mingle into one odiferous stench. It was truly a shitty mess. At night, because of the dark world that lay beyond the doors, trips to the outhouse were discouraged. No one wanted to venture an encounter with the many slithering, creeping or flying beasts that shared the land. AUnt Nut lived under those conditions until 1981, when she moved into a brand new brick home, built with the settlement from the wrongful death suit.

Aunt Nut was always happy to see us coming and she always had some fried corn and okra ready for my grandfather when we arrived and would demand a full report of all the happenings in the north. Her memory is still sharp as hell as she will ask about people that she's never met, but heard about over the years. She has a reputation of being brutally honest. Her grandson brought home a girl once and told her to sit in the livingroom while he changed clothes. Aunt Nut went in and immediately started grilling the girl. "Why you sittin around lookin' like a monkey?"

These days, like her twin, she is always ready to do if someone comes around in a car. She loves to stay on the move. Once she told me, "I ain't dead. My sisters can sit around if they want to, but I got things to do." She has three remaining children. A son, whose father I believe was the love of her life. Every summer he would come up from Florida to see his sister and would never fail to come by to see Nut. She also has two daughters, one of whom was raised by Great-Aunt Letha and her youngest whom she raised herself. I'm not sure of their paternity, but the wife of one of them actually got into an altercation with my grandmother. That is another post for another day.

A New Chapter

2006-01-19T23:21:00.000-08:00

I hate reporting old news, especially when it's about me, but I have been shouted out and feel that I should issue a news release.

I am very proud to announce that I have accepted a new position. On February 13, 2006, I will assume the role of Associate Director of Student Activities and Multicultural programs at a small liberal arts college in Maryland, located on the Patuxent River. I am excited and still a little surprised. From the very beginning I had the feeling that I would be offered the position, but I never thought I would accept because it would have meant a substantial pay cut. I am proud to say that they not only matched my current salary, but gave me a 5% increase. It's a wonderful testament to the experience I've gathered over the years and to my ability to sell the hell out of myself.

This was actually the first time I went into an interviewing situation without the knowledge that the job was already mine. In fact, I went on this interview simply because I wanted the experience of a day long interview... something I had never before done. It was a wonderful day and I left feeling as if I'd presented myself in a decent light, but I attached no expectation to the outcome. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a call letting me know that I was one of the top four choices. My boss later informed me that, after providing my reference, he was told that I was the only candidate they really wanted. Then he proceeded to negotiate my salary. I owe him a great deal.

As I embark on this new journey I'm excited and just a little scared. I am blessed that my partner will be with me to offer support and keep me grounded. I'm so appreciative of that. I look forward to finishing my degree in preparation for the next leg on my journey. Someone asked me what position I wanted to retire from and that helped me chart my career path. I can actually visualize it. My stories are practically writing themselves and I should have a manuscript ready to shop in the fall.

It took me a while to get to this place and I cherish every moment that I thought was wasted. The real truth is that things happen for us in their appointed time. We can't rush it. I always remember that poignant Sam Cooke song at the end of Malcolm X. It was actually the only redeeming aspect of the entire ending. It's been a long... long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come... Oh yes it is!

If you don't feel like you're where you're supposed to be at this moment, fight that feeling. You are exactly where you're supposed to be. Chart a path to help move you to the next level, but allow for wiggle room. Nothing ever goes exactly as planned. I forget the film I was watching, but they quoted a fabulous line... "If you ever wanna make God laugh, tell him your plans.

Uppity Black Folks?

2006-01-16T11:12:00.000-08:00

I love Tyler Perry's Madea when she gets her pretentious daughter, Vickie, together. "I oughta punch you in the face!" she tells her.

It happens. Folks get a degree or a little bit of money and they will get "new." They might change churches, get new friends or even sever ties with family in order to fit into their new image. Sometimes the elite will become a critic and believe that they know what's best for the entire culture.

In the early 20th Century the critic was W. E. B. Dubois. DuBois’ philosophy of the “Talented Tenth” was that a college-educated elite would chart, through their knowledge, the way for economic and cultural elevation for the black masses. Dubois' thinking ran in direct opposition to Booker T. Washington's.

Washington's message to the Negro was that political and social equality were less important as immediate goals than economic respectability and independence. Washington believed that if blacks gained an economic foothold, and proved themselves useful to whites, then civil rights and social equality would eventually be given to them. Blacks were urged to work as farmers, skilled artisans, domestic servants, and manual laborers to prove to whites that all blacks were not “liars and chicken thieves.”

The critics are still around. This op-ed piece by Nick Childs from the New York Times puts me in a Dubois state of mind.

Last month I happened to go into the Borders Books at the Stonecrest mall in Lithonia, Ga., about ahalf-hour from my house here. To my surprise, it had one of the largest collections of books by black authors that I've ever seen outside an indepedent black bookstore, rows and rows of bookcases.

This is the sort of discovery that makes the pulse quicken, evidence of a population I've spent most of my professional life seeking: African-American readers. What a thrill to have so much space in a major chain store devoted to this country's black writers. With an extra spring in my step, I walked into the"African-American Literature" section - and what I saw there thoroughly embarrassed and disgusted me.

On shelf after shelf, in bookcase after bookcase, all that I could see was lurid book jackets displaying all forms of brown flesh, usually half-naked and in some erotic pose, often accompanied by guns and other symbols of criminal life. I felt as if I was walking into a pornography shop, except in this case the smut is being produced by and for my people, and it is called "literature."-But the placard above this section of Borders in Lithonia didn't say "Street Lit," it said "African-American Literature."

We were all represented under the placard, the whole community of black authors - from me to Terry McMillan and Toni Morrison, from Yolanda Joe and Benilde Little to Edward P. Jones and Kuwana Haulsey - surrounded and swallowed whole on the shelves by an overwhelming wave of titles and jackets that I wouldn't want my 13-year-old son to see: "Hustlin' Backwards." "LegitBaller." "A Hustler's Wife." "Chocolate Flava."

I've heard defenders say that the main buyers of these books, young black women, have simply something that speaks to them, and that it's great that they're reading something. I'd agree if these books were a starting point, and that readers ultimately turned to works inspired by the best that's in us, not the worst. But we're not seeing evidence of that. On Essence magazine's list of best sellers at black bookstores, for example, authors of street lit now dominate, driving out serious writers. Under the heading "African-American Literature" what's available is almost exclusively pornography for black women.

As I stood there in Borders, I had two sensations: I was ashamed and mortified to see my books sitting on the same shelves as these titles; and secondly, as someone who makes a living as a writer I felt I had no way to compete with these purveyors of crassness. That leaves me wondering where we - writers, publishers, readers, the black community - go from here. Is street fiction some passing fad, or does it represent our future? -At times, I push myself away from the computer in anger. I don't want to compete with "Legit Baller." But then I come across something like "The Known World" by Edward P. Jones and again I am inspired. But I must say that I retain very little of the hope and excitement and enthusiasm that I had when my first book was published eight years ago. I feel defeated, disrespected and troubled about the future of my community and my little subsection of this carnivorous, unforgiving industry

All I can say is "Boo Hoo," and wipe a tear. Pulp fiction has been around forever. Claude McKay's, Home to Harlem was considered street trash when it was published, but someone read it. That's all that matters to me. It's all about literacy. I will also be pleased to share a shelf with Legit Baller. I firmly believe that one book leads to another to another. Sister Souljah's, Coldest Winter Ever inspired my cousin to read Terry McMillan (though I think Souljah may be the better author). She is now struggling through Toni Morrison (I told her to read Sula first). It's beautiful to see.

People are going to read what they want. The stores are going to sell what they want. I'm not sure if a "Street Lit" section is a good thing. I think Latosha Jones needs to read Toni Morrison and Edward P. Jones needs to read Raheem Carter. It's all about getting a greater understanding of each other through the written word. We need to stop being so uppity.

Source: The New York Times (January 4, 2005)

Laugh... For Your Health

2006-01-14T07:42:00.000-08:00

“When we laugh, natural killer cells which destroy tumours and viruses increase, along with Gamma-interferon (a disease-fighting protein), T-cells (important for our immune system) and B-cells (which make disease-fighting antibodies). As well as lowering blood pressure, laughter increases oxygen in the blood, which also encourages healing.”

"Science of Laughter” Discovery Health Website

I believe in the healing power of laughter and have decided to periodically share some of the funny stuff I receive. If you've got a real gut-buster, email it to me.

Why do we press harder on a remote control when we know the batteries are getting weak?

Why do banks charge a fee on "insufficient funds" when they know there is not enough?

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?

Why doesn't glue stick to the bottle?

Why do they use sterilized needles for death by lethal injection?

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard? Why does Superman stop bullets with his chest, but ducks when you throw a revolver at him?

Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

Whose idea was it to put an "S" in the word "lisp"?

If people evolved from apes, why are there still apes?

Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you use the bubbles are always white?

Is there ever a day that mattresses are not on sale?

Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?

Why do people keep running over a string a dozen times with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum one more chance?

Why is it that no plastic bag will open from the end on your first try?

How do those dead bugs get into those enclosed light fixtures?

When we are in the supermarket and someone rams our ankle with a shopping cart then apologizes for doing so, why do we say, "It's all right?" Well, it isn't all right, so why don't we say, "That hurt, bitch?"

Why is it that whenever you attempt to catch something that's falling off the table you always manage to knock something else over?

In winter why do we try to keep the house as warm as it was in summer when we complained about the heat?

How come you never hear father-in-law jokes?

And my FAVORITE...... The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four persons is suffering from some sort of mental illness. Think of your three best friends -- if they're okay, then it's you.

from Stefan Moton

Malik returns from the doctor and tells his wife, LaQuita, that the doctor has told him he has only 24 hours to live.

Given this prognosis, Malik asks LaQuita for some goodies.

Naturally, she agrees, and they "get busy".

About six hours later, Malik goes to LaQuita and says, "Honey, you know I now have only 18 hours to live. Could we please do it one more time?"

Of course LaQuita agrees and they do it again. Later, as Malik gets into bed, he looks at his watch and realizes that he now has only 8 hours left. He touches LaQuita's shoulder and asks, Honey,please....just one more time before I die."

She says, "Of course Big Daddy" and they make love for the third time. After this session, LaQuita rolls over and falls asleep.

Malik, however, worried about his impending death, tosses and turns, until he's down to 4 more hours. He taps LaQuita and says "honey, I have only 4 more hours. Do you think we could........."

At this point LaQuita sits up and says, "Look ni**a, I gotta get up in the morning....YOU DON'T!

from Jackson

Great Moments

2006-01-10T17:47:00.000-08:00

For me, one of the most quintessential moments in American cinema (besides when the female head pops up and announces, "the royal penis is clean, your highness.") occurs in the first moments of Friday.

On a sunny Friday morning, Ice Cube's character, Craig, is awakened from sleep by a persistent knock on the door. When he opens the door and peers onto the porch, he is greeted by the smiling face of Aunt Esther who asks, "Are you prepared for Jehovah's return?..."

Before she can get the Watchtower out of her briefcase, he has slammed the door and is in the kitchen fixing a bowl of cereal. Her response:

"Half dead muthafucka... Come on sister..."

The first time I saw it, I nearly peed, because I imagined Mrs. Thomas, our assigned JW, reacting in that fashion. I didn't grow up a Jehovah's Witness like some of my fellow bloggers (Prodigal Sun talks about his experience), but I grew up with them. They've been a part of my life for as long as I remember.

Mrs. Thomas and her sister, Aunt Rachel, would come to our house weekly to study with my grandmother. When they passed away, my grandmother was passed on to Mrs. Thomas' daughter, Aunt Minnie. Aunt Minnie has passed and yet another sister is actively trying to convert my grandmother. I laugh when I consider that she has gone through three generations of field service workers and is no closer to converting than she was 40 years ago. It is truly a testament to the persistence of Jehovah's Witnesses everywhere and my grandmother too.

I remember studying with the Thomas gradchildren, who were trying to get me on board and going to District Assemblies. I had a lot of fun with them, but they made very clear the things that were not a part of your life as a witness and I had no intention of giving up those things. I certainly wasn't giving up Christmas. My grandmother was never real big on Christmas. I really don't understand why because all her entire family believes in doing it up big. Aunt Letha would bake and cook for weeks and clean her house like Jesus and all the apostles were coming for dinner.

All the old girls responded to the season in the same way. One of the very best ways to know the holiday was coming was to watch the windows. Everyone would get new curtains. The same thing happened at Easter. The treatments in our house would get changed, but usually by my aunt, Jane or my mother. My grandmother was of the belief that if they weren't dirty, don't bother them. She truly didn't exhibit the spirit shown by everyone else, but for whatever reason she has still not become a full-fledged JW. At 79 years old I certainly don't see it happening, even though she attends Bible study at least 3 times a week.

One of the very best things about my grandmother's near affiliation is that no one has ever knocked on our door on Saturday morning, except the chinese man who sold wigs from door to door back in da day. It's like the door post is marked and they know to pass over. It's even been a benefit for me when I encounter someone on the street with the Watchtower and Awake. I can say with honesty that there's one at home.

CONFLICT RESOLUTION: WHAT SHUTS US DOWN EMOTIONALLY?

2006-01-08T18:51:00.000-08:00

These questions popped up on one of my Yahoo groups and I felt compelled to share and find out how other folks feel.

- How important is having the last word to you?

It used to be very important until realized that, ultimately, God has the last word. If I am truly right the last word will be mine without me opening my mouth. Karma, for instance, dictates that if you do bad things, they will come back to you in some form. I look at having the last word in the same way, particularly where giving advice is concerned. I've found that when people solicit your advice, they only do so only to affirm a decision they've already made. If your advice goes against that decision, they're going to find someone else who's in agreement.

- How do you know when you're feeling resentful?

When I am no longer interested in contributing to a discussion. Resentment will always shut me down. It usually occurs when people are not receptive to my ideas or have no regard for my feelings. As a student of Communication I am very mindful of a need to save face and never want to hack away at someone until they feel totally devalued. At that point the discussion becomes pointless.

- What do you do when you get pissed off?

I will retreat and attempt to examine what I did that led to the feeling. I believe we give people or situations the power to upset us. I don't believe you can take back the energy, but you can certainly redirect it.

- Why do people pride themselves on being brutally honest?

I believe it gives them license to say whatever they feel without being attached to the emotional outcome. I went through a period of being brutally honest, but gave it up when I realized I wasn't particularly pleased when the mirror was turned in my direction.

