speaks for itself

IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY PROFANITY IN LANGUAGE AND SECKSUAL IMAGES, PLEASE DO NOT PLAY THIS VIDEO. IF YOU ARE AT WORK, PLEASE DO NOT PLAY THIS VIDEO. IF YOUR GRANDMAMA OR YOUR CHILD IS IN THE ROOM, PLEASE DO NOT SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU AS FOLLOWS:

VIEWER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED.

in this space, i posted a video that i received from a poet friend. it's on her myspace page, and it's being passed around seemingly because it was banned from y.outube. it's by some dude out of new york, rapping about "y'all should all get lynched," (that was the hook) - which message was addressed to people he accused of being fake gangsters, liars, bitches, hos, nasty broads, etc. the video had images of the targets of his words, mixed in with images of black people actually getting lynched, mixed in with images of sambos and blacks with exaggerated nappy hair, dark skin, and big lips, not unlike the images in the closing scenes of spike lee's bamboozled. after talking with my beloved, who pointed out that spreading the video full of offensive images was tantamount to spreading the offensive and reprehensible ideas and images i hate to see on bet, i took the video down.

i hesitated to take it down.

i liked the juxtaposition of "cooning" images and images of the people i think of as modern day coons. i liked the hostility with which the guy talked about how shameful it is for people to glorify cooning in this day and age, especially in light of all that our ancestors have gone through to give us the freedoms we enjoy today. but that wasn't all. his tirade was littered with nigga this, nigga that. he showed images of young women shaking their ass for attention. he repeatedly said that the perpetrators, the (dare i say it) infidels, should get lynched.

my argument was that i would trust the reader and the viewer to know what i do and do not condone. his (good) point was that perhaps that trust would be misplaced on certain viewers - that posting it is akin to stabbing yourself in the leg (hurting the integrity of a people i strive to honor) just to get attention. so, if i err, let it be on the side of caution - i took the video down. the original post remains as i originally drafted it.



i won't say i agree with every single thing said, for example - that anyone needs to by lynched or that many of those images didn't make me cringe (in fact, they perpetuate the problem addressed in the video)... but this discussion needs to be had and it needs to be honest. and not because defenders of that radio "personality" blame our culture for what he said. we have to do it because the brother has a point. i dare anyone reading this to watch a full afternoon of bet and tell me that you want your kids watching it day in and day out. i dare anyone to watch this video and tell me if you want your children to idolize the images you see. it's one thing when adult entertainment is marketed to and shown to adults. it's another when it's marketed to children. it's even yet another disturbing thing when the line between adult entertainment and mainstream entertainment becomes so blurred that many parents are not disturbed by the content of the entertainment that comes into their home. i know i sound older than my years saying this, but - i fear that our values are being eroded, that we tolerate too much, that our children are becoming prematurely knowledgable beyond their years about adult matters, and that we are failing in our duty to make them appreciate our long hard past.

when i first saw the chick.en nood.le soup, i saw minstrel show shuffling. a kid 15 years my junior probably doesn't know what a minstrel show is.

i'm juuuust old enough to remember when calling another black person (or anyone else) a nigger or a bitch or a ho was something that could get you cut. you BETTA had been joking with the right one when you said it. it wasn't speech for mixed company. it wasn't something grown folks said around children. or at least, it wasn't something you could repeat. it wasn't something that even friends said to each other without consciously thinking about its potency. i remember when those words weren't said on television or on the radio. i knew of those words, and i'd heard them before, but i also knew because of their limited usage that they were not things you SHOULD say. i can't help but wonder if today's kids can make the same distinction.

these words and images are thrown around and in and of themselves, that's not a harmful thing. they're just words. they're just images. but when these words and images become pervasive, they can damage our psyche - our esteem for ourselves and each other. the elders tried to warn us. but they seemed so out-of-touch, so reactionary, so judgmental of an energetic and keenly intelligent youth. besides, every generation has admonished its children for a culture it doesn't understand. history has forgiven each successive generation - the hip cats with the zoot suits, the jazz junkies, the doo-wop street corner idlers, the soul brothers in platforms...

but this beef elders have with hip hop will not go away. and now many of its pioneers and its first flock of fans have grandchildren. hip hop has in many ways matured. innovation is still happening in that vein. creative expression is still in the works. the oldheads, the innovators -- they have a legitimate beef with the "artists" in the spotlight and the appetite for their wares. many parents, who grew up with boomboxes playing rhymes off the same radio stations their kids now listen to, understand this legitimate beef.

it's not so much that the pants are exposing these boys' boxer shorts, or even the language they use, as it is that folks worry about their understanding and respect for what their grandfathers have been through. the emptiness in the music these boys listen to stokes the fires of their fear. they worry about the future of the culture. folks, from c. delores tucker, to oprah, to the poets, to the preachers, to the old folks on the bus react by taking the current music and its videos and images to task.

of course there's much more to it than this. but i can't blog forever, can i? i maintain: this discussion needs to be had. and it needs to be honest.

what do you think?

who goes there?

riding the bus today reminded me of what i like about being here. the loud ugly dude who got on the bus hollering, "nigga where you at?" to some dude in the back... the wobbly seat that kept people from sitting next to me for fear of tumbling into the aisle... the lady with the raspy voice and the loudmouth kids she brought on the bus with her who were talking loudly about their playdates... the crazy chic who bumrushed the bus in the middle of the street to get on, even though she wasn't at a designated bus stop...

in the midst of all this, i felt at home. it was a welcome change of pace from the office. i felt like a part of society. maybe not the jostling throngs in the equatorially hot marketplace type of society, but society nonetheless. it's nice to talk to strangers, like when i turned to look at the girl who bumrushed the bus and said, "you crazy. you know that, right?" and she retorted, "it worked didn't it?" and we both chuckled.

