Blood called me tonight. I missed the call. I was goofing off with my Uncle Tyrone and my Aunt Beverly at their big sprawling house in Charleston Heights, munching on pizza from Pizza Hut (sacrilege! but hey, it’s the sticks so whatever) watching some freakout violent maudlin Lifetime Television for Women movie of the week with the volume all the way down and having this long-winded and very very lively discussion about cremation in the Bible and burial rituals in Christianity, which shifted to black power, the one drop rule and jim crowisms in modern everyday society -- for which my friend would not give his two cents. (heh.)
When I checked my messages later on, it was really late and it was really early -- that time of night where moments collide and disintegrate into everything all at once. All of a sudden, it’s morning and it’s night time. All of a sudden, I’m relaxed and everything in me is starting to hum all over again. All of a sudden, I’m asleep and I’m way too wide awake. Like I was ever anything else.
His voice is a sonic blur. It’s a fidgety winding endlessly laconic sonorous lapse in a burlap sack, filled with gravel and soot and candy, covered with good intentions and gasoline. When I hear him say the name that he calls me – something that he made up a very long time ago – it tweaks something deep in my soul and I feel glowy, somehow. He’s rambling and he’s going on and on about me and how I never call him, how I haven’t called him in months and on and on he goes. And I am struck at how much he sounds like my father, before I promised him that I’d call once a week. Sometimes he still goes off about how I never come home, how he came home all the time, how he never wanted to leave home, never wanted to leave his mother. And on and on he rambles. Incoherent and clear as a bell. Desperate, bright and shimmering with pure feeling. My father, talking to me inside of Blood’s voice, like an echo. I know this voice very well.
I sigh and keep listening. But really all I can hear is so much love. It’s so immediate, this rush of love, that I almost blink back tears.
He’s afraid that he’s going to lose me but he won’t, unless he wants to. And he doesn’t. He can’t. It’s completely implausible. That offer was never on the table. It feels like we were always tight with each other, even before we met – because the time that we’ve had already can’t encompass our tightness. At one point, he said, “I’m your unconditional…” and he sounded like he wanted to say something else. But then I think he realized that the idea of being unconditional in and of itself was enough and he let it hang in the air and drift between us on that telephone line, like smoke and ash. It was as beautiful as a flower. I loved him so much in that moment, I didn’t have the words to say it. So I fell into the sound of his voice until he was done. All I could do was listen and smile to myself, like I had a big secret. And then I called him, right then.
It was so late and it was so early and we picked right up where we left off. I told him that he would see me on Monday night. I wanted to play him the new songs that I made. But one thing for sure held sway over both of us, right then. I made sure that I told him that I loved him very much before I hung up that phone. And he made sure that he said the very same thing to me.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
surprise!
I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I'm a
Self-Improving Extroverted Self-Knower
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
snapshotty
as danny and i were leaving the sag/wgae theater on west 57th street the other day, we passed by a gossip girl shoot on west 57th street right in front of the russian tea room. lots of cameras and lights and stuff. and then there were a TON of paparazzi on the edge of it all, leaning in and angling here and there, taking pictures. i thought, oh wow -- this is the reason why i always keep my camera in my purse! and i thought about pulling it out. but then i got a glimpse of these two -- zac efron and the other white girl that everyone is always going on about that's usually paired with him -- and i was genuinely surprised at how pretty he was.
i mean really, really pretty. like, michael york pretty, when he was in the three musketeers. no. more like, rob lowe pretty, when he was in his early twenties. okay -- nobody's that pretty. that was otherworldly. he looked like a chick pretending to be a dude. then again there was christopher walken, when he was in the deer hunter. and maybe al pacino when he was in the panic in needle park -- a movie that shall now and forever remain in my all time favorite top five. he had quite a few beautiful moments in that film.
yeah, zac was really pretty and really uninteresting. no presence, no heat. and the girl with him -- what is her name? eh, i can't remember. --gave off NO sparks at all. i don't know what i was expecting but i'm fairly certain that it was way more than zip.