- Do you avoid conflict? If so, why?

Conflict is not a bad thing. From conflict comes resolution, but I will avoid it if I'm not adequately prepared to deal with the problem at hand. I want to make sure I have all the tools needed to come out on the good side of any conflict. I've also learned to choose, not only my battles, but the battlefield as well. At work I learned that it's not always a good thing to go directly to the top. It can cause a nasty backlash.

Celebration Friday

2006-01-07T03:17:00.000-08:00

I had one of the most busy Friday nights I can recall in recent years. Usually Friday nights are spent in preparation for Saturday night. This week was an incredible exception to the norm. Earlier this week I accepted an invitation to The Texas Tiger's screening party, celebrating his television debut on BET News: 2005 Rewind - The Good, The Bad and the Very Ugly. I will leave the full account of the evening to him [including his impressive guest list], but I must say that the show was hot to death and his appearance is only the first of many more like it. His honesty, courage and rapier wit oozed all out of the television. The box couldn't contain him. I want to be like him when I grow up.

I left Tiger's lovely home with every intention of pumping it back over to New Jersey, but I decided to drop in, with Nathan, on a celebration at Amy Ruth’s Home Style Southern Cuisine Restaurant for No4Real4Real, whose birthday is today. I contemplated going because I wasn't prepared with a gift. Had I not slacked off on my blog visits, I would have known of the celebration and been adequately prepared. So I owe him one.

What started out as 'drop in and have a beverage' turned into 'order some fish and waffles and stay awhile.' After seeing how happy he was and how happy each guest was to be there, I just couldn't leave. I needed to share in that joy. Again, I will leave the full account to the guest of honor, but I must say thanks to Shawn for the warm hug. It made me feel like he was as genuinely glad to see me as I was to see him. It almost made me want to hit it on down to the Karaoke spot that most of the assembly ajourned to after dining, but my coach was already dropping seeds and I really needed to kick off the glass slippers, which I did on the train ride back to Jersey.

Happy Birthday!

Reflections on Reparations

2006-01-06T23:48:00.000-08:00

Dorthea Lange

A Thirteen Year Old Sharecropper Boy Plowing A Field, Near Americus, Georgia, July 1937

I now see clearly why I have found myself on the wrong side of this debate. It's not that I don't believe the descendants of those who built this country deserve some of the wealth that's been achieved from their labor, I have just constantly found myself in debate with folk who think the country needs to write them a check. I don't believe it's possible for everyone to get paid without completely destroying the economy. Like J said, "there is no dollar amount to be placed on how our forefathers built this country," but I know that they would be pissed off at the way things have played out economically for us. A few years back I had the opportunity to dine with Dr. Manning Marable, who more eloquently than I stated, that when white folks die they leave a will. Black folks leave a bill.

I love each of you for the comments you have left. After reading them I had to wipe tears from my face. We are a really hurt and angry people, but a few of us recognize and are able to articulate it. There are so many of us who don't know how. Through no fault of our own, Black folks are in emotional distress. More than anything else we deserve the right to heal. I encourage everyone I know to see a therapist, even if there is no apparent need. We need to learn to embrace the hurt and anger so that it doesn't consume us. The physical atrocities our forefathers suffered pale in comparison to the psychological damage that has mutated over time. Just this year I learned that Protestantism, which most African Americans practice, contains a piece that talks bout wealth and prosperity. I probably am not getting it right, but it basically says that how much you acquire in life is a direct reflection of God's love for you. The slaves were not given that piece. They were told that God would reward them in the afterlife. Our churches still teach that madness. That's just wrong as hell and one of the things for which we deserve reparations.

I don't think it's necessary to destroy the economy. As Terrence pointed out, "we've practically pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps by reducing poverty rates by about 46% since the early 60's" all the while suffering injustices and indignities. I believe that if we are provided with adequate educational opportunities and healthcare, including depression screening and treatment, we can become a whole and well people. Our anger and energy will be channeled and the real revolution can begin. Through time we have seen what smart negroes are capable of. Even the not so smart have raw genius, which makes the education piece so crucial.

My grandmother and her sisters are the grandchildren of former slaves. Throughout my life I have watched them and seen what they could have been, had they not been forced to work in the fields of their sharecropping father. Aunt Zora would have been a restauranteur, Aunt V would have been a physician, Aunt Sarah would have been banker, My grandmother would have been a great opera singer. They missed those opportunities and can never get them back. They have done very well for themselves, but they still deserve a piece of what they could have gotten.

I also have found myself on the wrong side of the debate because I really don't want anything for myself [well... if I could get these damn student loans paid off, that would be hot!]. I want everyone to truly have equal opportunity. I want every Black child to be able to have a teacher like Eric Jones and I want all those teachers to have all the tools available to white teachers in all the best suburban schools. Our children deserve that and so do our teachers. I want every Black person in the country to receive counseling to know what has and is happening to them and to realize it's not their fault. So that when people like the Jello Pudding man hold that mirror up, we can understand the hurt and anger that fuels his criticism. I'm rambling and I'm really emotional right now [and that is okay... it's aight to cry]. I just wanted to respond to the comments and again express my love for each of you. You are helping me grow.

Reparations Technical Institute

2006-01-04T03:54:00.000-08:00

... and business opportunities for brothers and sisters to pursue higher learning. Brothers, join us at Reparations Technical Institute and learn hatred for the white devil in a relaxed campus atmosphere...

How High, 2002

The topic of reparations came up again today and, once again, I felt like a bad negro for being on the wrong side of the debate. Don't get me wrong... I do believe the enslavement of Africans in America to be an absolutely deplorable practice that was barbaric and exploitive though absolutely necessary for the growth of the nation. The slaves were certainly underpaid for the labor from which America still benefits. Still, speaking as the descendent of a former slave, I do not believe I have a right to monetary compensation for the work that my great-great grandfather performed in service to his employer/owner.

My great-great grandfather was one of the few that received his forty acres. He was able to give each of his children their own piece of land as they came of age. I'm not sure any of that land remains in the family today due to mismanagement and shady practices. Bottom line... the uneducated can be easily duped. It was true then and it's true now.

The current talk of reparations comes with the publication of a new book by former U.S. Civil Rights Chair, Mary Frances Berry. According to LaToya F. Drake of AOL Black Voices, My Face Is Black Is True: Callie House and the Struggle for Ex-Slave Reparations tells the story of House, a woman born just as the Civil War began and who later sought compensation for her years as a slave. She organized and mobilized a coalition of ex-slaves who lobbied for a piece of the financial boon built and sustained by their labor. The story frames the debate about whether a debt is owed to the minority community for slavery and, if so, whether the campaign for reparations has a place in the current political dialogue. I'm not entirely sure it does.

I am the first to agree that African Americans still suffer as a result of slavery, but I don't believe it's due to lack of compensation. I believe it's because those in power found creative ways to deny constitutional rights. It continues to this very day. I firmly believe that if Reconstruction had occurred,uninterrupted,without the passage of shady laws, we would not be hearing about reparations today, but alas we are.

I definitely want the playing field leveled, but not with uncollected wages. I want to see every African American who desires an education sent to the institution of his or her choice... absolutely free! I want to see black folks who want to start a business and present a viable plan be given loans without hassle... interest free! I want to see the brothers and sisters, incarcerated due to a shitty defense be given new trials... with the attorney of their choice... fees paid for by the African American Legal Defense Fund.

Damn!.. I guess I am in favor of reparations.

It's a crazy cruel world...

2006-01-02T18:42:00.000-08:00

In spite of it all there is still hope.

Click to view The Battle for America

New Day, New Look

2006-01-01T22:00:00.000-08:00

January 1, 2006... January 1, 2006... January 1, 2006... 2006... 2006...

Well... I better get used to writing it before I go back to work.

So it's a new day. The new year is filled with so much promise. I'm excited and just a little overwhelmed over the possibilities. I will appear to be a lazy blogger for most of 2006 as I continue to work on my book. Thanks to a fellow blogger, I have been motivated to produce and I absolutely love what has been appearing on the page. I'm hearing voices again.

The Great Aunt Series will continue until I run out of them. Then I may move on to the play great aunts and play mamas and play cousins... etc. I will definitely continue to examine my world for further growth opportunities. There's one at every turn.

Along with the new day Unpacking Baggage has a new look. BBBJr inspired me to do it. It needed to be done. I was trying to come up with a new look for myself, but I couldn't think of anything to do, short of botox. I refuse to regrow my hair (not that it would cooperate). I vowed to never again spend another Saturday or any day in a barber shop.

I don't quite remember why I gave up on the shop. Okay... my hair was thinning so I shaved it off, but I could have still gone to the barber for some service. I can only attribute it to me being thrifty. I realized I could save some coins by doing it myself and I have, but I have often wondered how much I've missed by not going to the shop. I even thought about going and sitting for an hour just for old time's sake, but that would be loitering.

I used to frequent an establishment called Cutters Corner, run by a sweet woman known as Miss. Louise. Miss. Louise's fades were so tight you couldn't tell where your hair ended and your skin began. She could also bump curls with the best. She would often cut my hair while another patron was under the dryer. One of the best things about her was that she didn't mind crackin on folks... to their face! She would have the entire shop in tears as she got people together and would address everything from sagging pants to fat girls in spandex. It was all in good clean fun because, above all else, Miss. Louise was a lady and a role model. During the school year, she was a crossing guard on the corner where the shop was located. I have no doubt that she influenced the lives of countless individuals.

I was intrigued to hear that Al Sharpton was hosting a show on TV ONE called Sharp Talk that takes place in Levels barbershop in Brooklyn. "Policymakers, journalists, authors, sports figures, celebrities, policy experts and others, including barbershop patrons, join Rev. Sharpton in tackling a wide range of cultural, political and economic topics." Entertainment Magazine goes on to explain how each week the show will focus on topics that are of interest to black folks, including "relevancy of the church, hip-hop artists and athletes as role models, the impact of gentrification on traditionally African American neighborhoods, police brutality and racial profiling, African Americans and the Republican party, and how the higher earning power of women has affected traditional gender roles." I want him to devote an entire series on issues of sensitivity. Black men (actually all men) need to learn how to cry when we're hurt. It's a tool we're just not given.

Rev. Sharpton has a marvelous opportunity to enlighten a whole heap of folks and influence a lot of lives. I can clearly recall spending a great many hours in the shop as a young lad and a lot of the things I learned from the adult patrons. From an early age I knew that men were more vicious gossipers than women, but I also learned that what was said in the shop, stayed in the shop. I'm sure little girls have similar experiences in salons when their mamas decide to stop burning up their ears with the hot comb. I honestly believe the shop can aid in developing children's social skills and I plan to send my child, faithfully. Gotta get the head tight for church!

At some point I hope Sharpton takes the show on the road and visits shops across the country. I will certainly make a point of dropping in.

Christmas Wrap... Up

2005-12-27T17:47:00.000-08:00

Well it's officially over. I delivered my last round of gifts today and I believe each one was genuinely appreciated. As always, the aunts brought me the the most joy. They loved their gifts, which over the years have become more functional. This year they got Eucerin lotion, foot cream, and a loaf of my secret recipe pound cake. Any guess as to which they opened first? Well you don't exactly grease your feet at the kitchen table. My favorite gift this year were the salt and pepper shakers I bought my aunt, Jane. I actually found them back in October while on a business trip. She absolutely loved them! I feel good about all my purchases.

Once again my wish list went untouched, but I'll fold it up and put it away for next year. OR... I'll buy something for myself, but not until I'm settled in my new place and on my new job. Until then my credit is FROZEN!

Now I'm counting down to 2006. In preparation I am sharing a list of questions sent to me by my good friend, Corey. Let's all play

1. What is your most memorable moment of the year, whether it's good or bad?

Good... when me and my better half got back together.
Bad... when I got the news that my aunt had passed away.

2. Are you going to have a New Year's Resolution? If so, what is it,and for how long do you think you'll be able to follow through with it?

I have some goals, but I wouldn't exactly call them resolutions. I want to brush up my spanish and learn American Sign Language... I will be getting my stories ready for publication (I will be shopping my collection in early 2007)... I will be continuing graduate school (it's a process)... AND I'm going to take parenting classes in preparation for a blessed event (that's a whole 'nother post).

3. What do you hope to accomplish in 2006 that you didn't in 2005?

I will visit a foreign land (Prague). Last year I went to London and Paris. In 2003 I took a cruise to the Bahamas. There was just no time in 2005.

4. Are you still going to keep looking for that "special someone," or are you going to be like Beyonce and keep it "Me, Myself, and I"?

Mission Accomplished. Special someone FOUND!

5. Final question. How has 2005 been for you compared to 2004?

2005 hasn't been a big party, but I've experienced a great deal of personal growth that has definitely made it better than 2004>

Well that's it. I'm looking forward to 2006, which will be a banner year for me. God never fails so it's already done. See ya then!

Although It's Been Said...

2005-12-25T20:32:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas from Chicago!

On Being a Celebrity

2005-12-19T07:20:00.000-08:00

Well... I'm not really a celebrity, but every now and then I'll get a couple of seconds of the 15 minutes of fame Andy Warhol promised.

I occasionally host a talk show that airs on the local cable network. I've had the opportunity to interview a few interesting people... Felipe Luciano, the a capella group, Naturally Seven, Rev. Jeremiah A. Wright, Jr., Bobby Brown, Jr...

For the past few years people have stopped me in passing to say they saw me on television. They've always been pleasant exchanges that have left me feeling warm and fuzzy. Sometimes someone will just say, "I'm watching you." or "I saw you on TV." I'm usually at a loss for a response. I mean...what do you say? "Thanks for watching." or "Keep watching." I never know and I never want to offend anyone. The whole thing makes me just a little uncomfortable.

Extreme discomfort occurred on Friday as I stood on line at a supermarket a few towns away from where I live. This big, burly black dude is walking by and at the top of his lungs, begins to shout, "Hey man... I know you... you from Long Branch... I watch you on TV all the time. The show is good." Then brothaman called me by my childhood nickname! I was appalled. All the people in line began to examine me, to try and determine if they had seen me on TV as well. After blurting out my nickname he announced his identity. Turns out he's the same dude that punched me in the face in 5th grade cause I tried to holla at his girlfriend. How did I know he would turn out the way he did?