...or when i was in the most stereotypically urban fast-food joint known to man - that's right, the one that communicates the very pulse of the gallery in center city - and i was watching this woman and her little girl standing in the line, holding hands. some little boy was in another line with his mom and noticed the little girl. neither of the children was any older than three. neither of them said a word. but reading their actions was comical. the curious boy approached the little girl, tentatively, gingerly... she looked at him, and unimpressed, she backed up, around towards the other side of mommy's legs. not easily daunted, the little boy wanted a closer look at the pretty girl. he paused for a second, not having gotten the hint, and then he pressed up again. she was the same size as him! maybe they could play? maybe not. girlfriend backed up, more vehemently this time, and yanked on mommy's arm to let her know she needed more space to get away from that boy. that boy's mommy came and led him away, to the little girl's relief. chuckles were had all around by the grown folks. i said to the girl's mommy, "she got the right idea," and she offered that knowing, shared laugh, which we both learned from our mothers.

it felt good.

before i came here - before i worked two jobs to save enough money to relocate myself - this was what i was looking for - resonation with others. finding myself in others and others in myself. those of us who haven't been without it may take it for granted. but i appreciate it when i get it. i remember what my lonely years were like. i thank the Creator for the bonds i have with my family and friends. and i suppose i should even express my gratitude for the wonder of finding kinship with strangers as well.

know thyself and choose wisely

i am disgusted that at least the first five minutes of my local tv newscast tonight were about the controversy surrounding that radio personality and that new jersey basketball team. i'm sure you've heard the story by now. he and his producer were yucking it up about the ladies on this team being nappy headed hos.

well.

let me first say that i didn't find his comment amusing. i understand why those young ladies would be offended, and why others would be offended on their behalf. i think that when statements are made that have the effect of encouraging reprehensible attitudes, words, and actions, those of us who are offended should definitely speak out - go on record as calling out ignorance for what it is, lest that ignorance go unchecked, letting that which is reprehensible become commonplace.

that said, i have issues with this situation that have nothing to do with the man who issued the words. first, a little background: people in my city are dying at an alarming rate. we have more homicides in this city since the year began than there have been days in the year. i read an article decrying the lack of a qualified pool of job applicants in this city - a situation which has been brought about by the migration of low-skilled jobs out and the influx of specialized-skills jobs in, despite a school system that is strapped for cash and graduating students who can't compete in the workforce. i've read my fill of anonymous posters on local message boards condemning black people to death for a supposed cultural lack of values, because it's much easier to attribute the crime on eugenics than it is to admit that the apathy of law-abiding citizens allows the conditions that inevitably lead to high crime.

understandably, as i face the rest of my adulthood and my desire to have stability and a happy home life, my thoughts turn to home ownership. i am excited about getting ready for my own house... but i am concerned about crime, education, jobs, taxes, and while we're on these topics, the city's upcoming mayoral race. i want to know what is being done - or what i can do - to make things better here. conversely, i want to know if it behooves me as a future mother to get the hayle out of here before things get worse.

when i turn on the news, if i see people up in arms about something - marching, carrying signs, chanting, demanding accountability about something, i want to see that being done about something that will help keep our kids from harm. better education. better job training. better welfare-to-work programs. government accountability. that's what i want to see.

i don't want to have to roll my eyes when i hear one of that team's players say, in the flood of news coverage on this story, that she's been scarred for life by this insult. bless her heart. i don't know what country she grew up in, but just last year we had that michae.l ri.chards thing. before that, there was the james byrd thing. let's not forget the rodney king thing... i know she may have been in elementary school when that happened, but somebody had to have told her something. i wanted to put my arm around her and say, "my sister, i feel for you, but on the real? you need to D up." i find it hard to believe that nobody ever told her that no matter how talented, intelligent, or beautiful she may be, there will always be some misguided, hard hearted, ignorant somebody who will refuse to see her, or me, or our current secretary of state as anything but a black bitch. maybe someone did tell her and she didn't believe it, because she has been blessed with a life full of support and love. but now, i would advise her to chalk this up as a lesson learned: if you don't know, now you KNOW.

of course, this doesn't excuse ignorant, rude, crass, insensitive, boorish, base, shameful behavior. neither does this mean that we should enter the world with the same chip on our shoulder for which our loud, aggressive stereotype with her hand on her hip is so famous. from the moment our foremothers were first chained, stripped of all clothing and fondled and groped on some auction block centuries ago, we've been on notice: be strong and resilient in this place, and remember your dignity comes from within. those women knew scarred for life. being called a nappy headed ho is an incidental scratch. every black woman i know is bigger than those words, and it's our job to know it from within, no matter what that unfortunate soul said on the radio.