danny and i had just seen a preview of the latest julia roberts vehicle duplicity, co-starring clive owen. and no, it wasn't that good. it was i'm-stuck-on-this-plane-and-i-can't-sleep-so-i-guess-i'll-watch-this good. but before the movie started, we had a really interesting talk about her and film stars who insist on doing broadway and why they probably shouldn't. his acting teacher (who passed away recently) coached ms. roberts through her broadway debut and had really interesting remarks about her acting talent.
he said that the camera really loved her and that usually in film, that's 90% of the battle. a good director can get you through the rest. it's their medium, anyway. he also said that she was in way over her head with the broadway play and didn't understand why she was insisting on doing it. she's used to a 20 million dollar paycheck, so it definitely wasn't the money.
once upon a time, the hollywood movie studios brought you to the west coast to star in the broadway show you just did in new york city. and then they kept you under contract in their little circle, put you up in a cute little bungalow and groomed you -- with acting lessons, stylists, photographers, make-up artists, you name it. eventually, they farmed you out to other studios, built up your resume, your reputation. and then poof, you were a star.
there are moments where you see that kind of thing happening nowadays -- john leguizamo comes to mind and so does sara ramirez -- but it's not the flow of things. nowadays, you can finesse your way through it if you're pretty enough. even if you're a guy. especially if you're a guy.
maybe i should have taken a picture, anyway.
i mean really, really pretty. like, michael york pretty, when he was in the three musketeers. no. more like, rob lowe pretty, when he was in his early twenties. okay -- nobody's that pretty. that was otherworldly. he looked like a chick pretending to be a dude. then again there was christopher walken, when he was in the deer hunter. and maybe al pacino when he was in the panic in needle park -- a movie that shall now and forever remain in my all time favorite top five. he had quite a few beautiful moments in that film.
yeah, zac was really pretty and really uninteresting. no presence, no heat. and the girl with him -- what is her name? eh, i can't remember. --gave off NO sparks at all. i don't know what i was expecting but i'm fairly certain that it was way more than zip.
danny and i had just seen a preview of the latest julia roberts vehicle duplicity, co-starring clive owen. and no, it wasn't that good. it was i'm-stuck-on-this-plane-and-i-can't-sleep-so-i-guess-i'll-watch-this good. but before the movie started, we had a really interesting talk about her and film stars who insist on doing broadway and why they probably shouldn't. his acting teacher (who passed away recently) coached ms. roberts through her broadway debut and had really interesting remarks about her acting talent.
he said that the camera really loved her and that usually in film, that's 90% of the battle. a good director can get you through the rest. it's their medium, anyway. he also said that she was in way over her head with the broadway play and didn't understand why she was insisting on doing it. she's used to a 20 million dollar paycheck, so it definitely wasn't the money.
once upon a time, the hollywood movie studios brought you to the west coast to star in the broadway show you just did in new york city. and then they kept you under contract in their little circle, put you up in a cute little bungalow and groomed you -- with acting lessons, stylists, photographers, make-up artists, you name it. eventually, they farmed you out to other studios, built up your resume, your reputation. and then poof, you were a star.
there are moments where you see that kind of thing happening nowadays -- john leguizamo comes to mind and so does sara ramirez -- but it's not the flow of things. nowadays, you can finesse your way through it if you're pretty enough. even if you're a guy. especially if you're a guy.
maybe i should have taken a picture, anyway.