Anyway, today I interviewed Phillip Thomas Duck, author of Playing With Destiny. I interviewed him partly because he's a local author, but mostly because the book is good. After seeing the cover I assumed it would be 275 pages of baby mama drama, but I was pleasantly surprised. What we have here is intelligent urban drama. The characters are complex and compelling. They are not the flat characters that we have come to know from some of today's popular writers. The protagonist of the story is actually a writer. He's clearly frustrated by the lack of talented writers and even references James Baldwin and Richard Wright when discussing greatness. During the interview, Duck acknowledged those authors as direct influences, which opened up a discussion about a shortage of Black male writers while the market is inundated with mediocre books by white authors. We both acknowledge that Black readership still suffers, especially among males and as long as brothers aren't reading, they won't write.

I attribute it to an attitude that books are not needed once you finish your education. I don't know a great many black men who were encouraged to read for pleasure. I know I wasn't. Books were certainly around the house, but no one told me to go read one. There was also an attitude that a dude must be soft if he reads. In the interview I bring up the resistance that black male writers faced in the past from their own peoples. Langston Hughes and James Baldwin for their sexuality, Wallace Thurman for writing about intraracial prejudice, Richard Wright for marrying, not one, but two white women, Ralph Ellison for not being black enough. Of course, the best way to demonize a black man is to make him gay or marry him off to a white woman. He becomes the disgrace of the race. It doesn't give brothas who can write much incentive to produce.

As we began to discuss ways to build African American readership, the subject of book clubs came up. Duck is working with a group of boys at the high school he attended. Boyz II Men is a support group for young men to help them navigate their way to manhood. This is the first time a book club has been introduced exclusively for young men. He met with the students last week and introduced Playing with Destiny. I took the opportunity to put in a plug for Roderick Tate's, Atlanta-based group, Brothas Well Read and the good work Derrick L. Briggs is doing in the New York-area. Still hyped from the experience, I talked a little about Stories.

Overall, I was pleased with the tone of the interview. I love it when a couple of brothas can sit around and talk intelligently, recognizing our strengths and weaknesses, embracing both for their value. It's empowering and comforting to realize all that is wrong with us is not entirely our fault, but that we are able to fix a great deal of it. It's amazing what can occur during dialogue.

Great Aunts - Viola

2005-12-18T01:00:00.000-08:00

On September 16 or 17, 1919 (no one is real sure), Viola and Iola were born in Mount Vernon, Georgia. According to Great-Aunt Letha, when the twins were but a few hours old, their mother gathered up all the children (including the newly-born) and went to the home of the woman with whom her husband was having extra-marital relations. I'm having trouble remembering how the story goes... either she stood peacefully outside and told the woman to send her husband home OR she snatched the heifer from her porch and whipped her ass. You know how legends go... they vary with the teller.

We call her Aunt Vee or Veola. She's only called Viola when Iola is referenced. Of her siblings, Aunt V has the most children, holding the record at six. It was once rumored that she aborted twins back in the day, but I find that a little difficult to believe. I mean hell... if you got six, what's two more? And Aunt V has always been a make a way kind of girl. For most of her life she struggled to make ends meet. From earliest childhood I remember she never had a lot of food in the refrigerator. I later found out it was because she always picked up what she was going to cook for dinner on her way home from her day job.

Having never learned to drive, she always rode public transportation or walked. Her walk has not changed much over the years. It remains very determined.. head down.. one arm swinging... purse swinging from the other (part Aunt Esther from Sanford and Son and part Clara from Too Wong Foo). During one of our large family functions, at least 25 years ago, she needed to get from one end of the room to the other. The only route was through a makeshift Soul Train line (which we still do). I can clearly recall her walking down the line in her usual fashion amidst shouts of "go Aunt Veola" from the sidelines. Hilarious!

Typical summer family gathering in the garage

(told you we still do it)

She worked hard all her life... Always kept a housecleaning gig, but in the 50s she became a nurses aide at a local hospital. She worked third shift, which meant she was nursing at night and cleaning houses during the day. As a result she would nod off anytime she was seated. I remember holiday functions where she would be at the table, surrounded by and engaged in lively conversation. She would fall into a light slumber but always awaken and rejoin the conversation as if she never left. Retirement has been hard on her. When I suggested she volunteer at the hospital.

"I need to get paid for what I do," she replied. She's still trying to get a job. She seems to think she can get a few hours sitting with "an old person." Is that not a laugh?

Aunt Veola, Aunt Letha, and Aunt Beulah moved into the Sea View Manor housing projects in the 1950s when they were newly built. My mother and her sister say that all the young cousins would gather at Aunt V's, which made sense because she had the most kids. My grandmother would make sure she fed her kids first and tell them not to eat at V's cause she didn't have a lot. They would eat anyway because no one can fry up some chicken backs and make a pot of beans and rice like V. And there was always enough. Back in the day she could also whip up the best potato salad and a mean macaroni and cheese. She's most proud of her sweet potato souffle. She likes to bring it with her on every special occasion. My aunt Jane eyes it suspiciously because she says Aunt Veola reminds her too much of Aunt Bethany from Christmas Vacation, who brought a jello mold made with cat food.

Aunt V is the most style conscious of the great aunts and, perhaps, the most vain. She is the only one who fully utilizes cosmetics on a daily basis. The rest will put on a little powder or "rouge" on very special occasions, but Aunt V beats her face DOWN everyday. Her applications are not always the best. The eyebrows are never consistent. Sometimes she's surprised... sometimes she's angry. It's a toss up. Her vanity runs so deep that this past Easter she told me she went to someone else's church because she didn't have anything new to wear to her own. She refuses to wear the same thing to the same place unless she can reinvent the outfit with alterations and new accessories AND it must be done several years after the initial wearing. The only exception is the family reunion. In its 36-year history, she has never repeated a family reunion outfit and she will pack a boutique for the trip. She has a costume jewelry shop at her house and the purse must ALWAYS match the shoes. I remember heated comments from Aunt Letha because she would need to bring at least three hats, each in their own box.

"V you can't bring all these damn hats in my car," Aunt Letha would say.

I don't recall a response from Aunt V, but we would be squeezed into the Oldsmobile with those hat boxes perched wherever they would fit.

In my lifetime she always had the reputation of being the sister not to mess with. For years, she kept a pistol in her bedroom closet. I think the reputation was solidified because she cut her son when he was in his late teens after he told her he wasn't gonna mop no damn floor. The story has many different accounts but the most consistent says that she was holding a butcher knife at the time and hit him across the back of the neck with the blade. When she was questioned by the authorities, her response...

"I shit him out and I'll send him back to Jesus."

45 years later he has a good-sized scar and he's by far the best behaved of her children. He will do anything in the world for his mama. He has a special place in her heart too. I believe his daddy was her great love. They sent each other holiday greetings for years and he would always include "a piece of money." She was clearly shaken when he passed away.

She is an avid gardener. Even now, at 86-years old, she must plant in the spring. She loves flowers. One year she created such a burst of color in the projects that the local newspaper commented. Not only did she plant outside her door and down her walkway, she spilled over into her neighbor's yard, Aunt Letha's who lived two doors down and the large path that led to the garbage dumpsters. All the neighborhood kids knew not to play around her flowers because she would tell them in the most colorful language. She also slapped one local mother who came to get after her for scolding her bad assed kids. She passed that love of gardening on to me. These days I sow the seeds and bring her plants from my garden. It's funny how roles reverse.

I truly believe I am her favorite nephew. At least she makes me feel that way. I just got off the phone with her and my head is swelled the size of the Hindenburg.

"You're so wonderful! I love you so much... You sang so beautiful at that funeral... You was sharp as a tack!"

She values me because I take the time to comment on her appearance. Sometimes I flirt with her. My opinion is the one she seeks when she dresses for a function. If she can reach me she'll say, "Come on over and check me out. Is my hair on right (The hair thing is another blog post unto itself)." I'll whip her into shape... get the hair on straight, even draw on the brows. there are some days where she runs out before I can get to her. She's still adorable.

Better Days

2005-12-17T22:58:00.000-08:00

I am still flying from the events of last evening. I was privileged to, once again, experience the artistry of Dianne Reeves as she graced the stage of the New Jersey Performing Arts Center. I first saw her live last year at Carnegie Hall and she gave me everything I needed.

I first became aware of her in the late 1980s during one of my many road trips to Georgia, while driving through DC. It was about 2 o'clock in the morning and everyone in the car was asleep. I was scanning radio stations while I still had the chance to hear good music. One thing that has always been true of Georgia trips is that once you reach a certain point in the journey, usually beyond Richmond, a good radio station becomes impossible to find. I can clearly recall trips from my childhood when cars were not equipped with tape or CD players. Some of the stuff we were forced to endure was nothing short of torture. But one magical night while rummaging the radio I caught a portion of Better Days. The song that propelled Dianne Reeves onto the charts.

Better Days is an ode to Reeves grandmother, with whom she spent a great deal of her childhood. During the chorus of the song as the background vocals instruct the lister to "be patient," Reeves quotes her grandmother by singing "you can't get to no better days unless you make it through the night." I was so touched by the song that I vowed to get it as soon as I reached a place that sold music. That hope was crushed when I rode out of frequency before finding out the artist or the name of the song. When I got back home, using possible titles constructed from lines of the song, I searched catalogs and indexes. When I finally searched using Better Days, I hit pay dirt. That was several months later.

When I finally got her self-titled debut, I was so so satisfied. I knew then that she was a diva. I started referring to her as little Sassy, likening her vocals to those of Sarah Vaughan, the voice of the 20th century. During last night's performance she sang That's All, the final selection on her first recording, a tune that Vaughan recorded at least three times during her career.

Her sophomore recording was Never Too Far, a CD I found to be just a bit eclectic. Certainly she displayed versatility on her debut, but it was very much a jazz CD. Never Too Far visited every genre from funk to folk. It was then I realized that Dianne Reeves doesn't record anything that she doesn't like. That CD ended with a tune called Company, a song written and recorded by Rickie Lee Jones in the late 70s. It was an oscure song that I had always loved. The fact that she covered it endured her to me and guaranteed that I would always support her work. Other highlights include Hello, Havent I Seen You Before, a funky danceable song recorded with the a capella group, Take 6 and Come In.

With her third recorded work, I Remember, she gave me the jazz album I wanted. Though she includes the title track by Sondheim, she's accompanied by brazilian musician, Dori Caymmi who helps her end the song with latin flava. The standard, For All We Know is the crowning touch on this amazing project.

I certainly won't go through her entire discography, even though I could. I have everything. I just want to say to anyone who hasn't experienced her, buy/steal a CD, download something or, if you get the opportunity, GO SEE HER!!! you will not be disappointed. For an amusing and accurate commenterry on last night's performance. Visit Texas Tiger Chronicles. He had a really good time.

Rainy Days and Mondays

2005-12-13T18:10:00.000-08:00

After the rain the sun will shine
No more cloudy days
Said that it would not rain always
The Storm will pass
The Storm, James Hall & Worship & Praise

The storm analogy is in use a lot this season. Even before Katrina folks were having their own personal storms. I was in the midst of showers, but able to walk between the drops. Yesterday it began to pour.

You ever have someone in your life who says they love you and in the same breath tears you down? It's truly what BBBJr call a "toxic relationship"

I've blogged about my grandmother and her martyr complex. I've also recognized her dependency issues and chosen not to acknowledge them because I didn't really feel affected by them until yesterday when the category 4 hit.

Recently I've been involved in an intense relocation and job search effort. Somehow my grandmother was able to piece together a bit of my plan. So when I get in from work yesterday she's waiting to cut away at me.

"Now you know I'm only telling you this because I love you. You have no business trying to leave your job and move away. I'm all you got in this world and if anything happens you got no place to go but right here."

I pay her no attention and start reading the mail.

"You think you got friends, but they don't mean you no good. All they gonna do is get you into trouble and leave you holding the bag. I see the letters that come here from that money you put out on some business nonsense. You ain't got no true friends. I'm the only friend you got."

In the mail was yet another rejection letter for a position I applied to.

"You better stay on your job. Jobs are hard to find and you don't even know how to look for one. Every job you ever had, you got because people know you."

I have to admit that one stung a little because it's absolutely true. I've never had to search for a job. I've never gone into an interview without knowing what the outcome would be. I've been blessed that my family has a good reputation, but I've always been able to keep a job and performance has nothing to do with reputation.

"And you know I'm only saying these things out of..."

By that time I had closed the door on her, but the damage was done. She'd ripped me to shreds. And I let her do it.

Then to top it off... one of my favorite old ladies, Miss Aggie, passed away. I've been asked to render vocals at her service on Friday.

I need some sun... soon.

Rapping Up The Week

2005-12-11T06:54:00.000-08:00

"We are gathered here today... on this sorrowful occasion... to say goodbye to the dearly departed. He was dearly... and he has departed. Thus, thats why we call him the dearly departed. In other words... the nigga dead!"

From ...is it something I said?

The transition of Richard Pryor has been slow in coming, but he finally succumbed to a heart attack on Saturday, December 10. He had been ill for years with multiple sclerosis, a degenerative disease of the nervous system. My initial response to the news was to grab my Pryor party albums. That's right... ALBUMS. Me and Rich go waaaay back! I used to sneak and listen to them when I was a kid and LMAO. I don't remember if I actually got the humor or was just tickled by all the bad language. As I got older Richard got funnier as I began to decipher the subtext in his humor and appreciate his timing. I'm no comic, but he has influenced me to be true to a story and tell it like it is.

"I wish that every new and young comedian would understand what Richard was about and not confuse his genius with his language usage," comedian Bill Cosby said through a spokesman Saturday.

It's ironic, because Richard came right after Bill and was seriously patterning his act after Cosby's. Club owners kept turning him away with the same comment, "No one wants to hear another Bill Cosby." That's when he started using profanity in his act and he caught on.

Richard had been working a while before his stand-up career took off. He even has a writing credit on Mel Brooks, Blazing Saddles. He's the reason I read the credits at the movies. Just trying to see if any black folks are working. I'm biased, it's true, but not racist. Neither was Richard. I encourage everyone to get a Pryor CD and listen to the artistry. His movies are wonderful, but Hollywood is very protective of what they put out. To really get into who he was, you must check out the comedy. He's still with us.