in any case, my point is that i never see al sh.arpton and friends unless he's fighting some b.s. battle over something that won't make it less likely for a young man be to be uneducated, unemployed, or shot to death. i don't know if that's because the media only selectively covers him when he's whining, or if it's because no matter when you catch him, that's all he ever does anyway. and unfortunately, it seems like i only see outrage over stupid isht like some disrespectful words, instead of over important issues, like when our children will finally be given the tools and instruction to get them reading at or above grade level. THAT is what is outrageous. i couldn't care less whether this radio jock gets fired or not. let's get some of these raggedy police commissioners who won't protect the public from criminals fired.

protecting our women from racism and sexism is important. so let's put our battles in their proper perspective. let's keep illegal guns from flooding our streets. let's shatter glass ceilings. let's stop predatory lending. let's find ways to employ our women and their boyfriends and husbands and sons. let's concentrate on stopping the spread of HIV. that's the kind of protection that can save lives and communities.

composing

i've tried to type an entry at least three times by the time i was able to craft this one successfully completed sentence. blogging is harder than i remember. it's just that i don't really have anything i'm persuaded to share about my life, my observations, etc... maybe pulling myself into this hiatus from blogging and poetry performance is changing who i am and how i communicate. or maybe it's just that on this day, where i actually have the time to blog without guilt, of all the days my mind could decide to not be cooperative, this day and this time seem to have been the choice for creative inertia.

one thing about the muses - they cannot be ruled.

it's weird too. i just got off the bus and was listening to my zune media player. comm.on's be was playing, and the sun was shining, and i was walking through my cute little neighborhood and all was just nice. despite the cold weather, it was just a really nice time to have clear thoughts and let someone else's creativity inspire my own. i came in the apartment, dropped my bookbag, and danced to the music, saying the lyrics to the beat, imagining myself as somebody cool, somebody on stage, somebody free of cares besides riding the songs from bar to bar. i listened to the lyrics, how their rhythms flirted with the music and took turns harmonizing and jousting with each other and thought, i could so use this time to be creative and write something.

then come to find out i ain't got no words to cover the predominant conversations of my mind. my city's crime problem. my quest for homeownership. my struggles with discipline and time management. my obligations to my family. having no particular place to be this resurrection sunday. feelings of self-imposed alienation from the arts community i embraced. it's all swimming up in there, but too much for me right now, at this moment as i type, to try to flesh out into something that makes sense to me to type onto this blog.

so i'll end on the thought that sometimes the mind won't cooperate with the feelings. but just because i didn't write a particular song, it doesn't mean that there is no music in me. it'll just have to play on some other day, when i don't have time to write and should probably be doing something else...

good luck

near the end of my last workday, my co-worker came to me to let me know that legendary actress and author ruby dee was going to make a book-signing appearance at the department store five blocks away!!! i wrapped up my work within a half-hour, bundled up against the cold, and hustled myself through the gallery and down market street to get there. i hadn't been to the wanamaker building since i was a little kid. it is huge, and i wandered through the men's wear area looking for event signs, until i saw the crowd. i followed the sound of her voice, husky and poised (think maya angelou with a different cadence) to the sight of her face. she looked just like her pictures - smart soulful eyes, ample cheeks, acutely present bearing... it was her!

i read an article about her and her husband, ossie davis, one summer in an old folks magazine my grandma had lying around the house. my grandma is big on magazines, and i am big on reading, especially anything about black folks, even back when i was ten years old. the spread talked about their lives together in the past, their entertainment careers, their long marriage, and their active elder years. active, indeed! i first saw them on screen as mothersister and da mayor in spike lee's do the right thing, which is one of my favorite movies, from tina dancing with boxing gloves to mookie walking down his looted street. i loved mothersister instantly. in the spike movies that i followed with cult devotion, i saw other reincarnations of ossie and ruby, showing us different facets of our parents and grandparents. as i learned more about the civil rights movement, i found out ossie and ruby were there, too. there is a great picture of them standing in the midst of the movement with their three children and picket signs. they knew malcolm x, i discovered! they knew everybody! they were everywhere! their names were spoken together, always together, in one breath: ossiedavisandrubydee. even after her husband's passing, for which i shed my own private tears, we more often think of both, not one or the other, much like coretta or myrlie or sister betty.

and there she was, not ten feet away from me. a woman who had several things i wanted - a love, a family, a writing career, and a story of achievement and service. the book she was reading excerpts from is her husband's. it's a collection of some of his writings, throughout which you can find some editorial commentary from ruby dee. i headed to the back of the long line, purchased my copy of life lit by some large vision: selected speeches and writings, and waited to greet her face-to-face. the sound wasn't so great, so from waaaay back in the line, i couldn't hear her. i figured, she ain't doing nothing but reading excerpts from the book anyway so i might as well go on and read it while i'm in line. which i did. first i read his speech for the schomburg center, which my friends took me to visit for my birthday a year ago today. then i read the eulogy for betty shabazz, which brought me to tears right there in the line. each section made me want to read another, and i panicked.