Monday, March 09, 2009
i could keep it hot for you
the powers that be have started unhinging the apartment that's directly underneath mine and they usually get cracking around 8am when they think everyone is gone. their tobacco smoke comes to me through the floorboards, along with the talk radio they listen to in the morning and the bad pop music that happens in the afternoon. i can hear their conversations, their west indian accents, their bizarre african languages, the french they yell sometimes, occasionally polish or russian or even lithuanian and spanish, spanish, spanish. hardly anything is tossed out in english anymore.
most of all, the banging and ripping and drilling and loud, loud noise is non-stop. sometimes my floor shakes, like a baby elephant is trying to get at me through their ceiling. someone dropped something the other day and everyone yelled all at once. it sounded like a muffled stadium roar. it sounded like a thunderclap and then there was silence and then scrambling and more yelling. and more thunder. i remember thinking, someone doesn't know what they're doing.
one time, i didn't lock my door and this african guy came in, with all these tools around his waist and carrying something heavy on his shoulder. he was almost in my living room before he realized that he was one floor off. he almost fell backward when he saw me and started apologizing profusely in french. i was relieved that i wasn't naked or sitting at my piano in the next room, practicing scales in my underwear. that would have been really bad.
sometimes they're so loud that it sounds like they're in the next room. when i sleep in, it's almost as though i'm surrounded by them, like they're building something around me. and occasionally i have nightmares where that's exactly what's happened and i'm trapped in some wierd labyrinth that i can't find my way out of, with them banging and hammering away while i run towards a light that isn't there.
if i start cooking early in the afternoon, they can smell what's for dinner before they knock off for the day. they know which apartment it's coming from and as i skip in and out, they give me the dap and yell at me and say stuff like, what are you making -- it smells AMAZING, or i'd give anything to have a woman that can cook like you or my personal favorite i'll be home by six tonight -- keep it hot for me! this happens in the building and all the way up the block. none of them have tasted any of it but they know when it's lamb tagine or chicken and dumplings or smothered pork chops, so we have this really cool back and forth about whatever i'm making. it's fun.
that got me to thinking about a story my grandmother told me not too long ago.
when i wasn't even an afterthought in her imagination, she said that they were building train tracks about 150 yards away from the little pink house that i spent much of my infant/toddler years in, with her and my grandfather and a host of aunts and uncles and cousins and all. to supplement the household income, she fed the railway workers. they would line up at her kitchen window and get a plate of food for a set price. there were workers who came from far away, too far to commute back and forth. so my grandfather built a little house for them to stay in, and charged them for it.
the bottom line was that when it was time to make ends meet, everybody found a way to get their hustle on.
how easy would it be for me to open up my kitchen and turn it into a restaurant unofficially? well. not so easy. i'm sure the landlord would shut me down in a snap, especially when the people in charge get wise. but economic times are always hard in the ghetto. your kitchen as restaurant is what's done here all the time. you do what you have to do to make a buck and keep your lights on and then you keep it moving.
think about it. they do this in every ghetto. they do it in chinatown. everybody's on the street, selling food. there's an old lady that's infamous for putting all of her children through college by selling her dumplings on the street.
don't believe me? come on over to my neighborhood.
when you step off the subway at 137th street and broadway, there's at least two or three people yelling about what they're selling, from corn on a stick covered in oxchaca cheese to tamales. there's a guy and his mom up the street about 15 blocks apart that sell cold and hot soup -- a delicious seafood ceviche and a really outstanding sancocho (a latin friend calls this heavy stew dominican viagra), with lime and plastic spoons and napkins and hot sauce and everything that goes with it. by early evening, they're usually all out. the lady in the window was constantly cooking and selling what she made. frankly, her open window was all the advertisement that she needed. i never bought anything from her. i never had to, actually. she was always sticking her hand through the grill and giving me yummy dominican things that she was making, like dulce. (God, i miss her.)
do they do this in soho or the upper east side, or even gramercy park? of course not? do they do this all over harlem? you betcha. i'll believe that i'm not living in the ghetto anymore when they stop -- gentrification be damned.
so yeah, i guess i could make a huge pot of collards and get my hustle on. it wouldn't take much and it would probably be a lot of fun, mostly because i love to cook. but i'm hustling enough as it is with everything else in my life. and besides -- i don't want to get into any trouble...