On Monday, December 5, the remains of journalist, LeRoy Whitfield were laid to rest in a quiet graveside service at Burr Oak Cemetery in Chicago. Leroy's body had been in a medical examiner's office since his passing on October 9, because of his mother's refusal to sign for it's release. Her reasons for refusal are still a mystery. She was not present for the burial. LeRoy now rests among greatness. Also resting at Burr Oak are Noble Drew Ali, Jimmie Crutchfield, Willie Dixon, John Donaldson, Emmett Till and his mother, Mamie, Otis Spann, and Dinah Washington.

Ok... sometimes I can be just a little dense, but I didn't think I needed to be concerned about the bird flu because I don't own a bird. After hearing a little on Tuesday of what could possibly occur, I realize the immediacy of acquiring a vaccine. When bird flu became a problem in Hong Kong they had to destroy the entire poultry population, estimated at around 1.5 million birds. If something like that had to be done in this country, the results would be devastating. Black folks will starve to death without chicken! We'll be eating ALPO meatloaf like that sister on Good Times.

I still find it hard to believe that a plane went through a barrier and came to rest at the intersection of 55th and Central in Chicago. I am still amazed that only three vehicles were struck and one death is attributed to the accident. Autopsy results released Sunday determined that 6-year-old, Joshua Wood died from the impact of the plane hitting his family's car. According to Forbes.com, after interviewing the pilots and crew on Saturday, the NTSB said the reverse thrusters on the jet's engines, which should have slowed the aircraft, appeared not to have activated immediately when the pilots tried to deploy them. Originally, I thought the severe weather may have been a factor in the accident. It was, but only because it contributed to preventing even greater loss of life. Had it been a clear night, there would have been much more traffic. We were watching the coverage on CNN and Anderson Cooper was talking to someone at the scene via telephone. She said "It's like 9-11 without the explosions." We later found out that she was a patron at a neighborhood bar. She said that emergency personnel was prohibiting anyone to leave the area so she was unable to leave the building. I don't think she was that upset. She was FULL!

On Saturday I was privileged to attend Stories: A Derrick L. Briggs Book Club event. It was an incredible afternoon of sharing. I heard some amazing stories and was so honored to have been included among such a talented set of folks. It's wonderful to see creative people of color get together and share. Last time that happened we got the Harlem Renaissance. Ironically this group met at a lovely space in Harlem.

Saturday night me and my partner pumped it over to Club Shelter, the longest-running underground house music party in NYC and danced till dawn. We could have danced longer, but both of us had stuff to do. DJ Sting International tried to break my back once again. The man is the TRUTH! I have never had a bad night on his dance floor. If you're a house music afficianado, I suggest you pump it on over to the spot and get that groove on. Sting is playing again on Christmas Eve, but I'll be in Chicago. I will definitely be at his first scheduled night in 2006.

Next year, Shelter will be celebrating it's 15th anniversary and a rich history. Before Club Shelter there was Paradise Garage at 84 King Street. The Garage is the most revered of all dance clubs. Folks still recall nights on the Garage dance floor having their life. I can recall a few nights myself. The fact that I was too young to be there meant little, especially with my tab of mescaline and legs to dance. I may have been 14 or 15 when I first went. Garage lost their lease and closed in 1987. There was much weeping, but the owner promised to reopen in another location. He didn't. Thus the Shelter was born as sanctuary for those displaced by the closing of the Garage. Not only am I a fan... I'm a card-carrying member.

Snow Day

2005-12-06T04:39:00.000-08:00

We got a nice coating of snow last night. It looks like about 2-4 inches from my window. It's pretty but I'm not going out in that mess. My boss tells me we're having a delayed opening at noon. Am I wrong for delaying it until tomorrow morning? I just really don't want to go out in it. Besides, I need to wait for the Crackhead Snow Removal to come by and dig me out... Oooh... that sounded nasty. I really have to get my mind out of the gutter.

Thank god that I picked up fat girl snacks on the way home last night. I don't mind being trapped in the house, but I must have the staples... Chicken wings, Doritos, Tahitian Treat soda, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Jolly Rancher gummies. I'm pretty well-stocked. I'm going to pour myself a glass of Tahitian Treat, put on my Kathleen Battle Christmas CD and finish up my greeting cards. I would have finished them earlier, but I had to complete this list I stole off Mashaun's blog.

*First*

First job: At 16, as a clerk for the joint tactical command post at the local army base. It was just for the summer.

First screen name: Damn if I can remember. I think it was something like Gruvr.

First funeral: My aunt Zora, when I was three, but my recollection of it is vague. The second one is more significant. My great uncle when I was five. I remember wanting to know if he was wearing shoes.

First pet: Sam, a german shepherd who turned vicious. He bit me and my grandmother beat him with a skillet. He was good after that.

First piercing: Left ear when I got my A.A., (I did the right when I got my B.A.)

First tattoo: I haven't decided

First credit card: Macy's when I was a junior in high school.

First kiss: When I was 4... A nasty little project heifer who was bigger than me. She chased me down. I was real pretty.

First enemy: Satan. We still battle.

*Last*

Last car ride: Last Sunday from New York.

Last kiss: Last Sunday in New York. A peck on the cheek from my partner as I sat behind the wheel of my stalled vehicle.

Last movie watched: Last night I watched Going My Way. Last week I went to see Walk the Line. Much as I love Reese, I was not impressed.

Last beverage drank: Tahitian Treat.

Last food consumed: A big bag of Doritos.

Last phone call: The love of my life, last night.

Last time showered: Yesterday

Last CD played: Kathleen Battle, "Angel's Glory"

Last website visited: www.ebay.com I had to buy a gift.

*Now*

Single or taken: LOCKED DOWN

Gender: Male

Birthday: May 10

Sign: Yield. Okay... Taurus.

Siblings: One brother, three sisters

Hair color: Black

Eye color: dark brown

Shoe size: 13

Height: 6'2"

Wearing: Oops... let me get a robe.

Drinking: Tahitian treat

Thinking about: The future.

Christmastime is Here!

2005-12-04T21:38:00.000-08:00

This weekend my holiday season officially kicked off with the Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. I have been a fan of Tchaikovsky's composition for most of my life, but was not introduced to the ballet until a few years ago. This is my second year seeing the Lincoln Center production and it is absolutely breathtaking. Now all I need is a production of Black Nativity to truly get my holiday on.

I went with my friend Kevin to Macy's on Sunday to try to find him a pair of dress shoes and a tuxedo shirt. Kevin HATES shopping. I LOVE IT! I could clearly see his frustration, not so much with the crowds, but not being able to find what he wanted. He was able to find a hot pair of casual shoes at 60% off and some DKNY slacks at 30% off. I told him that he must take joy in his purchases and not let frustration creep in. I found a pair of $90 loafers that ended up costing me $24. No... I don't need them, but I can't leave them in the store at that price. Besides, a size 13 is not the easiest shoe to come by. When I find them on sale I have to get them. My partner says I have a sickness and that I sould seek help. It could be the truth.

I grew up shopping. It's in my blood. My aunt, Jane, is the consumer of the family. There was a time when she had two wallets full of department store credit cards. Nearly every weekend of my childhood was spent in a mall with my aunts and cousins. They were our family outings. Nine of us would pile into Aunt Letha's Oldsmobile and end up at some retail establishment. Of course there would be lunch and shopping. One myth I want to dispel is that shopping and buying are two different things. A purchase occurs after you have shopped. Shopping can be therapeutic, but for me it's almost always a competitive sport. It's me against retail. I usually win.

Christmas has always been my favorite shopping time of year. Ever since I was a kid I've loved it and I've honestly loved giving more than receiving. Nothing thrilled me more than to give my aunties a dollar store gift and see them make a fuss about it. I really thought I was giving them something and over the years that helped me learn that it's really the thought that counts. I'm not buying a lot of stuff for people this year. I'm baking... cookies, poundcakes, banana bread... I plan to try a biscotti recipe I got from one of my students. Everyone I know has a sweet tooth so nothing will go to waste.

I'm not complaining, but I've never gotten what I wanted for Christmas without buying it myself. I was always too young for the things I wanted and when I was old enough, my eye was on something else I was too young for. This year I have decided to make public my Christmas wishlist. I'm not hinting that anyone should get me anything on it, but if you know where a brother can get a discount... HOLLA!

1. A Cure
2. World Peace
3. A hot apartment in Washington, DC
4. Puma Speedcats in brown and winter white
5. A new laptop
6. An IPOD
7. Vacation in the Dominican Republic
8. The Annotated Nikki Giovanni (signed)
9. A chocolate brown leather
jacket.

Great Aunts - Inspiration

2005-12-01T07:20:00.000-08:00

It took Professor GQ to really break me down and make me realize the value of what I've been doing here. Although I've been misty and shed a few tears since posting the latest in the Great Aunt Series, I thought it was sadness at what I'd lost in the person of my Aunt Frankie.

When I started Great Aunts it was because J had made me realize how funny old Black ladies could be with her post, She Prophesize Too Much. I knew my aunties, affectionately referred to as The Golden Brown Girls were just as hilarious. The first two posts were fun, but that last one has really taken me through. The professor, in just a few words, helped me realized that I'm not crying from sadness and loss, I am simply grateful for all I've gained. That's where my tears are coming from.

Inspiration is one of the greatest things I've gained from the great aunts. As a writer, their voices have spilled from my head onto the pages of countless short stories. Below is an excerpt from HomeGoing.

"You're not from here?" she said without waiting for a reply, "No, I can tell. I'm Elma Lawson. Been in this town my whole life… mm hmm. I knew that whole family up there before they was a family," she motioned to the first four pews. "I remember Dottie when she was nothing but a child. Have you viewed the body? She really looks good…umph! Better than she ever did living. She was truly an ugly girl, had a house full of ugly children too. Nobody could figure out why Victor married her but I knew. They tried to say that first baby was premature. Shoot! He weighed nearly ten pounds! If that child was born at six months, he'd have been walking, talking and eatin' hog maws after three mo’... mm hmm."

It took me a few seconds to realize that she was bashing my grandmother and even after becoming fully aware, all I could do was gape at her. My only hope was escape, but that died when another woman sat on the open aisle.

She wore a nurse's uniform, carried a plastic tote and smelled of lavender. She was round-faced with high cheek bones and large bright eyes; a grandmother type. I immediately wanted to tell her what the mean lady was saying.

"Pauline is that you?" Elma yelled a whisper.

"Hey, Elma."

"You know I can't half see without my glasses. I don't know what I did with them. I had 'em on when I viewed the body. Mm hmm."

"She looks good, don’t she?" Pauline asked.

"Mm hmm!"

"Who is this fine, young man?” she asked, looking at me. "I know he ain’t one of your grandchildren.”

Elma finally realized she had no idea who I she’d been talking with. A furrowed brow signaled that she was reconsidering some of what she said.

"John. . . Smith," I lied, extending my hand.

"Smith? Lord have mercy you must be Lonnie Smith's boy," Elma exclaimed, "Pauline, you know Abbie's boy, Lonnie?" Elma asked.

I smiled to affirm her belief without offering confirmation and that was enough for her to start rattling off about having seen Lonnie Smith driving a brand new Cadillac. "He must be doing real good," Elma said.

It amazed me that even at the close of the century, this woman still equated success with a Cadillac. I was about to say so when a homeless man walked up to view Granny. He was sobbing inconsolably.

"Elma," Pauline whispered, "your brother just came in."

"Lord Jesus, let me get that fool outta here before he start actin' up. I'll be back." Elma adjusted her wig and walked off. I breathed a sigh of relief. Peace, at last. Or so I thought.

"Poor Luther," Pauline shook her head, "drunker than a boiled owl."

"He seems upset." I said and he did. He was crying like they'd just pronounced his mama dead in the emergency room.

"He sure is, baby. He drinks, you know, and now that Dot is dead, he can't depend on nobody for pity. She'd slip him a couple dollars every now and then for doing odd jobs. I heard they was messing around."

"Really," I asked, through a clench jaw. "Do you believe that?"

"Baby, you never know, but I don't pay no ‘tention to Elma. She never liked Dot."

She was gearing up for a story. I could feel it and she didn't prove me wrong.

"Dot wasn't ever what you'd call a pretty girl but she was attractive. She had a head full of good hair, a nice shape and pretty feet. Elma was always old-lookin'. Just a fast little heifer. She was a change baby, born when Miz Clothilde was near fifty. Po’ woman died in child-birth. One of them contractions ran up against a hot flash and took that good sister right outta here. Elma was pretty much raised by her brothers. They loved and spoiled her, but they ain’t teach her nuthin bout bein a girl. When her menses started, she walked around smellin’ like month old mullet ‘til Dottie pulled her aside and showed her how to care for her old rancid ass… Oooh ‘scuse me, baby,” she said embarrassed, “I got what they call a cussin’ spirit. Elma was just one of the boys.”

"What about Mr. Lawson?” I asked, genuinely curious, “She looked good enough to get him.”

"Baby,” she looked upon me compassionately as if I was handicapped, “a woman don't have to be pretty to get a man. As you get older, you'll see. A man will seek out a ugly gal ‘cause she ain't no trouble. She be so happy to have a man, she let him get away with anything. Besides, Elma’s husband was a sportin’ man. They was tryin to out do each other in adultery.”

I looked over to see Elma dragging old Luther up the aisle aided by another man.

"Who's that with Mrs. Lawson and her brother?" I asked.

"That's her son, Stanley. I believe Victor was his daddy, Dottie's husband."

"What!" I reacted, loud enough for my mother to look back at me with disapproval. Had I been sitting next to her she would have pinched me.

"Yes Baby, Elma got a house full of children and every last one of them got a different daddy. And every daddy is somebody else's husband. Mine is among the number. Her last baby looked so much like the milkman, every cat in the neighborhood used to follow him home from school. It don't make no kind of sense. And she can sit around and talk about Dot. I got a good mind to whip that ass again.”

I Teach, therefore I am

2005-11-30T21:21:00.000-08:00

Why is it that every time I have plans, something happens to throw things off? I was all set to attend the blogger’s networking event at Factory Café tonight. I had it all worked out to leave directly from the office. Just as I logged off and shut down the computer, the phone rang. I have no clue what the hell was on my mind. I never pick up the office phone. It doesn’t have caller ID so I use voicemail to screen. For some reason I picked it up.