i wanted to discuss the book with this man's widow and thank her for giving this gift to us. i hadn't known about ossie davis' writing talent, or his humor. i hadn't seen him give any speeches. but here in this book, i held those gifts of his to the world. his wife and his daughter made it happen for me, and for the others in the line and anywhere else who would buy the book. even in his life's epilogue, their teamwork survives. even now, they are as one, as surely as somebody must have said on their wedding day decades ago. now that is a testimony to real good loving. not just between man and wife, but between leaders and their people. i was very moved by these thoughts. but i knew there was no way i'd have the time, let alone the words present in my mouth, to tell ruby dee all that when i got up to the front of the line. what would i say? how would i greet this hero?

everyone in the line had green post-it notes on which to write the correct spelling of the name we wanted her to autograph the book with. i wrote my name and the name of my beloved. i wanted a veteran to give the both of us whatever wisdom she felt best. when she saw the post-it, she asked, "are these brother and sister?" i smiled proudly and said, "no ma'am, that is my boyfriend, and i love him very much." then i added, "we want to be like you guys." she looked at me (beautifully) and said, "good luck." that what we needed, according to her. and in fact, despite what i told her about my willingness to work hard, she pointedly repeated that i'd need good luck. and that's what's in my book - "good luck - ruby dee - 2-26-07." i reached out for her hand after she signed my our book, and she let me squeeze her hand lightly. i was too shy to go up for a real hug or hog more time posing for a photo op. the lil' squeeze was enough. with some good luck, when my children study about her in books and when they pick up this book, i'll be able to tell them, i squeezed that giant's hand. we stand on the shoulders of her and her husband.

happy new year postscript

*ahem*

by the way, it's that time of year when i start shameless birthday self promotion. my twenty-fifth birthday is coming up again! yay! and i've updated my wish list! yay!

happy new year

happy new year.

be blessed in it!

personally, i got some big plans.

i'ma need some diligence and patience, and i'ma have to do some hard work. some of it is personal. other parts are financial. another is professional. yet another is literary. maybe this year will be a year of achievement for me.

thinking back, i see the 2005 was a year of searching for me. i was searching for my professional self, and in my frustration ('cause i hadn't yet learned that my professional self didn't have to differ from the person i'd already become), i ventured out and stumbled upon my creative self. in 2005 i moved across states, switched jobs, found a gaggle/pride/flock of new friends, and got dumped. twice. i spent a lot of time dreaming that year. it was a joyful whirlwind.

but by the time 2006, my year of change, came around, the storm that was brewing in the latter end of the previous year kept getting scarier. i was so unhappy with my 9-to-5. after all of my searching and venturing and turning over stones, i finally wound up at the doorstep of change. new job. new cell phone. new computer. new relationship. new resolve to be happy. new car. new apartment. new priorities. as any (former?) reader of this blog would know, i even started blogging less. stability was NOT the name of the game last year. but it's okay. i'm happier with the new gig (and paid better, too.) and my priorities changed because they had to. i'm growing up - things are happening, you know? i'm spending less time on my.space and more time enjoying real life at home.

i really like where i've landed. and i find it intriguing that despite the best laid plans by mice and myself, i still don't know where this year is going. i have my hopes and my guesses, but the beauty of the whole thing is i still have to live my way through it, just like everybody else. i just have to trust God and move in faith, using the sense He gave me to get from A to B. i have my intentions, but only time will tell what may happen.

septa lessons, again

it wasn't my usual bus stop. i was there because i realized after work that i needed to buy some tokens for the next day, which took me up the street to another stop on busy market street. there were already a few people there, waiting with their shopping bags or getting off from work. a bus came, a bus left, and then there were only two - an old man and me. i heard somebody hollering and looked away from my gaze down the street to see if my bus was coming.

there was a group of boys - young men, really - walking together down the street, maybe about three or four of them. as they were walking, a man was hollering, "young baw! yo! that's my young baw!!! hey man, how you doin'. my young baw!" (to those not fluent in philly-ese, the guy was saying something to the effect of, hey, it's my peoples/friend/homie. "baw"="boy". now you know.) there were smiles all around, and the older guy gripped up the youngin like he hadn't seen him in a long time. though not involved, i smiled too. i love public displays of affection (especially among brothas) , even if they are loud. i noticed that the young dude didn't really seem to recognize the man who was greeting him, but i guess he figured, hey, no harm done. the boys continued on.

so did the loud man, who was walking in my direction.

there were two women sitting on a bench not far from me, having a smoke together and talking. they looked like they had been shopping and were taking a break. the loud man approached them and bent down from the waist to their level on the bench so that his face was on level with theirs. his face was less than two feet from theirs.

"hey, how you doing!" he boomed.

i couldn't see their faces from my vantage point, but i was guessing that he didn't know them, and that they didn't know him. they were white, in another age group, and were obviously together. my guess? he got a blank stare from the both of them.

the second time he greeted them, it was as if he was reproaching them for their rudeness.

"hel-lo! how are yooouuu! happy holl-idays!"

he got some sign of life from them at that point, and he went on talking to them. i looked down the street to see if my bus was coming. chances were, if he was trying to move his way up the block, i was next, and i really didn't feel like the bull isht. i was hoping the bus would come before i wound up arguing with him.

suddenly my attention was grabbed back from looking for the bus:

"well, fcuk you then!" as he walked away, backwards from the women.

"no, fcuk you!"

"fcuk you!"

"i'm not the one, walking down the street, begging people for isht!"

"i ain't beg you for nothin, i asked you! you racist bitch!"