most of all, the banging and ripping and drilling and loud, loud noise is non-stop. sometimes my floor shakes, like a baby elephant is trying to get at me through their ceiling. someone dropped something the other day and everyone yelled all at once. it sounded like a muffled stadium roar. it sounded like a thunderclap and then there was silence and then scrambling and more yelling. and more thunder. i remember thinking, someone doesn't know what they're doing.
one time, i didn't lock my door and this african guy came in, with all these tools around his waist and carrying something heavy on his shoulder. he was almost in my living room before he realized that he was one floor off. he almost fell backward when he saw me and started apologizing profusely in french. i was relieved that i wasn't naked or sitting at my piano in the next room, practicing scales in my underwear. that would have been really bad.
sometimes they're so loud that it sounds like they're in the next room. when i sleep in, it's almost as though i'm surrounded by them, like they're building something around me. and occasionally i have nightmares where that's exactly what's happened and i'm trapped in some wierd labyrinth that i can't find my way out of, with them banging and hammering away while i run towards a light that isn't there.
if i start cooking early in the afternoon, they can smell what's for dinner before they knock off for the day. they know which apartment it's coming from and as i skip in and out, they give me the dap and yell at me and say stuff like, what are you making -- it smells AMAZING, or i'd give anything to have a woman that can cook like you or my personal favorite i'll be home by six tonight -- keep it hot for me! this happens in the building and all the way up the block. none of them have tasted any of it but they know when it's lamb tagine or chicken and dumplings or smothered pork chops, so we have this really cool back and forth about whatever i'm making. it's fun.
that got me to thinking about a story my grandmother told me not too long ago.
when i wasn't even an afterthought in her imagination, she said that they were building train tracks about 150 yards away from the little pink house that i spent much of my infant/toddler years in, with her and my grandfather and a host of aunts and uncles and cousins and all. to supplement the household income, she fed the railway workers. they would line up at her kitchen window and get a plate of food for a set price. there were workers who came from far away, too far to commute back and forth. so my grandfather built a little house for them to stay in, and charged them for it.
the bottom line was that when it was time to make ends meet, everybody found a way to get their hustle on.
how easy would it be for me to open up my kitchen and turn it into a restaurant unofficially? well. not so easy. i'm sure the landlord would shut me down in a snap, especially when the people in charge get wise. but economic times are always hard in the ghetto. your kitchen as restaurant is what's done here all the time. you do what you have to do to make a buck and keep your lights on and then you keep it moving.
think about it. they do this in every ghetto. they do it in chinatown. everybody's on the street, selling food. there's an old lady that's infamous for putting all of her children through college by selling her dumplings on the street.
don't believe me? come on over to my neighborhood.
when you step off the subway at 137th street and broadway, there's at least two or three people yelling about what they're selling, from corn on a stick covered in oxchaca cheese to tamales. there's a guy and his mom up the street about 15 blocks apart that sell cold and hot soup -- a delicious seafood ceviche and a really outstanding sancocho (a latin friend calls this heavy stew dominican viagra), with lime and plastic spoons and napkins and hot sauce and everything that goes with it. by early evening, they're usually all out. the lady in the window was constantly cooking and selling what she made. frankly, her open window was all the advertisement that she needed. i never bought anything from her. i never had to, actually. she was always sticking her hand through the grill and giving me yummy dominican things that she was making, like dulce. (God, i miss her.)
do they do this in soho or the upper east side, or even gramercy park? of course not? do they do this all over harlem? you betcha. i'll believe that i'm not living in the ghetto anymore when they stop -- gentrification be damned.
so yeah, i guess i could make a huge pot of collards and get my hustle on. it wouldn't take much and it would probably be a lot of fun, mostly because i love to cook. but i'm hustling enough as it is with everything else in my life. and besides -- i don't want to get into any trouble...