“Professor?” (I love when they call me that) It was one of my students sounding positively frantic. “I was praying that you would answer.” (See… God still answers prayer.) The student began to go on about how he were having problems putting together the persuasive speech and that he couldn’t afford to fail the class because it’s a requirement for graduation… yadda yadda yadda. Before the violin concerto could begin in earnest, I stopped student and told him to schedule an appointment with one of the TAs.

“But Professor, they don’t explain things the way you do. You speak in a way that makes everything easier to understand.”

I’m ashamed to admit it, but flattery gets me every time. I’m a sucker. So I agreed to meet with the student tomorrow morning.

“But I’m in the next building. Can I just run over and have you clarify this one thing? I won’t be long.”

Even though I didn’t believe a word of “I won’t be long,” I agreed. Needless to say, the student lied, but my commitment to educate was once again demonstrated. I know my calling and that’s a real blessing because a lot of folks are still searching. I'm just mad that I didn’t get to see some of the folks I was looking forward to meeting, but hopefully there will be other opportunities. I’ll host one myself if I have to. I was so looking forward to posing questions and exchanging ideas. So I guess I may as well do a few posts to try to make up for what I missed this evening and wait for the reports of the event.

Great Aunts - Frankie

2005-11-28T05:42:00.000-08:00

Frankie Mae Robinson was born on October 5, 1921 in Mount Vernon, Georgia. Like all of her siblings, she was delivered at home by a mid-wife. She was perhaps, the most reserved of her sisters and always very discreet. When she loaned money, if the borrower didn't tell, it was never revealed. Nearly 40 years after the fact, I found out that she loaned my grandparents the down payment on their first home. They never got around to paying her back and she never spoke of it. At 20, she became pregnant by a local school teacher who may have been married. She never spoke of it. In fact, her son was in his 40s when he learned the identity of his father. No one could speak in hushed tones like Aunt Frankie. One of her most uttered phrases was, "Don't talk so loud."

Around 1944 she left her young son in care of one sister and, with another joined the migration. They made their way to Nassau County, New York and worked as sleep-in domestics. Though she didn't have a home of her own, Aunt Frankie sent for her son and boarded him at the home of some church members who had children his age. It was not far from where she worked so she was able to see him very often. Still she harbored some guilt at not being able to have him with her and he harbored some resentment. She overcompensated by giving him more than he deserved. He grew up to be what my aunt, Jane, refers to as a "jack-leg preacher." He was brilliant, but just a little crazy. Despite the embarrassing moments he created, she stood by him. She was the very best mother she could be.

Although Aunt Sarah eventually moved to New Jersey to be near her family, Aunt Frankie remained on Long Island. She'd built a very nice circle of friends, her son was firmly established in a good school system and her employer was appreciative of her service.

In 1972 Aunt Frankie married Martin Warren and they enjoyed almost 25 years together until he died in 1985. I have great memories of them traveling to our home on the shore for the annual holiday cookouts. They always traveled with a bottle of brown liqour. Mr. Marty referred to it as his "eye opener" and he used it every morning (and most evenings) during those visits. I'm sure it was normal practice for him. Aunt Frankie would have a cocktail too, but neither of them ever got pissy drunk. She was a real class act. In fact, I was grown before I found out she was a domestic. To me, she was my rich aunt who lived in New York that never came to visit without gifts. She would remember my birthday like it was her own. I always thought that she and I had a special relationship, but as I got older I realized that all her nieces and nephews felt the same way. She made us all feel special.

After being diagnosed with emphysema and placed on oxygen, Aunt Frankie came down to the New Jersey for a recuperation period. She stayed with Aunt Sarah, who has a tendency to be a bit bossy. Needless to say she drove Aunt Frankie crazy to the point that she vowed NEVER to come again. It made me believe that she was very smart for remaining on Long Island. The distance allowed her to have a very good relationship with her siblings. Just as good fences make good neighbors, distance can be beneficial to certain relationships. Even after the diagnosis, she continued to smoke her Winstons. One of my cousins in the south would bring her a carton periodically.

This past June, we received a call from her neighbor, Pearlene. She said Frankie was disoriented and "talkin' crazy," which was something I could not believe. I got on the phone and called her myself. As always, she talked like she had plenty of sense, but for peace of mind, I told her I would drop by the next day. As always, she protested. She thought the hour and a half we had to travel to get to her was a great distance and she never wanted us on the road. I squashed all that by telling her I had to come up there because I was catching a train to Chicago, the next day, which was true.

We sat across the table from each other and chatted. There was a half smoked cigarette on a saucer. Sitting next to it was her inhaler in its sealed packaging. She looked real tired and her color was off just a little. We talked about the dreams (hallucinations) she had been having. She articulated that the last episode had really scared her. I asked her how she felt about coming to stay with us in New Jersey for a couple of months. After making sure she wouldn't have to stay with Sarah, she agreed. I was a little uneasy because the decision was clearly made out of fear. The latest episode had really shaken her up. We agreed that when I got back from Chicago the following week, I would bring her home with me.

The next night I received a call in Chicago that she had been taken to the hospital and placed on a ventilator as her lungs were operating at about 30% capacity. When I returned, I went to the hospital to the heartbreaking sight of my Aunt Frankie connected to this huge machine in order to breathe. She was trying desperately to speak and we were trying to understand, but the attempt was futile. The only thing that she was able to make us clearly understand was that a sister was hungry. The next week her doctor told us that he wanted to give her a tracheotomy through which the respirator would be connected. In addition, he talked of placing a feeding tube in her stomach and doing a biopsy to determine if she had cancer in her nose. We were all opposed to the surgeries. She shook her head no when we asked if she wanted to have the surgery. The day came that we had to make a decision. As next of kin, her granddaughter had to make the decision. She was unsure. My cousin, Marty, who had her power of attorney on matters financial was also skirting around the decision. I was the one to say, "Disconnect all that shit and let her go with dignity. Her quality of life is gone and she's lived a good 83 years. Let her go." They agreed and each of us signed the statement that would be reviewed by the hospital administration before they removed all the equipment.

Her doctor was vehemtly opposed to the decision. He argued that she could live for several more years with the equipment and I countered that she would not be "living" in the sense that she was used to. That was my final say. I left the hospital with the knowledge that she would probably be removed from life support in the next few days. As soon as we left, the doctor brought her up out of the drugged stupor and told her the situation. They were able to convince her to sign for the procedure. When I went back up and saw her after learning of her decision, I was amazed. She was totally different from the lifeless person I'd seen lying in the bed just a day earlier. She was animated and alert. I thought perhaps this was something she can live with and set about finding facilities near me to provide for her long term care.

After the procedure I went to see her. She was hooked up to the ventilator through the trach. She was still trying to talk to me, but that ability was gone. I just sat at the foot of her bed and talked to her, telling her that I was bringing her home. She kept looking over at the machines and tapping on the tubes that connected them. Three days later she was moved from the hospital to a rehabilitation facility. A day later she was dead. No one has articulated it, but I believe that she removed the tubes that were keeping her alive. I respect and honor that decision.

During his final years my grandfather started telling us things to which children and grandchildren should not be privy. One thing in particular was that when he met my grandmother and her sisters, "them girls was livin' out there in the country givin' out coochie from both panty legs." I was apalled. It's not that I hadn't already ascertained that my grandmother and her sisters were sexual beings. It was evidenced by the fact that nearly all of them had given birth to a child, without the benefit of marriage, but to have it explained in such crude terms was a little bit more than I needed to hear. When he said it, I could hear my Aunt Frankie telling him to hush and stop talking so loud.

Family Matters

2005-11-27T18:53:00.000-08:00

I got to watch a good amount of television this weekend. Among the highlights were about 8 hours of Law and Order, A documentary on the Kennedy wives, The Cosby Show Reunion, The Cosby Kids E True Hollywood Story, that sweet sixteen show, about 15 minutes of Being Bobby Brown (all I could stand) and about 3 hours of MTV's Run's House. All I can say is that Run's house is my absolute favorite new show. For those not in the know, Reverend Run was part of the group, Run DMC and brother to hip hop mogul, Russell Simmons. Matter of fact... Run DMC is the main reason why Russell is a mogul. Check the history.

I love Run's House because, like the Cosby Show, it shows a seldom-seem glimpse of African American family life. Compared to the dysfunctional ghetto chaos of Being Bobby Brown, Run's House is a breath of fresh air. You actually can't compare the two because Run's House lacks the buffoonery of BBB. The main reason is that Run and his wife, Justine clearly live for their children and are committed to raising them to be upstanding citizens. AND they are on the same page! These children learn life lessons in each episode and it is all due to parents who are grounded and setting good examples of what they should grow to become. I'm not going to bash Bobby and Whitney. They do a good enough job. I will also stop campaigning to have BBB taken off the air. As long as we have Run's House to counterbalance, I'm cool.

Gasping for Monday

2005-11-27T16:25:00.000-08:00

The holiday weekend is racing toward a close and I'm actually looking forward to getting back to work. This weekend has been many things. I was lucky enough to spend it with my partner, a good friend and his fab view of the Hudson River. Many thanks to Kevin for his warm hospitality. I love sweet people... not too sweet though. Thankfully, Kevin knows how to keep things real. We had actually planned to head to the Shelter to hear my favorite DJ, Sting International. All I can say is DA BEATS! However, we decided to stay in after a very busy week.

Honestly I've been running non-stop since last Wednesday, when I drove some students to Wisconsin for a conference. That is a whole nother blog. I got back early Monday morning, but had no sleep at all. On Tuesday evening I had dinner at Caliente Cab, which was a throwback for me. Back in the day I used to go there with my best friend, Jose, for brunch on Sundays. Back then they had UNLIMITED margaritas, bloody marys and mimosa. Let's just say we were drunk ASSES! I remember one time we got so to' up that we staggered out out of the restaurant and fell asleep on a sofa that someone had thrown out. Thankfully I've been delivered. Still it was nostalgic and made me a little sad since Jose and I don't see each other that much anymore, but it's hard to be sad in the company of fellow bloggers Bobby Brown, Jr., The Texas Tiger and No4Real4Real, who I finally got to meet.

Thanksgiving was really a sweet affair. It was actually spent among a few fellow bloggers. We ate... talked... ate... talked...ate some more... talked a little more and I left building with a greater glimpse into people I've been exchanging with this last three months. Among the attendees was Nathan "Seven" Scott, who is always a pleasure to see. He reminded me that I needed to be in the building this Wednesday when the New York-area Black bloggers get together for an evening of exchange. The guest list is pretty impressive so far. If you're not on it, don't worry about it. Just come on through. I'm definitely looking forward to a great networking opportunity and to kick off my holiday social calendar.

In the past 24 hours two people in my cypher have been the victims of fraudulent bank transactions that they trace back to people they know. A little later today we're going to sit down and determine how each case will be handled. Actually, we already know we're going to box one kat's head in. The other we think we'll be sending to prison... he'll like that. Well... we will anyway. Have a good Monday.

Relax! Relate! Release!

2005-11-25T07:39:00.000-08:00

I know I've been quiet for a minute, but I've been busy. The holiday season alone is giving me enough grief to keep me crazy. Thanksgiving was fun this year. I didn't spend it with great aunts, which is making me feel slightly guilty, but with the acquisition of a partner, my family structure has changed. Another reason I've been quiet is that I've been reading and responding to the blogs and posts of others. I really have to stop that!

I've been reading some great stuff... some trash too, but who the hell am I to judge? Grandmama always says, "One man's trash is another's treasure." I've also been watching email battles that have really reminded me of the fights that took place in middle school. Remember how the parties involved would start talking shit in the cafeteria or the gym and by the end of the school day, it had escalated into something real ugly? Surrounded by their posses, the parties involved would begin a slow walk off the school grounds, while talking mad shit. Once they reached a point far enough from the school, but close enough for an authority figure to happen by and stop things, the first punch would be thrown. I was never one of the people who got to watch the fight. I was always far on the outside of the ring that surrounded the players. My scary ass just never wanted to be that close to trouble. Back then I didn't realize that it was all being done to save face.

Recently while going through the mail of one of my Yahoo groups (shout out to the Yahoo groups), I read a response that was posted by Cleo Manago on his blog as a response to something that was posted by Keith Boykin on his blog. It was all about the Millions More Mess (see my comments 8/25/05, 10/23/05). Again, I mean no disrespect to those who went and got something out of it. Just like Vanessa Bell Calloway in Coming to America, I like "whatever you like... ARF! ARF!" Once the march was over, I never thought I would comment on it again until 2015 when they do the next throwback march. Then I read Boykin's speech that didn't happen and was blown away by it's eloquence and power. After reading it, I could certainly understand why it could not have been delivered at MMM. It was more affirming than anything else I heard that day (no disrespect to any of the speakers) and was an important address on so many different levels. Still I chose to remain silent with commentary and allowed others to sing Boykin's praises. Then I read the Cleo response and then the note to Jasmyne Cannick and then the response from Ras James. That's when I felt compelled to comment. Here's what I said.

Ok... now this is completely annoying! Why are these exchanges being done publicly? It makes both parties appear to be fighting for a spotlight that has already moved on. It seems a cheap attempt from all to keep their names in the media. The MMM is OVER. What good did it actually do? Sure, folks got to roll down to DC and get some wings with mumbo sauce. If they happened to head over to the mall for the event, what did they take away?

My friends who attended came away with a pocketful of phone numbers, an over priced t-shirt, some quality pirated CDs and DVDs, a jumbo lemonade that was particularly thirst-quenching, and a contact high from a group of folks sharing a blunt of what was apparently some righteous weed. None of them came away with the belief that anything meaningful had occurred.

Amallah, who was put out on the street at 15 after being beaten by everyone in her family (followers of NOI), expressed that the significance of a gay speaker had no affect on the way she is viewed by her parents. Matter of fact, when she spotted her father that day on the mall and attempted to speak to him, he looked past her as if she was not there. They'd had no contact in 10 years. She left in tears. She actually had some hope that there would be some reconciliation. She went there with the sole purpose of embracing the father that she still loves. It makes me wonder if the NOI is doing anything to address the homophobia that exists within their own organization.

Admittedly, I stayed away from the event. Aside from being a conspiracy theorist who believes that large gatherings are targets for terrorists, I had to attend a memorial service in Chicago for LeRoy Whitfield (yes, that was my cheap attempt to keep his name in the media). I wasn't going anyway. I couldn't see the value. The truth is no one there represented my interests or spoke on my behalf. No one can do that but me. At the end of the day when the table is cleared and the dishes are washed and put away. We witnessed an historic moment... that has passed. Let it go.