"why do i have to be racist 'cause i didn't let you smoke on my cigarette! go get your own!" as her girlfriend picks up her shopping bag and pleads with her, wordlessly, to shut up and come walk with her away from the bench.

"fcuk you!"

"fcuk YOU!"

he walked away. they walked away.

my bus came, and i looked incredulously at the old man who had been standing there when i arrived. his facial expression remained unchanged. i wonder, was that a function of being old and having seen much, or was it just 'cause he's used to seeing stuff like that?

bitten bottom lip

i haven't been going to the open mics any more often than i've been writing on my blog. i'm forced to examine whether or not all this writing was just a phase or if this current inactivity is a phase.

i've been writing all my life, it's just that some times have been more intense than others. ask my diary. i started my first volume in 1987. i don't think i've written in it since spring. ask my marble composition notebook. i haven't written a new poem in at least a month. but if you flip through either my poetry or my diary, you'll see that it wasn't always this way.

lately, i've been too busy living, or being tired from living, to write. i'm working at work, so that means no blogging from the job. i'm busy at home, trying to keep up with friends and family, trying to keep my house clean, my business straight, enjoying a relationship that any reader should have known was bound to happen to me...

i mean, did i talk it up? did i will this happiness to come to pass? or was this bound to happen, and somehow my intuition felt it coming? i suppose i'll never know, but in my piscean view of the world, i can't help but to think that it was a little bit of both - fate and longing burning at both ends of a string, meeting and exploding at just the right place and time. i feel like i've found a safe space in the world. a shelter from the winds of worry. a peaceful haven. and i'm truly happy - bubbling, smiling to myself with no explanation to curious passersby.

it's really nice, when i'm hitting my after-lunch-'itis-what-time-is-it-anyway slump in mid-afternoon, to have someone to think of - the thought of whom gives me just the boost i need to make it to the end of the workday. really, really, really nice.

a friend of mine warned me not to fall off just cause i got arms to fall into. he says it happens to all the lady poets. they get all hugged up, or married, or mothered, and then you don't see them anymore. the defiance in me wants to vehemently deny that this is what's going on with me. i actually have not been inspired to write poetry lately. blogs, yes - but not poetry. i'm tired of my own poetry. the few times i've been to open mics, i've flipped through my book, looking for something i felt led to share. but i keep getting frustrated by that exercise. none of it impresses me, and much of it fails to entertain me anymore. i don't think that it's because i'm used to it either - i think it's because i'm growing and changing, and the old pieces just don't speak to my present spirit. i think i need to elevate the quality of my writing, and frankly, being intimidated by that challenge is part of what's keeping me from writing new pieces. let me not forget that i haven't really been inspired much at the poetry venues in the few times i've gone in the last several months. have i seen it all? heard it all? in any case, i must admit, the arms i've fallen into are quite distracting. sometimes i feel like the best, most satisfying poems i've been writing lately are made not of words, but of the artful interaction between me and him. at this rate, i don't know when my poetry books will get new pieces scribbled inside them.

it might help to go on the internet more often to communicate through writing, in whatever form that may take. my myspace page is all but abandoned. my favorite message boards probably don't even remember me. my blog is really suffering. shoot, i'm barely even checking my email. i keep meaning to make more of an effort. then i keep slipping and losing ground...

it's not an easy place to be right now, wondering if i'm losing something really special.

but i'm trying to hold on.

i don't know where to begin...

draw your own conclusion. found this in the back pages of an upscale magazine...


"ARE YOU LONELY TOO? Man, 55, married, seeks married or single female companion age 35-50. Non-smoker. I am a moderate wage earner. Please send recent photo and other information. [insert message information here]"

writers matter

writers matter.

i have a bit of a fascination with writers and the writing process, because every person is a communicator, but writers are somehow inspired to do it artfully, conscientiously, entertainingly.

that's why i'm especially sad to hear about the passing of bebe moore campbell. i first read some of her novels about a decade ago, when my mom was tearing through every book by a contemporary black author that she could find and then leaving the finished books around various shelves and tables in the house. to date, the book that really grabbed my attention was her award-winning your blues ain't like mine. i have a well-worn paperback that i've been through at least two or three times. it isn't often that contemporary black writers bother to include white people as major, fleshed-out characters in their books, while declining to stereotype them into a box of insignificance - it speaks to the human condition on a broader level than concentrating on just one ethnic group. it made her stand out to me.

i have yet to read some of her more recent offerings, most notably, 72 hour hold, which deals with a special concern of hers, mental illness. i love how ms. campbell used her position as a writer with an established audience to shine a light on an important issue that people don't talk about nearly as much as they should, especially among Blacks. it's projects like these that make it clear why and how even (and especially) contemporary writers can matter beyond the bookshelf. i can't wait to read it.

i must take a moment to acknowledge that i am a fan, that i appreciated bebe moore campbell's work and her creativity, and to lament that she will be missed. i wish her family and friends the presence of the Comforter while they reflect on her life and mourn her death, and i hope that fans, present and future, will gain entertainment and enrichment from her work.

action and reaction

seems like the michael richards incident is another one of those post i-have-a-dream-speech moments where some folks scratch their heads and go, "there're still problems with race relations? how about that! who knew?"