Sunday, March 08, 2009
happy sunday
i'm going to post a sermonette every sunday. today's message comes to us from none other than the great jimmy smith on hammond organ, with billy hart on drums and quentin warren on guitar, performing -- what else? -- the sermon (1964). enjoy.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
the lady in the street
i saw her on broadway, on the upper west side, somewhere in the eighties. we were headed in opposite directions and i only glimpsed her because as usual, i was moving fast, but i recognized her immediately. she was very pale with watery blue eyes and she had not-too-short hair and she wore simple jewelry and no makeup. she was well dressed, and in spite of the shift towards better weather, she was warmly dressed, with a light tweedy overcoat and a small scarf over a nice dress and low comfortable heels. she looked like the older women in my family, the ones who coordinate their purses and shoes, who still wear hats and gloves and scarves in this really appropriate way, those who are tasteful and for the most part unadorned. she was a lady, a southern lady. she looked elegant and graceful. and she was alone.
she was moving so slowly, it was almost painful to watch her as she made her way down the street, because i remembered how spry she used to be. but she was moving. and she seemed fine. i had to stop myself from turning around and following her and saying hello. but like i said, i was moving fast in the other direction, as usual. and in those moments, i always think that i'm going to see that person again. which is a part of the reason why it hurts so badly when i don't.
she was a retired elementary schoolteacher from virginia. i remember how much i loved to hear her talk because she had the loveliest accent ever. it was lilting and sure, like it had a song inside of it. talking to her made me miss the south, very much. when i lived in the sro, we were always cordial to each other. one day when we were walking in the same direction, we had this wonderful conversation about the city and why we liked it here so much.
she told me that she was so happy to be single in the city, to go to museums and eat delicious exotic food and stroll down so many historically important thoroughfares. she had family down south, but they didn't know what they were missing. she said this with a wave of her hand and a tilt of her head, like we were our own little club. the energy of the city seemed to revitalize her, give her a spark that any other place else never could. she loved the opera, and the theater scene, and never missed shakespeare in the park.
the longer she talked, the more she sounded like me.
she was positively giddy about some show she'd seen recently, some performance that really moved her. as she described it, beaming and expressive with that lilty singsongy voice, i could see the glee on her face. and all of a sudden, she was no longer an old lady retiree.
i never forgot that conversation. would that be me, someday -- happily waxing poetic about art that moved me? what would my life be like if i ever get to be an old lady? could i really pull off old age in this town? or will i be on an island off the coast of georgia or south carolina, growing my own vegetables? either way, i think it's going to be a good life. as it turns out, the time-honored stereotype of the sad old lady in a big old house with no real money and cats everywhere isn't necessarily true anymore. single older women in this country are legion -- and apparently, they are having the time of their lives.
of the 57 million american women over 45, roughly half of them are single. that outnumbers the entire population of australia! there's a lot that can explain this. american women marry later, their divorce rate is high and they usually outlive their mates. so it's bloody likely that you'll end up single, anywayeven if you marry or have kids,. and single life is good. many women take this time in their lives to reinvent themselves and do things they've always dreamed of -- like leaving some small town in virginia in your supposed twilight years to live alone in big bad new york city.
longevity runs in my family. if it's true that i could live to be 90, when i turn 65, it really will be the beginning of everything else.
i'm starting to really hope i see that little old lady again.
she was moving so slowly, it was almost painful to watch her as she made her way down the street, because i remembered how spry she used to be. but she was moving. and she seemed fine. i had to stop myself from turning around and following her and saying hello. but like i said, i was moving fast in the other direction, as usual. and in those moments, i always think that i'm going to see that person again. which is a part of the reason why it hurts so badly when i don't.
she was a retired elementary schoolteacher from virginia. i remember how much i loved to hear her talk because she had the loveliest accent ever. it was lilting and sure, like it had a song inside of it. talking to her made me miss the south, very much. when i lived in the sro, we were always cordial to each other. one day when we were walking in the same direction, we had this wonderful conversation about the city and why we liked it here so much.