What is it about people that won't allow us to let things go? At this very moment people are calling for Keith to answer to allegations of lying. People are saying that they can't trust him again until he speaks out and either clears his name or admits wrongdoing. Well I believe that is their issue, not Keith's and he should keep good and quiet. Too often we turn people into icons and the minute they do something that we find disagreeable, we go on the attack. Keith Boykin is the voice of Keith Boykin. If people can identify with what he says or writes and he can help someone, that is wonderful. Still, he is not the sole voice of a movement. I've heard allegations that he is creating a division in the movement. Wow! That's one powerful negro. Honestly, I don't think he should take credit for a division that already existed, but he can take credit for bringing the division to light.

Truth is... NJBC and BMX serve different constituencies. The fact that there are people out there who find value in both entities only proves that they are working toward the same end on different levels. I'm glad that both organizations are out there working toward the greater good. I don't expect them to work together any more than I expect Republicans and Democrats to work together even though they both claim to represent the best interests of all Americans. My mind just keeps going back to that episode of A Different World, where Debbie Allen played Whitley's psychologist. Her mantra was "relax, relate, release." I'm learning to live by that. It's making life so much easier.

Clarification On The Last Posting

2005-11-14T09:05:00.000-08:00

First let me say that the only points I make are that it's good to be "the only" sometimes, HBCU students are predominately children of Black priviledge, Black America has a pronounced class structure and the media is biased. Everything else is from the author of the article.

While I believe that our students, especially Black students, should be culturally aware and engaged in the struggle for human rights, it may be unfair to write Howard students off as completely lacking political conscious. After speaking with a parent of two Howard graduates, I got a better understanding.

"These children aren't coming from a place where protest is common. They are taught specifically not to make waves, but to go through every proper channel to achieve their end."

I also remember an exchange with Nikki Giovanni where she talked about how her friends complain about their kids and their expectations. She was saying that these kids are rich. They are used to things like caribbean vacations and weekends on the Vineyard. They are not engaged in a struggle. The parents can't be upset because that is the world they gave them.

What results is a huge buffer between the past struggle, which was very obvious and the present struggle, which is a bit (though not much) more subtle. What we really lose is the fact that there is no gap between struggles. There was never a time in this country that Black folks didn't have to fight for something. If nothing more than to be seen as an individual and not a representation of the entire race.

What I would like to see happen is that our protests become as subtle as our opression. I'd like to see every black person code-switch into the queen's English when they see a news crew coming toward them. I'd like to see malt liquor sales decrease to the point that you have to search real hard to find it carried. I'd like to see a chinese food/liquor store go out of business. I'd like to see mothers who are old enough to be mothers. I'd like to see a whole lotta shit!

The Black College Experience: Did I really miss anything?

2005-11-06T23:21:00.000-08:00

For so many years I lamented over the fact that I didn't apply to even one HBCU. At the time I was submitting applications, I thought very intelligently about the fact that I didn't want to place myself in an environment where everyone looked like me. It's good to be the odd person sometimes. I was also just a little terrified because I know Black people. I know how some of us can be. I also didn't think I had the "street cred" to survive in that environment. It wasn't until much later that I realized few of the students at HBCUs have street cred. A great majority of them are the children of black priveledge. Yes. There is such a thing. The Black community has a very pronounced class structure that is well represented by many voices. Unfortunately the media doesn't do a great job of getting that message across.

Several days ago I posted an editorial from the Washington Post about G Dubya's recent visit to Howard U. There has been much furor and backlash. So much that the writer had to publish a response. Here it is:

Time for Some Soul-Searching At Howard U.
By Courtland Milloy
Wednesday, November 2, 2005; B01

Dear Howard University students:

Ever since I wrote in Sunday's paper about your protest during a recent visit by President Bush and first lady Laura Bush, I've been getting all of these angry e-mails. You say I make you want to puke (and worse), and your university president says he wants me on campus so I can explain myself. Is he kidding?

Actually, it's a pretty clever move. If he can serve me up on a Bison horn, then maybe you'll forget how Bush came to be on your campus in the first place. Nevertheless, I accept his offer. But before I burn in effigy, permit me a few words.

You claim to be upset because I wrote that "Howard is not a hotbed of political activism," and you cite the school's legacy of social protest and political activism. But what have you done lately? A walk down to the Mall for the Millions More Movement, an AIDS Walk and participation in get-out-the-vote rallies does not make your heirs to Walter Rodney or Kwame Toure.

What about honoring the legacy of Roland Scott (chairman of pediatrics at Howard from 1949 to 1973 and the driving force behind the Sickle Cell Anemia Control Act of 1971)? Your school has the Center for Sickle Cell Disease, but the organizers of annual walks to find a cure for that dreadful disease can't get you to participate for the life of those hurting black babies.

The home of Carter G. Woodson, a Howard professor and father of Black History Month, almost fell to the ground before the federal government stepped in to save it. Where were you? And why weren't you at the Optimal Health for Black Men conference, held last month at Howard Hospital? A lot of outstanding black doctors, psychologists, scientists and educators gave presentations. You protest about not being invited to Laura Bush's "youth summit," but you are nowhere to be found when your elders hold a lifesaving summit just for you.

You wear Diddy's "Vote or Die" shirts, but fewer than 2,000 of about 7,000 undergraduates voted in student government elections in March. Makes you wonder
why Wiley A. Branton, that giant of a law school dean, risked his life teaching black people how to mark a ballot. You say you oppose Bush's war in Iraq. So why didn't you protest the homecoming step show -- which was sponsored by the U.S. Army and included recruiting tables and invitations to step right up?

Some of you said you protested because you just don't like Bush. Period. Others said you protested because classes were canceled at the last minute and, in some cases, tests you had studied for were postponed.
Then I heard that the entrance to the school cafeteria had been closed off -- on Soul Food Thursday, no less. If you really want me to believe that missing a pop quiz in calculus was more upsetting than missing out on a fried chicken platter, then show me a bunch of skinny and smart black students when I visit your school.

Or show me when you show up at The Washington Post -- assuming your efforts to organize a protest by e-mail pan out. You've sent hundreds of e-mails. Here's one of the better-written: "BLACK MAN, YOU GOT SOME SOUL SEARCHIN TO DO! Because I know why they were really protesting. Being denied their dinner was just a spark that caused the flame. . . . U are really a coward and there is no use for you in our struggle because in your article, you chose to make chicken and collards the cause of the disturbance and not get deeper."

University President H. Patrick Swygert accused me of "appalling stereotyping" and called my column "inaccurate," "outrageous" and "quite shocking." He went on to say: "And this at a time when the nation is honoring the memory of Rosa Parks, who 50 years ago stood up for the dignity of the African American community."

Actually, I'm kind of glad he brought that up. Suppose Parks had attended one of your famous "Pimp Harder" homecoming fashion shows and seen those half-naked female students, some using their hands for a peek-a-boo bra, sashaying down the runway to the hoots and howls of their salivating male classmates. Of course, this is
about my shocking behavior, not yours. But since so many of you claim to be following in the footsteps of African American civil rights titans, imagine how they might feel if they had to follow in yours.

E-mail:milloyc@washpost.com

Mo than 'nuff said!

So Why Is He Still Here?

2005-11-03T10:27:00.000-08:00

Congress today announced that the office of President of the United States of America will be outsourced to overseas interests as of August 31st. The move is being made to save not only a significant portion of the President's $400,000.00 yearly salary, but also a record $521 billion in deficit expenditures and related overhead.

"We believe this is a wise move financially. The cost savings should be significant," stated Congressman Thomas Reynolds (R-WA). Reynolds, with the aid of the Government Accountability Office, has studied outsourcing of American jobs extensively.

"We cannot expect to remain competitive on the world stage with the current level of cash outlay," Reynolds noted.

Mr. Bush was informed by email this morning of his termination. Preparations for the job move have been underway for some time. Gurvinder Singh of Indus Teleservices, Mumbai, India will be assuming the office of President as of September 1st. Mr. Singh was born in the United States while his Indian parents were vacationing at Niagara Falls, thus making him eligible for the position. He will receive a salary of $320 (USD) a month but with no health coverage or other benefits.

It is believed that Mr. Singh will be able to handle his job responsibilities without support staff. Due to the time difference between the US and India, he will be working primarily at night, when few offices of the US Government will be open.

"Working nights will allow me to keep my day job at the American Express call center," stated Mr. Singh in an exclusive interview. "I am excited about this position. I always hoped I would be President someday."

A Congressional Spokesperson noted that while Mr. Singh may not be fully aware of all the issues involved in the office of President, this should not be a problem. Mr. Singh will rely upon a script tree that will enable him to respond effectively to most topics of concern. Using this tree, he can address common concerns without having to understand the underlying issues at all.

"We know these scripting tools work," stated the Spokesperson. "Mr. Bush has used them successfully for years."

Mr. Bush will receive health coverage, expenses, and salary until his final day of employment. Following a two week waiting period, he will be eligible for $240 dollars a week unemployment for 13 weeks. Unfortunately he will not be eligible for Medicaid as his unemployment benefits will exceed the allowed limit.

Mr. Bush has been provided the outplacement services of Manpower, Inc. to help him write a resume and prepare for his upcoming job transition. According to Manpower, Mr. Bush may have difficulties in securing a new position due to limited practical work experience. One possibility is re-enlistment in the Air National Guard. Should he choose this option, he would likely be stationed in Iraq, a country he has visited.

"I've been there, I know all about Iraq," stated Mr. Bush, who gained invaluable knowledge of the country in a visit to the Baghdad Airport's terminal and gift shop.

Sources in Baghdad and Falluja say Mr. Bush would receive a warm reception from local Iraqis. They have asked to be provided with details of his arrival so that they might arrange an appropriate welcome.

How Bush Visit Became the Siege of Howard U.

2005-11-02T15:34:00.000-08:00

I missed out on the Black school experience. Didn't even realize I was missing anything until after I spent all those years on a predominately white campus in a predominately white city. By the time I finished undergrad, I was up to my eyeballs, fed up with white folks. At least that's what I thought. I just needed time to learn to appreciate them again.

I adopted Howard University as my HBCU and, like so many others, began to attend homecoming FAITHFULLY each year. Two years ago one of my students transferred to Howard, giving my a legitimate reason to visit. She sent me this Washington Post article.

How Bush Visit Became the Siege Of Howard U.
By Courtland Milloy

It was Soul Food Thursday at Howard University last week, and many students were looking forward to their favorite meal: fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, collard greens and cornbread. At lunchtime, however, students discovered that much of the campus had been locked down and that the school's cafeteria was off limits.

Apparently, many of them did not know that President Bush and first lady Laura Bush had arrived for a "youth summit" at the Blackburn Center, where the dining hall is located. Stomachs began to growl, tempers flared, and, eventually, a student protest ensued.

In case you missed the broadcast Friday on Fox 5 (WTTG-TV), reporter Robbie Chavez was at Howard trying to interview protesting students when a campus security guard showed up and tried to stop him.

Chavez: The university went to great lengths . . .

Guard: I'm asking you to leave the campus now.

Chavez: . . . to hide angry protesting students . . .

Guard: I'm warning you, you don't do that.

Chavez: . . . a big effort to keep a lid on the growing frustration.

During the protest, dozens of students locked arms around a flagpole in the Quadrangle, a designated forbidden zone at the center of the campus, and refused to move despite warnings from campus security that Secret Service rooftop snipers might open fire on them. You'd have thought Howard had taken a page right out of the Bush administration playbook on quashing First Amendment freedoms.

In a letter posted the day before on a university Web site, President H. Patrick Swygert wrote that, having notified the campus via e-mail in July, he was sending a reminder of the Bush visit. But students complained that they hadn't seen either message and criticized school officials and the Bush administration for poor planning. Chavez said:

"This is what university police and the Howard University administration did not want publicized: students angry after being shut out of parts of their own university."

What might have been a public relations coup for Bush -- a visit to a historically black college to show concern for at-risk youths -- ended up as another Katrina-like moment, with the president appearing spaced-out, waving and smiling for television cameras while students were trying to break through campus security to get to the cordoned-off cafeteria.

Of course, the episode was nothing compared with all the other bad news Bush got last week, including the indictment of White House aide I. Lewis Libby on perjury charges. But what happened at Howard was illustrative nonetheless of how a seemingly minor mess, easily avoided by a more attentive White House, could have repercussions down the road.

The Republican Party is trying hard to win over black voters before the midterm elections, and Maryland Lt. Gov. Michael Steele needs the support of black Democrats in his bid to become the first black Republican in the U.S. Senate since Howard alumnus Edward Brooke of Massachusetts (1967-1979). So one thing Bush didn't want was a ruckus during a visit to Howard. All he had to do was drop in on Soul Food Thursday, be seen sharing a wing and some collard greens with students -- and score one for the GOP. But the visit went from bad to worse.

On a day when the U.S. Senate passed a resolution paying tribute to civil rights icon Rosa Parks, who died last week, campus security guards were telling students that if they wanted to eat they'd have to come back when the president and first lady were gone, then go to a service door at the rear of the dining hall and ask for a chicken plate to go. Never mind that a student meal plan at Howard can cost as much as $2,500 a semester. Howard is not some hotbed of political activism. The biggest event of the year is homecoming, which features two fashion shows, a step show and lots of hip-hop celebrities. As the rapper Ludacris put it in his summer hit, "Pimpin' All Over the World":

Jump in the car and ride for hours, Makin' sure I don't miss the homecoming at Howard.

To set off a student protest at this school, you'd have to be politically tone-deaf in the extreme, out of touch and flying blind. And yet, Bush did it.

God help us in Iraq.

Today

2005-10-26T20:22:00.000-07:00

Last year I decided to make changes in my life. Up until then I approached things differently in regards to the people with whom I associated and the ways I elected to meet them. Before, I really didn't have a formula to measure the value that people and experiences brought to my life nor did I recognize the intrinsic value that I brought to the lives of others. I was a bit of a mess. I chose to attend a mountain retreat in Maryland last October with no specific expectations. I simply believed that I would meet some decent people with similar interests and spark a friendship or two. What happened is I met the one person who has most impacted my adult life.