of course, this is unfortunate for jerry. he's got a whole rollout of new dvds of one of the show's seasons, and it's in his best interest that they sell off the shelves with no issues. leave it up to michael richards to threaten the whole deal with one unfortunate outburst. in my opinion, so far as the dvd sales go, it seems to me that from the show's inception, we were never their audience, anyway. despite our hardheaded insistence on promoting and supporting mainstream commerce with our precious disposable income, just like with certain fashion designers or whatever that champagne company's name was, we are expendable customers with negligible purchases to miss from their profits - in their eyes. if anything, they just don't want the fallout to cause them to be rejected by their real target market - other whites -resulting in slumping sales.

richards' numerous apologies are unnecessary. what comedian doesn't know how to handle hecklers? how wack was that? not only for him to lose his cool, which a talented comedian could have avoided, but for him to attack his audience with no punchline in sight.

funny thing is, i believe that it's completely possible that richards reacted out of anger and generally doesn't use that word. in that sense, i think he's no different than the majority of whitefolks, or anybody else. with your back against the wall, sometimes you do things you wouldn't do if you let your cooler head prevail.

thing is, this is what i (and i suspect others) have been told by elders about whitefolks, but thankfully, due to the timeframe of my birth, have had little personal experience testing: no matter how cool they are, no matter how much they're supposed to know better, you never know if their whiteness is the ace in the hole that they'll pull out when they feel they have nothing else.

"at least i'm not a nigger!"

a nigger - the worst thing somebody could be. the ugliest word in the american vocabulary. the lowest thing on the totem pole of american acceptance. dirty, funky, black, stupid, inferior, eye-rolling, spear-chucking, malt-liquor-drinking, fried-chicken-and-watermelon-eating, cotton-picking, welfare-cheese-eating porch monkeys... that's what we supposedly are.

now michael richards may not be a good comedian, or a working actor, or attractive, or even that bright, but in that moment, when those hecklers made him feel inadequate and small, he knew exactly what would tip the scales in his favor. at least he wasn't a nigger. that's what his tirade on that comedy stage was about. he reached for, not the funniest thing, but the dullest, rustiest, crudest weapon in his arsenal of anger.

it's entirely possible that he didn't even know he had that kind of pettiness in him. or maybe he did, and he didn't even know he could ever be so careless as to let his slip show. either way, what's done is done. and that's why his apologies to us "afro-americans" mean very little. it is exactly this kind of racism that we have come to expect in these politically correct times, where overt bigotry is frowned upon by the mainstream. it is exactly this kind of racism that blackfolks believe happens when we're out of earshot. we're not as paranoid as people think when we wonder about the looks, stares, actions, traffic stops, and dubious comments - "is it because i'm black?" it's incidents like these that make me and others remember the advice of our elders to be wary of whitefolks, no matter what century it is. you never know which ones are weak, and you never know when they may need racism to make themselves feel better.

of course, you don't want to think this way. but just like how some white women (who've seen too many movies with violent black men grabbing some blonde as a hostage while robbing a bank) get tense when the brothers step into their elevators, you can't help but to feel a certain way when certain situations crop up, no matter how much you want to be trusting and fair and colorblind.

ask michael richards. sometimes, you just react.

excitement

go figure,

i like my job!

so much that i actually want to go. when i say hi to the people, i mean it. and when i log on to my computer to work, that's what i do.

hence the erratic blogging.

no offense, but i actually have to work, now.

:-)

septa lessons

I LOVE MY PARENTS

for how they raised me. most especially my mother. when i was little, my dad worked and my mom stayed home, so i was with her most of the time. but even when my dad came home, he was great.

know how i know?

i've seen the other side - what happens when people don't know how to talk to children. my father is an impatient man, but he rarely was impatient with me. i could tell, even in my youth, that my dad was someone special to have, because he put thought and effort and time into teaching me things. he explained them as clearly as he could. he gave me criticism when he thought it would strengthen me. he took extra time to help me learn - whether it was how to wash dishes, or how to throw a softball.

and my mommy? she read to me regularly and taught me how to read at an early age. she balanced indulging my curiosity with teaching me limitations and restraint. hugs were never off limits in my house. encouragement was never in short supply. every victory of mine was a victory of theirs. every crisis of mine triggered the support i needed from them.

and every instance of discipline, corporal or verbal, was well thought out - done out of concern for my welfare and not out of selfishness on their parts. never to hurt me. never to break my spirit. i was never called out of my name as a child. never spoken to in a tone that made me feel unloved.

these poor kids on the bus, though...

their parents yell because they are annoyed that they had to drag a toddler along with them. they yell at these children because their short legs aren't fast enough, or because they didn't have the stamina to walk through the mall with them as their parents shopped all day. these kids are learning from their example to be loud, impatient, and mean. i worry about if they live like this every day, getting yelled at, yanked on, pushed around, or - and i'm not sure which is worse - being ignored altogether. i wonder if they're being read to regularly at home. if someone is patiently teaching them how to scrawl their name neatly between blue lines of notebook paper in green crayon...

it all just reinforces in me all the love i realize i received from home... and all the love i plan to give my own little ones one day.

humbug! or maybe not

i'm knitting and crocheting scarves for loved ones for the holiday this year. every one who doesn't get a scarf is probably getting cookies. i work hard for my money. i have debts to pay off. they are whupping my natural brown posterior in taxes. i don't have it in me to fake the funk by whipping out the plastic to look like big wilhemina.

maybe next year i'll make jewelry. or give out coupons for personal favors - babysitting, financial advice, organizational consulting... (once for free to get 'em hooked, then i'ma get my side hustle on).

but that's it. i can count the number of folks i'll spend money for on one hand. i have a spending limit for them, too. but they WUV me, so they won't care. and everybody else will fit on my other hand.