she told me that she was so happy to be single in the city, to go to museums and eat delicious exotic food and stroll down so many historically important thoroughfares. she had family down south, but they didn't know what they were missing. she said this with a wave of her hand and a tilt of her head, like we were our own little club. the energy of the city seemed to revitalize her, give her a spark that any other place else never could. she loved the opera, and the theater scene, and never missed shakespeare in the park.
the longer she talked, the more she sounded like me.
she was positively giddy about some show she'd seen recently, some performance that really moved her. as she described it, beaming and expressive with that lilty singsongy voice, i could see the glee on her face. and all of a sudden, she was no longer an old lady retiree.
i never forgot that conversation. would that be me, someday -- happily waxing poetic about art that moved me? what would my life be like if i ever get to be an old lady? could i really pull off old age in this town? or will i be on an island off the coast of georgia or south carolina, growing my own vegetables? either way, i think it's going to be a good life. as it turns out, the time-honored stereotype of the sad old lady in a big old house with no real money and cats everywhere isn't necessarily true anymore. single older women in this country are legion -- and apparently, they are having the time of their lives.
of the 57 million american women over 45, roughly half of them are single. that outnumbers the entire population of australia! there's a lot that can explain this. american women marry later, their divorce rate is high and they usually outlive their mates. so it's bloody likely that you'll end up single, anywayeven if you marry or have kids,. and single life is good. many women take this time in their lives to reinvent themselves and do things they've always dreamed of -- like leaving some small town in virginia in your supposed twilight years to live alone in big bad new york city.
longevity runs in my family. if it's true that i could live to be 90, when i turn 65, it really will be the beginning of everything else.
i'm starting to really hope i see that little old lady again.
Friday, March 06, 2009
madison
yesterday, my friend and i met my neighbor and her dog madison. her spacious, freshly renovated and totally tricked out apartment is parallel to mine. i think she lives there with her boyfriend. i don't remember her name but i remember the dog's name because it's also my niece's name and my brother ramon's middle name and my uncle's name. (sigh.) we approached the entrance to the building simultaneously and the neighbor stepped out of the way to let us in first, which is when madison reared up, fought against her pink leash violently and went into attack mode. as we chatted with her politely, the neighbor scolded/admonished the dog all the way into the elevator, all the way into the hallway, all the way to the door of her apartment and all the way inside. the dog barked and snarled and yipped the whole time and wouldn't stop barking once it was inside. apparently madison does whatever he/she/it wants.
with two loud little dogs at the end of the hallway that sound off constantly at the slightest provocation, most days it sounds like somebody needs the frackin' dog whisperer.
my friend thought it was a cute dog, a tiny purebred black and tan yappy thing -- as it turns out, a yorkshire terrier. weren't terriers meant to herd things like sheep? as it turns out, these were bred to be ratters -- that is, they were meant to kill rats in small places. in the early 19th century, there were rat killing contests wherein the dogs competed to see who could kill the most rats. people would carry them in their pockets and set them loose as needed.
charming.
from what i've heard, we've got a ton of rats in this metropolis -- with no end in sight. maybe the mayor should give everyone a yorkie.
meeting madison was a gentle reminder that i have no intentions of ever getting a dog. don't i have enough to do without having to upend my day to zip home to walk phideaux, so my place doesn't end up smelling like a toilet, thanks to this loving and affectionate animal taking all of these strategic well-placed dumps all over the place? don't i have enough to pay for without having to hire a dog walker? isn't this city expensive enough without yet another expense?
well. maybe i'd get a dog if i live down south and i have a huge house that sits on 5 acres or something, yeah then i'll get a dog. it seems cruel to have one in my little apartment in the city.
with two loud little dogs at the end of the hallway that sound off constantly at the slightest provocation, most days it sounds like somebody needs the frackin' dog whisperer.