I'd never been in love before. I don't mean that as an insult to an ex that might be a reader of this blog because I loved you as much as I could without loving myself wholly and completely. For most of my life I struggled with emotional baggage that I carried around and sat in the corner of each relationship. The bags served as a constant reminder of my unresolved issues and my reluctance to address them. By late 2003 I was rolling around one of those hotel luggage racks. A 2004 New Years resolution was to start unpacking baggage. However, it wasn't an aggressive effort. Still, by my birthday, I had modified enough behaviors that I was accepting and loving me for me and noticing a difference in my interactions.

By the time the retreat rolled around I knew that I was in a better place emotionally than I had been before. One of the indicators was that I was able to openly and honestly discuss some aspects of my personality that I never really acknowledged before. Because I never acknowledged and addressed them in the past, the same issues would reappear to damage (sometimes irreparably) each relationship. It was really interesting and refreshing to meet someone with whom I could discuss my low traits without fear of judgement. I had gotten myself to the place where I knew another person's judgement of me was their issue to work out so I was able to be frank about things. I immediately felt in my spirit that this person was to be very special to me. I just didn't realize how much.

Over the course of this past year we have ridden a rollercoaster that has taken us to our highest and lowest points and looped us around quite a bit. Things didn't look so good at times, but I never lost sight of the fact that I had met the person with whom I wanted to share my life. I never allowed myself to imagine that things wouldn't work out. We both worked hard on this one and our persistence has paid off. We are celebrating a year of sharing and learning. Of the greatest things I have learned is that we are both works in progress on a fluid canvas and I want us together at the last brushstrokes.

Prisoner # 7053

2005-10-25T05:45:00.000-07:00

Back in da day it was cool to get arrested. Folks from good families were getting themselves locked up and their peoples were coming down to bail them out before the white folks beat them up too badly.

When Rosa got arrested folks were proud. So much so that she was asked to do a reenactment of the arrest for the paparazzi. Before Joanne Chesimard, Rosa was the bad ass sista that put a foot up the establishment's ass. Despite what Cedrick said in Barber Shop, we knew the impact of her actions and the courage it required to say no.

Her death yesterday, at 92, closes a storied chapter in American history. Nearly fifty years ago, her quiet refusal to relinquish her seat was the first in a series of events that set off the 381-day boycott of the Montgomery, Alabama city buses, culminating with U.S. Supreme Court ruling that segregation of city buses is unconstitutional.

Today I mourn the loss of Rosa Parks, not only because she has transitioned, but because in so many ways, we are no better off than we were when she quietly defied authority. We're still getting arrested, but no one is coming to bail anyone out! The signs were ruled unconstitutional and taken down, but the attitude remains. Rosa's generation raised my mama's generation in such a way that my generation was insulated from the sting of racism. I wasn't aware of the inherent inequalities until I was good and grown, but I see them now.

I will honor Rosa Park's memory by always identifying and pointing out that which is wrong. When someone says or does something ridiculous, I will call them on it. I will share our history, with not only the young brothers and sisters coming up, but with EVERYONE. Black history is American history. What happens to one impacts the other. Rosa Parks knew that.

Where the hell have I been?

2005-10-24T07:25:00.000-07:00

Well... before I flew to Chicago I was in Lancaster, PA for 5 days, which was akin to being in a vacuum. I do love the PA accent though. It's not quite as sweet as the southern, but it's warm and homespun just the same. But none of that has any reason to do with why I ask where the hell I've been. The weekend before Lancaster I was in DC, laid up in a hotel on Embassy Row, watching a Law and Order marathon. I'm one of those strange people who enjoy the commercials as much the show. As a result I have to really be strategic about bathroom breaks. Anyway... while staring at the screen, I saw a familiar name attached to a Pantene ad... Maria Menounos. How shocked was I?

When I was a Resident Assistant at Emerson College back in da day, Maria was one of my tenth floor residents. I remember her as the extremely pretty girl with the thick Massachusetts accent (she has definitely worked that out). She was usually smiling and always nice. I may have written her up once or maybe not. I vaguely remember finding the Real World Boys up there with some Heinekens. I know I was supposed to write them up, but since the alcohol was found in the suite and not the room, blah blah blah. Maria was very charming. It appears that she still is. To get some clarity on this development. I reached out to Shaun Andrew Young, the trendiest resident at 100 Beacon Street and my absolute favorite of all.

Shaun was a New York boy with a Cali connection. His father was on the east coast and his mother on the west, making him bi-coastal. After finishing up at Emerson, he returned to the west, where he now works in the industry. I knew that if anyone would have the grease on Maria's rise to fame, Shaun would be able to scoop it out like Crisco.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked and went on to run down her impressive list of credits. I was left feeling just a little out of touch, but how can one keep up with everything that goes on in the world? Especially with 100 Beacon Street residents, who were always on the move and on their way to the big time. It was really great to chat with Shaun and catch up with the haps in his life. I think the last time I saw him was when Ian, another favorite resident, married CafeConLeche. That had to be about 6 years ago.

Actually her name was Capucine and she was from France (did that girl have a green card?). I remember there being some tension around that event. I don't think Ian's mom was happy. Come to think of it, neither was I. Well Shaun says that last he heard they were still happily married and parents of a little girl. I wonder what the rest of the 100 Beacon folks are doing.

Working my way back... Part 2

2005-10-23T03:53:00.000-07:00

Thanks to all my fellow bloggers who have shouted words of encouragement and support. You were heard and appreciated. These past few days have been insane, but we're over this hump. Let me bring everyone up to speed. I'm back home....FINALLY. The cold appears to be leaving me, which is a blessing 'cause I hate being sick. I'm a good patient, though... very independent. Of course I need the right the brand of sickness to come and knock me on my ass and all that independence will probably disappear.

I left Chicago on Monday after having spent most of the weekend feeling awful. I stayed with my friends Daryl and Rodney in Wicker Park and they took such good care of me. I got full breakfasts and dinners each day and a refrigerator and cupboards full of healthy fat girl snacks. I felt more at home than I do at home. Words can't express my appreciation. I even got a massage from Rodney who is a Professional Massage Therapist. I encourage everyone in Chicagoland (and beyond... he travels extensively) to seek his services. I got to watch a little of the millions more mess on c-span and saw a lot of what I expected. I was disappointed because, although I appear cynical on the outside, I'm really a hopeful guy. Early on I saw failure with an event calling for unity, but directed by someone who thinks lesbians are evil and the cause of serious problems in Black America. That's sick. The best moment for me was when Cleo Manago spoke LeRoy's name over that assembly and blessed them all, whether or not they all heard, someone did and if they didn't know of him, they will find out. That comforts me.

I arrived back at DC National after another Detroit connection. At least I was seated in an emergency exit row. I had forgotten how comfortable all that leg room can be. Not even to mention that you can be first off the plane if you really want to be. Anyway I picked up a car in DC and drove straight back to NJ, trying to catch a glimpse of Edward Jones. When I reached the buiding he was involved in a Q&A session. I addressed him briefly, to let him know I would be picking him up in the morning and punched on home to get some sleep. I was up again at 5 AM because I had two weeks worth of laundry to do. By the time I picked up Mr. Jones I was coffee-wired, but my underwear was April-fresh. It was a comfortable ride and Mr. Jones was the perfect passenger. He can be my road dawg. When I dropped him off at home, he signed two copies of his book for me (Christmas is coming) and I headed on to the airport to exchange cars so that I could grab Bobby and Crofton.

We drove up to Manhattan on Wednesday to attend LeRoy's New York memorial celebration and to empty his apartment. LaRonya and Aunt Judy flew in from Chicago and Uncle Chris, Aunt Yaba and their daughter drove up from Maryland. The memorial service was wonderful. LeRoy has connected so many wonderful people, which I think is the greatest part of his legacy. I plan to honor him by maintaining contact with those who came that night to remember him. There were so many people there that I've long admired and it was a group that only LeRoy could assemble.

We closed the door to his apartment yesterday morning. It's an awful feeling to finish loading the truck and know that you have gathered and contained someone's earthly possessions. LeRoy didn't make it easy for us. His space was small, but he really knew how to pack it in. Reminded me of my great aunt, whose apartment I had to clean out in June. She had four rooms packed into two. Which also reminds me that I have to start my great aunt series, inspired by Grown People's post, She Prophesize Too Much. LeRoy's spirit is at rest, but his earthly shell still lies in a metal drawer. His female progenitor of life offered to sign for the release of the body only if it was cremated. We can't understand that. Those of you who have said it are right. She needs prayer. We spent a lot of time laughing and talking about LeRoy and one of the most comical things I heard was uttered on his death bed. Upon learning that his female progenitor of life was staying at his place, he gathered as much strength as he could and whispered, "Get her out." That says a whole lot.

Working my way back...Part 1

2005-10-18T02:25:00.000-07:00

Back in the early 1980s, The Spinners, who had gone several years without a hit, scored a big one with a cover of the Frankie Valli/Four Seasons hit of the 1960s, "Working My Way Back to You." For years I was under the impression that the Spinners were an east coast group because they really encompassed the "Philly" sound. How surprised was I to find out they are, in fact, from the Ferndale suburb of Detroit. I only give this information to place the title of this post in context. I am working my way back. There will be no other mention of the song or either group that recorded it. Consider that a Black History moment.

So... I am truly working my way back... from a ridiculously long weekend in the air, on the rails and on the road... from the cold I caught in Jersey and cultivated in Chicago... from so many things. I'm still not completely done because I have to drive Edward Jones, author of The Known World, back to DC following his appearance on our campus last evening. I keeps it moving. But I guess first things first.

The rain was nearing its end when I left New Jersey on last Thursday morning. That was the morning the power went out and I was forced to run around in the dark trying to get myself together. Oddly, I didn't forget anything, except to wake up to catch the bus that was supposed to take me to DC to catch my plane. I ended up taking AMTRAK to DC, which is always a pleasant trip. Once in DC I took the Metro to the airport, stopping by Pentagon City along the way to grab something at Macy's (I'm a shopaholic... I admit it. I NEED HELP...). From Macy's it's only one stop to Reagan Airport... could be two... who remembers? I had something new to wear.

Let me say that I really hate to fly or maybe I just hate the thought of flying because I live for the convenience. I also love airports. I always have. I love all the people on their way to somewhere, each with a story to tell. National is unfamiliar to me, but airports are designed for the unfamiliar. That may be one of the things I find comforting... they are designed so that anyone can use them. On my way to the gate I passed a very well-dressed brother holding a signed marked with 3 Ms.

"Brother, you're going the wrong way," he said.

"Am I," I paused, looking around at the signage.

"You need to be here for the march," he said.

"Not at all," I said and went on 'bout my business.

For my thoughts on the Millions More Movement please refer to the previous post, The Millions More March.... Just one more reason not to go, August 2005. Anyway I got to my gate and flight. On board it was wonderful to find that I had the row of seats to myself. I luxuriated... at least until I got to Detroit and Buddha, himself sat next to me for the connecting flight across the lake. Perhaps I should have taken comfort in his presence, but the seats are small and he needed 2. I let him have all three and found an aisle seat in the row immediately in front of me.

Once in Chicago I jumped on the "L" and met Crofton downtown at Bennigans. At that time I also met LeRoy's good friend, Kevin... a beautiful person. Immediately following communion we drove to the south side to commune with the rest of the family at LaRonya's.

I am so glad that Crofton and LeRoy prepared me for the rest of the family, but if they hadn't I woulda been ok. They are just like mine... KRAZY! There must be about 50 first cousins and they all grew up together. Among those I met were LaWanna, LaKrista, LaKeitha and a few others, marked with the "L" prefix. Not unsual to me as my family went through a "K" thing in the 70s. That's why we have Kali, Kysee (Kee-say'), Kareem and Keenon. It was just like home... folks laughin', cryin', eatin', drinkin', cussin' and fussin'. It was really a great evening despite the occasion. That's when I found out that LeRoy's remains remained in New York because his female progenitor of life refused to sign the release. Her reasons remain unclear, but there is speculation... though none of that makes sense either.

LeRoy had a wonderful memorial celebration in Chicago. Just Friends screamed for the gods! It is amazing that some of the best events that folks plan and execute are memorial gatherings. LeRoy's siblings and extended family made very clear what he meant to them. After all I went through to get there, I am glad I went, not only to support my best friend, but to honor his brother who I grew to love like my own.

And how was your day?

2005-10-13T19:20:00.000-07:00

Why did my power go out in my house in the middle of the night? That one incident set off a chain of events that impacted my entire day. Most notably, it caused me to miss the train that I was taking to the bus that I was taking to the plane. So what ended up happening was I took the train to the train to the plane, stopping to get a refund on the bus ticket and a FGS on the way. So now I'm in Chicago with LeRoy's family, many of whom I've never met, but heard about. They are all as amazing as he described. They are coping by being together and remembering the wonderful spirit of LeRoy that is very much still here with them. It's all up in through here! That spirit is all they have. The following is a statement that they prepared and released earlier.

WE WANT THE WORLD TO KNOW THAT LEROY WAS AN AWESOME MAN!!!HIS BEAUTIFUL SPIRIT WILL BE MISSED.SOO MANY PEOPLE HAVE BEEN TOUCHED BY HIS LIFE. AND NOW WE ARE NOT ABLE TO SHOW HIM RESPECT IN DEATH!!!!! HIS BIOLOGICAL MOTHER,WHO HAS NOT HAD COSTODY OF LEROY SINCE THE AGE OF 13, IS REFUSING TO SIGN FOR THE RELEASE OF HIS BODY, SO HE IS STILL IN NEW YORK. HIS FAMILY DESPERATELY WANTS TO GIVE THE HONOR HE IS DUE. HIS SIBLINGS DON'T TOTALLY UNDERSTAND THE LAWS IN NEW YORK, CONCERNING THIS. THE FAMILY IS ASKING FOR HELP.PLEASE PUT THE WORD OUT QUICKLY. DO NOT SEND ANY CONTRIBUTIONS OR DONATIONS TO IMOGENE WHITFIELD. SEND ALL CONTRIBUTIONS OR DONATIONS TO LEROY'S SIBLINGS, CROFTON AND LARONYA WHITFIELD 8947 SO. JEFFREY CHICAGO, IL. 60617 PHONE 773-721-0516 DUE TO THE FACT THAT LEROY'S BODY HAS NOT BEEN RELEASED THERE WILL NOT BE A FUNERAL SERVICE ON SAT. HOWEVER THERE WILL BE A MEMORIAL SERVICE ON FRIDAY THE 14TH OF OCTOBER AT 6PM AT THE SWEET HOLY SPIRIT CHURCH 944 W. 103ST. CHICAGO, IL. 773 233-4477.
Posted by: THE FAMILY at October 13, 2005 12:33 PM

This is where we are right now. I will keep you posted.