God bless us every one.

i don't give a

i make it a habit to check the web for the world and national news, and i also watch the local news here and there. i do not watch entertainment shows about celebrities and wannabes. that is because i am not interested in entertainment news. entertainment news should be on entertainment shows.

i don't care who's getting married, or who was invited, or what religion they are.

i don't care who's getting divorced, or having a baby, or dangerously thin.

my city's homicide rate is off the chain. i want to know if i will get rained on at the bus stop. i want to know what my congressmen are doing (or not doing), and how the market is performing. that's why i turn to the news at 6 & 11, not to a cable entertainment channel. that is why i click on news internet sites and get rss feeds of particular news.

yet and still this celebrity gossip keeps filtering through.

they are trying to make us stupid. they want us to believe that a celebrity wedding is important. maybe I'M bugging - to some of us, maybe it is...

appalled

i never cared whether or not oj was innocent or guilty. i never paid much attention to the trial. i avoided its details at all costs. i thought the crime was heinous and unfortunate. the fact that people cared so much, and that they seemed to largely base their opinion of oj's innocence on race, disturbed me. it still does.

i remember that a friend of mine had a sleepover party, and she invited about half a dozen friends over to watch movies and be teenagers together. i was the last one to get picked up by my parents, 'cause i chose to go watch a school football game with her and her family. we woke up for breakfast that morning in her quiet, upper middle-class cul-de-sac, my friend, her parents, and i. we were munching on whatever, making small talk that morning, and her father turned to me and asked me what i thought about the oj trial...

at the time, i was a little disturbed by the question. everything was going so well, and i didn't want to talk about controversy. but i concealed my annoyance at having the flashlight shown on me, the only black person at that table, perhaps even for a mile of the house. i told the truth - that i didn't follow the trial, and that i didn't have an opinion on what the verdict should be. i look back now and wonder if my friend's dad was simply amusing himself by putting me on the spot, or maybe if i was the only black person he knew that he wasn't afraid to grill candidly.

in any case, some time later, i was the only black person in the room when my seventh-period advanced spanish class turned on the television while waiting for our teacher to finish watching the verdict in the teachers' break room. my classmates were disappointed and outraged. i was largely ambivalent when the not guilty verdict was read. that was partly due to an effort of mine to transcend whatever suspicions my classmates may have had about some black allegiance between me and the accused. like one of my favorite comedians says, i wasn't getting no oj check in the mail, so there was no reason to be pressed.

and since that moment, i've felt pretty much the same way. i'm not in the habit of following murder trials, no matter who the accused is. i still have no basis for an opinion on oj's innocence or guilt.

but i now have a very good reason to be appalled.

regardless of his innocence or guilt, i find it absolutely offensive that oj would write a book and participate in a television special that addresses how he theoretically would have committed the murders he was accused of, if in fact he was the one to commit the crime. i find it completely disappointing that there is an audience for this. i, for one, will not be reading the book or watching the show. i feel sympathy for the families of the victims, most especially oj and nicole's son and daughter, who have been stripped of the opportunity to be loved as i have by my parents. it is completely inappropriate that oj would even hint at the fact that he may have killed those people. it is twisted and cruel to tease and taunt the public, and to disrespect your own children, with this shameless media pimping.

i'm so disgusted, i have no further comment.

fierce

i remember once that school was about to start, and i wanted to show up looking like a new woman. i've never been really chic. i tend to just get by with just enough. i've never been big on name brand fashions, or even knock offs of the latest fashions, and frankly, shopping is a chore to me, not an afternoon of fun. whenever i can, i shop more like a guy: i know what i want, i go get it, pay for it, and leave. i use a full face of makeup only on a whim, and even then, i'm a minimalist.

lately, i've been trying to put more effort into my style. i tend to go through phases like this. my main inspiration comes from my grandma and my mom. all my childhood memories of them are of them being fabulously coordinated, impeccably coiffed, imaginatively accessorized, and really just chic in their own way. it put me in the mind of the day i decided to get a back to school wash, cut, and curl.

i have a pleasant head of hair - healthy, brown, soft. but i never put much effort into it. but with school starting and autumn approaching, the spirit of change had me thinking about trying to be cute. so i put together a little money, bought a box of hair coloring, and decided to go to the hairdresser for a cut that would be the beginning of my own era of chic...

since i've always done everything for my own hair, just like my mom, i had only been to the hairdresser maybe once for each finger on one of my hands. i didn't have a number i could just call for an appointment. and with no recommendations for a particular stylist, i guess i'd just have to be a walk-in. however, my mom suggested that hair place in the mall. she'd stopped through there once upon a time to get her hair trimmed, and she had no complaints.