Surviving are...

2005-10-11T06:44:00.000-07:00

Newspaper obituaries have always annoyed me for their complete and utter lack of warmth in producing announcements for regular folks, especially in the northeast where I grew up. All you get is a few sentences, highlighting the vitals, arrangements and "in lieu of" instructions. At least down south they will let you know where you can drop off the pound cake, peach cobbler or picnic ham. They might even print Willa Fern's favorite passage of scripture. What I really find amazing is that motorists will pull over and wait while a funeral procession passes, regardless of how long. In the north I've seen folks cut between the hearse and pallbearer vehicle to get to Taco Bell. Of course, if you are someone of note, motorcycled police will stop traffic, but if you're just an ordinary joe... faggedaboutit! Thank God LeRoy Whitfield was not ordinary

I had been preparing myself all week for the call and when it came, I was still not ready. LeRoy's brother, Crofton, became my best friend in 1999 and with him came the light that was LeRoy. The very first time I saw him was on a sunny day in Manhattan as he was walking up Greenwich Avenue. His smile was gleaming like the grill of a Rolls. The smile matched a glowing spirit. From that day he began to enlighten and inspire me.

I had been told he was HIV-positive and after meeting him I began to question if someone was pulling my leg. I wasn't naive enough to think that his physical appearance would announce the condition. My stepfather looked phenomenal and he lived with HIV for seven years before finally giving up the ghost, but there was something in his demeanor that let you know something was wrong. LeRoy had none of that. His mood spoke nothing of impending doom or great sorrow. He had a bounce in his step and a glint in his eye that said, "this is my world... I got shit to do."

As I grew to know him and familiarize myself with his work I became a fan. He always had something new and useful to share and was constantly trying to get me switch from PC to MAC. He was relentless and dogged in his pursuit and exposure of the truth. He has left a body of work that demonstrates his mission. For links to some of his articles, check out Keith Boykin's site. He has written a beautiful tribute that highlights LeRoy's personal and professional life.

The last time I saw him was in June and his physical decline was clearly evident. Despite fatigue and weakness, he still managed to brighten the corner where I was because he was still here and very much in the moment. It didn't matter what it looked like. It was very apparent that he had work to do and he pushed himself forward each day. I am very sad that he's gone, but so glad he was here. The lesson he leaves is so simple, yet profound, live for as long as you can.

As I prepare to fly to Chicago for the celebration of his life, I feel strange because I feel his spirit all up and through here. All that's left for me to do is bake the pound cake that he enjoyed so much and eat a slice or two in his memory. Anyone up for a FGS?

The Our Gang Comedies

2005-10-04T02:55:00.000-07:00

It's probably so wrong of me, but I'm beginning to liken the Bush administration to Hal Roach's merry band of misfits known as Our Gang (aka The Little Rascals). I just see Condoleeza as Purina, Stymie and Buckwheat all merged together into one poorly coifed pickaninny. For those, perhaps too young to remember them, Wikipedia provides this brief overview.

Our Gang, also known as The Little Rascals or Hal Roach's Rascals, was a long-lived series of US comedy short films about a troupe of poor neighborhood children and the adventures they had together. Created by comedy producer Hal Roach, Our Gang was produced at the Roach studio starting in 1922 as a silent short subject series. Roach changed distributors from Pathé to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) in 1927, went to sound in 1929, and continued production until 1938, when he sold the series to MGM. MGM continued producing the comedies until 1944. A total of 220 shorts and one feature film, General Spanky, were eventually produced, featuring over forty-one child actors. In the mid-1950s, the 80 Roach-produced shorts with sound were syndicated for television under the title The Little Rascals, as MGM retained the rights to the Our Gang trademark. The series, one of the best-known and most successful in cinema history, is noted for showing children behaving in a relatively natural way. While child actors are often groomed to imitate adult acting styles, steal
scenes, or deliver "cute" performances, Hal Roach and original director Robert F. McGowan worked to film the unaffected, raw nuances apparent in regular kids. Our Gang also notably put boys, girls, whites, and blacks together in a group as equals, something that "broke new ground," according to film historian Leonard Maltin. Such a thing had never been done before in cinema, but was commonplace after the success of Our Gang.

The following New York Times editorial, along with so many other things, has furthered my belief that we have the rascals reborn.

September 25, 2005
Hard Bigotry of No Expectations

Throughout his campaigns in 2000 and 2004, George W. Bush talked about "the soft bigotry of low expectations": the mind-set that tolerates poor school performance and dead-end careers for minority students on the presumption that they are incapable of doing better. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice said recently that this phrase attracted her to Mr. Bush more than anything else.

It was, indeed, a brilliant encapsulation of so much of what is wrong with American education. But while Mr. Bush has been worrying about low expectations in schools, he's been ratcheting the bar downward himself on almost everything else.
The president's recent schedule of nonstop disaster-scene photo-ops is reminiscent of the principal of a failing school who believes he's doing a great job because he makes it a point to drop in on every class play and teacher retirement party. And if there ever was an exhibit of the misguided conviction that for some people very little is good enough, it's the current administration spin that the proposed Iraqi constitution is fine because the founding fathers didn't give women equal rights either.

The lack of expectations is evident even in areas where the president is supposed to be deeply engaged. The Treasury Department's hollowed-out leadership structure suggests an administration that is happy to coast along with a gentleman's C for handling the nation's finances. But it has been most graphically, and tragically, on display in Iraq and in the response to Hurricane Katrina.

Four years after 9/11, Katrina showed the world that performance standards for the Department of Homeland Security were so low that it was not required to create real plans to respond to real disasters. Only a president with no expectation that the federal government should step up after a crisis could have stripped the Federal Emergency Management Agency bare, appointed as its director a political crony who could not even adequately represent the breeders of Arabian horses, and announced that the director was doing a splendid job while bodies floated in the floodwaters.

Only a president who does not expect the government to help provide decent housing for the truly needy in normal times could leave seven of the top jobs at the Department of Housing and Urban Development vacant and then, after disaster struck, offer small-bore solutions to enormous problems. Substandard wages, an easing of affirmative action regulation and a housing lottery that will help a tiny sliver of people apparently are considered good enough for poor families along the Gulf Coast left homeless by Katrina.

In Iraq, the elimination of expectations is on display in the disastrous political process. Among other things, the constitution drafted under American supervision does not provide for the rights of women and minorities and enshrines one religion as the fundamental source of law. Administration officials excuse this poor excuse for a constitution by saying it also refers to democratic values. But it makes them secondary to Islamic law and never actually defines them. Our founding fathers had higher expectations: they made the split of church and state fundamental, and spelled out what they meant by democracy and the rule of law.

It's true that the United States Constitution once allowed slavery, denied women the right to vote and granted property rights only to white men. But it's offensive for the administration to use that as an excuse for the failings of the Iraqi constitution. The bar on democracy has been raised since 1787. We don't agree that the 218-year-old standard is good enough for Iraq.
Since his failure to notice the Katrina disaster, Mr. Bush has stopped bragging that he doesn't read or watch the news. If he's paying attention now, he should get a message from the outrage over Katrina and shrinking support for his policies in Iraq: The American public has much higher expectations than he does for the president and his government.

"Butter on your grits, baby?" The Fat Girl Snack Series

2005-10-02T21:13:00.000-07:00

After a great weekend in the District of Columbia, I feel compelled to begin this series. I can't say how many parts it will have as there is always a new FGS spot popping up somewhere. I guess the previous post, Peaches! Peaches! Peaches! can act as the introduction to this series so if you need further clarification, please refer back.

I can't quite remember, but it had to be my late friend, Clayton who first took me to The Waffle Shop. Also an FGS connoiseur, Clayton would take you where a good plate would be set before you and knew the "curry out" where you could get the best styrofoam-encased MRE. He also knew where the best spirits and cocktails were being poured.

Sitting directly across the street from Ford's Theater, where Abe Lincoln saw his last show and made his next to last public appearance (I suppose the last was lying in state in the Capitol Rotunda), the Waffle Shop, at 522 10TH St NW, opened in the 1950s. It doesn't seem to have had any improvements since then, but that's part of the charm. The interior features the original horseshoe-shaped counters with stools and a ceiling that slants dramatically upwards from back to front. There are pictures on the wall that show what it looked like when the place was new. I tried to buy one, but was refused. I think the owner keeps them as a reminder of what it was he purchased.

The focus is now on Chinese food, but you can still get American-style breakfast and lunch. If you go at the right time you can have Mama as your server. For as long as I have been going, which has to be at least six years, Mama has been serving breakfast. She is the sole reason that I continue to come back year after year. The food is decent, but the service is like none other I've received. She is so warm and friendly that I really believe I am being served by someone's mama. I wanted to send her a thank you card after our first visit, but I felt strange sending something through the mail addressed to "Mama." We asked her name, but she says that we are to call her Mama and that's what we do. I over-tip her, SHAMELESSLY, but she makes the dining experience worth every penny. A few years back, I came in wearing one of my trademark straw hats and she asked me for it. I knew she didn't want the hat off my head, but was merely expressing admiration of my chapeaux. Nevertheless, I sent her one as soon as I got home. She will win your heart like that.

As for the food. Don't bother looking at the menu. Just order from the wall. I usually get the morning special with grits and scrapple, but there is a good selection on the wall. If you go on a weekend morning, you may have to stand and wait for a spot. Wait to be seated at Mama's station and tell her I sent you.

... And to the fans... I couldn't have done it without you!

2005-09-29T08:02:00.000-07:00

When I started blogging (that sounds kinda nasty) it was solely a means to do a bit of self exploration. I was really addressing myself and I still am, but it has become increasingly clear that other people really are reading my musings. A lot of other people! The feedback has been absolutely phenomenal. I get a kind word just about every day and it has really been a straight up gas! I won't be quitting my day job to write full time, but I am now seriously entertaining the possibility of publishing something again. Today I received an email from Kim, whom I've known for the better portion of my life. She happened by the blog and sent the following:

"You are very talented Rodney. Who knew?……I mean you have always been a barrel of laughs but this has taken it to a whole nutha level."

Kim was actually there at the very beginning. We attended 5th grade together at Gregory School. We did a bid in 4th grade at Garfield School too, but 5th grade... that was a great year! My recollection of 5th grade surpasses all others for the quantity and quality of things that I recall. I remember it as a charmed period. We were in Mr. Somma's class. His classroom was the first door on the right when you came up the stairs from the playground. I think Mrs. Rymer's fourth grade class was in the room next to ours, but I can't be sure (I think Tyra was in that class, but again, some things are foggy). We had a very lively class.

Some of my favorite people were in that class... Veronica "Peek-a-boo" Wilder, Sondra Horton, Jackie Mooney, Caroline Yale, and of course, Kim Colbert. There were boys, besides me, in the class too, but I don't remember exactly who, except Roy Monroe, Claude Pitts (I think), and Joe Scalzo. Joe was actually part of the team that installed vinyl siding on our house last winter. I was floored when he asked if I remembered 5th grade and the play I wrote. We all lived within walking distance of school. I used to go home for lunch and watch Young and the Restless and Search for Tomorrow. That was also the first year I began to write fiction. The soap operas were absolutely a direct influence because the writing was episodic and very grown and sexy (or rather an eleven-year-old's idea of grown and sexy).

I'm not sure what came first, the play or the story, but I began writing a play that I would get the chance to direct on the playground each day. There was a ridiculous number of characters, which meant parts for everyone. It was definitely an attempt to create a new reality as each character was named after a member of my extended family. Aside from the names there was no resemblence to anyone in my life. I remember it being an incredible amount of fun to write, though. Through the years I've kept and revised it to reflect where my head was at the moment. I still have it even though I realized long ago that it was trash.

The story was another thing altogether. That was also the year I discovered racy, paperback novels complete with sexual encounters. Stuff I definitely had no business reading, but at least I was reading. Those books inspired me to write my own filthy epic tale. It was part Gilligan's Island, part Fantasy Island and pure filfth. The title, if I correctly recall, was SST Sex Flight. The story centered around an airline that existed to satisfy the carnal desires of it's customers. It was just nasty. Anyway... the plane crashed on a deserted island and the folks had to create an inhabitable place, but of course, their carnal desires still had to be met. Their creativity and ingenuity came directly from Gilligan's Island. I always loved the fact that their huts we're so comfortable. I drew from everywhere I could to write this story, but I also incorporated bits and pieces of some of the raciest nastiest things I had read. It got passed around and eventually ended up in the hands of Mr. Somma. I was mortified and spent the rest of that year waiting for those pages to make it to my home. I don't think they ever did, but I clearly remember my final progress report for that year, where he wrote something about me having a talent for creative writing.

Over the years I wondered what happened to that story and sometimes entertained the notion of asking Mr. Somma if I could get it back. I also wondered what may have gone through his mind when he read it... certainly what a perverted little bastard I was. Now that I have reached an age where I am older than he at the time he was our teacher, I can imagine he must have laughed his ass off. And I also realize why I remember the year so clearly. It was the beginning of the hormone rage. I'm able to make the connection because I've had the experience of teaching a 5th grade class. They were HORRIBLE and the sole reason that I gave up the idea of elementary education as a career. It is truly that period where the chemistry is changing or about to. I have a whole new appreciation for Mr. Somma for putting up with that crap on the regular for as long as he did. I hope I one day get the opportunity to tell him.

I'd like you to meet Sean....

2005-09-28T21:11:00.000-07:00

I'm actually supposed to be waiting for permission to display his link, but I couldn't wait. Aside from making me laugh out loud, Lucid Intervals has made me remember why I chose to be an educator. And it wasn't to "teach the test." Matter of fact, I could give a damn about the test. I'm interested in planting a seed that will flourish into a desire of lifelong learning and the knowledge that once you've stopped learning... GAME OVER! I want someone to be inspired to put their own bit of stank on the world in such a way that when life is over they are satisfied... and tired. I look out onto the faces in my class and want so many things for them, but what I want most is for them to challenge everything. I'm always trying to incite a riot... or at least a peaceful protest. By the way, the dude in the picture is not Sean, but the first to identify him wins a prize.