okay, now. first of all, every time i'd ever been to the hairdresser, or known of anyone going, they go to Rhonda's, or Tineika's, or fill-in-her-name-here's shop. it might have a name, like Total Concept, or Golden Shears. but where ever we went, the place had black hair care magazines strewn all over the place, one or two televisions mounted on the wall, and a chinese food storefront with bulletproof windows within walking distance. there are no others besides sistas when you walk through the door. and that's comfort. that's part of what makes you able to lean back in the chair and let Rhonda or Tineika do what you're paying her to do.

if i went into the walk-in shop at the mall, there's no telling what would happen.

but i gave it a shot.

when i got there, i circled and circled the shop, waiting for the one sista who was working in the shop with two other women, to finish the head she was working. but when i came back, i'd just missed her - she was at lunch. one of the other women told me that she was willing to work with my head, and her chair was empty... but i just couldn't do it. she got my thanks, but no thanks, as i sat down to wait for the sista. i think the woman understood my hesitance to put my hair in her apricot-crayon-colored hands. she told me, with carefully chosen words, that she was confident that she could do my hair. and she may very well have been qualified and trained to work with all kinds of hair, but i simply didn't want her doing my hair. i knew that when she went home, she didn't put her hands in a mop like mine, and that's all i needed to know. not so chic.

what's interesting is that part of the reason i don't go to hairdressers (talkin bout sistas) is because they tend to claim that they don't know how to deal with hair like mine - the thin strands, the texture - and looking back, i think it's interesting how i wasn't thinking about how those black hairdressers didn't have hair like mine, either, when i was sitting in that mall dissing that white hairdresser.

i haven't forgotten her. i wonder how often she gets that from sistas. i wonder if she can do hair.

i never found out. i kept my brown behind in that seat until the sista got back from her break. then i let her put her hands and her tools in my mane... she worked it. and when i left the mall,

i worked it.

slid a pair of shades on, and pulled out my inner model for my walk on the way to the car.

very chic.

comfort and perception

what's interesting is that over time, years pass and i have changed and grown...

yet i use the same things for comfort. i have a sweater that my grandmother gave me years before she died. i wear it for warmth, physically and spiritually. then there's fred hammond's pages of life double disk cd. that always does it for me. i have favorite tracks that i can just play on repeat for hours on end, just letting it feed and strengthen my countenance and my spirit. making my mommy's sweet potato pie does the trick, too. or her macaroni and cheese. or, believe it or not, my dad's peanut butter sammiches. he made me one when i was sick, and i fell in love instantly. it's just a big glob of peanut butter between two pieces of warm toast... honey is optional. but whenever i want to feel satisfied quickly, it's always there for me. there have been times when my teddy bear, which has been mine since my birth, was the only available hug - one i gladly took, over and over again, whenever i needed it.

i'm still trying to figure out how i worked two or more jobs, kept my scholarship, made it to step practices and still managed to eat home cooked food (most of the time) and wear clean clothes in college. i'm in a bit of a whirlwind now, but with increasing effort, things are starting to settle into some kind of rhythm. i haven't been writing, which is unfortunate, because this is probably a time when i especially need to be writing. but my spirit is encouraged. especially since i'm wearing my grandma's sweater, listening to fred hammond, and digesting a peanut butter sammich.

i miss blogging.

one day, i was on the bus on the way home from work, and this young teenage couple got on. the guy sat down, and his love sat in his lap. this girl had to have been the loudest, most tactless person i've seen on the bus thus far. there was also a woman about my parents' age sitting about two rows directly ahead of me. the girl was talking to her boyfriend like there was no one else privy to her mix of profanity, petty sarcasm, and general wasteful words. you know the stereotype, right? well, of course, i didn't say anything to her. and of course, no one else did, either. but of course, the woman in front of me kept cutting sideways glances at the child, shaking her head in disdain, probably for the generation she'll never understand.

in my head, i was writing a poem about the girl, which i've since lost, since i never wrote it down. but in my imagination, i took the girl off the bus, out of philly, out of america... off to africa, in some rural society, where girls walk straight and tall and oblivious to their own beauty, balancing baskets on their heads, toting water over their shoulders, sporting beads and scarification and braids... 'cause the girl from the bus looked like one of those african girls - she was absolutely beautiful. i wonder if she was even aware of her beauty. i wonder if she knew her actions were completely incongruous with the nobility in her features. in any case, i imagined her as eloquent, full of the folk wisdom and the pride it takes to be humble. i imagined her dancing joyfully with other girls, barefoot, kicking up dust with abandon. i admired that image of her, and in that moment, i wanted to be like her - the version of her that i'd created.

and then the thought occurred to me - if she knew that i thought better of her as an african country girl than as a hardened inner city stereotype, would she have hated me? did liking her better as someone else mean that i hated who she was? was she even really being herself? is anyone truly distasteful and rude by any means other than their personal choice? i refuse to believe that folks of a certain age don't know any better. of course, i hate when i'm honest enough to ask questions like these, 'cause it sounds really judgmental, and even classist - never mind that her neighborhood probably isn't much different from the one i grew up in. in any case, i thought about the blog when i found myself mulling over my role in how i perceived her.

as i get back to balance, i hope to continue sharing these things here...

thanks for clicking here to see if i had anything new up. i know i've been inconsistent. and as always, i appreciate your reading.

oops

i'm sorry - i'm working. hard. my schedule is crazy. but i'm not finished yet (though i did consider it briefly)...