my friend thought it was a cute dog, a tiny purebred black and tan yappy thing -- as it turns out, a yorkshire terrier. weren't terriers meant to herd things like sheep? as it turns out, these were bred to be ratters -- that is, they were meant to kill rats in small places. in the early 19th century, there were rat killing contests wherein the dogs competed to see who could kill the most rats. people would carry them in their pockets and set them loose as needed.
charming.
from what i've heard, we've got a ton of rats in this metropolis -- with no end in sight. maybe the mayor should give everyone a yorkie.
meeting madison was a gentle reminder that i have no intentions of ever getting a dog. don't i have enough to do without having to upend my day to zip home to walk phideaux, so my place doesn't end up smelling like a toilet, thanks to this loving and affectionate animal taking all of these strategic well-placed dumps all over the place? don't i have enough to pay for without having to hire a dog walker? isn't this city expensive enough without yet another expense?
well. maybe i'd get a dog if i live down south and i have a huge house that sits on 5 acres or something, yeah then i'll get a dog. it seems cruel to have one in my little apartment in the city.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
a post script
okay, i have to say this.
i write about the auditions i do because i do a zillion of them and blogging still seems like a great way to document the process. what this blog should be is a hot shot of reality for anyone who doesn't know what it's like to do this acting thing, for real. more often than not, i've learned the hard way that most people have this really convoluted idea of what being an actor is. you say you're an actor and they think of some movie star or some tv personality or some stooge on some sit-com, and and they think about how these bozos are all over the place all the time and why aren't i famous or on tv or in some tyler perry movie or something.
i remember when i moved to new york city and all these people i knew down south assumed that of course i'd be doing showtime at the apollo, so i could be on tv and wave at my momma. and whenever i'd talk to them, they'd ask me when i was going to be on the show and why hadn't i done it yet. that's what they knew. that's all they saw for me. that was their vision of what i should be doing in new york city. i had other ideas -- because like every actor, i've got my own goals and desires for my career and my life-- just like any other career anywhere else. every actor is different. and everybody doesn't want what i want.
that's why some people are perfectly happy whiling away their entire lives in the chorus of a broadway show. that's all they want.
the bottom line is that although there are a million and one variables that stand in the way of you and whatever you're auditioning for -- like, hello! there are absolutely NO black people in the cast of this show! -- get this, loud and clear: it doesn't matter if you have talent, or if you do a great audition, or if you're a massive star with the kind of charisma that can pull anyone's attention. it just doesn't matter. if it did -- if they gave the role to the person with the most talent and charisma, irregardless of race or body type -- there would hardly be any white people on broadway, at all.
there. i said it.
clearly, i didn't go to the spiderman audition so they could cast me as peter parker's girlfriend. but if they were to cast me in the show, what role would i get? think about it. they take ALL of their casting cues from the movie. aside from macy gray's 10 second cameo, did you see any black women with lines in spiderman the movie? were you hard-pressed to find any black people who were background talent? and this movie franchise is set in new york city -- arguably the world's biggest melting pot. so where were we? and if this is the case, then why would you expect them to put me in it? because miracles happen everyday?
i've got a lot of ideas that i'm growing, because i'm not very good at waiting for the phone to ring. while i'm growing things, i audition because auditioning is a skill that you have to hone constantly if you want to be good at it. and you have to be good at it and stay good at it, if you eventually want to get cast in anything. and that's only the tip of the iceberg. you have to be in a constant state of readiness -- vocally ready, and with all sorts of material prepared (if you can sing); physically together and ready for action (because what your body looks like matters); monologues all set to go for shakespeare and beyond. the more you can do, the more likely you'll work. and all of this requires coaching and lessons and workshops and workout sessions and study and so on. and all of that requires money.
don't worry. if anything happens, you'll hear it here first. but i'm not holding my breath. i'm actually hard at work.
i write about the auditions i do because i do a zillion of them and blogging still seems like a great way to document the process. what this blog should be is a hot shot of reality for anyone who doesn't know what it's like to do this acting thing, for real. more often than not, i've learned the hard way that most people have this really convoluted idea of what being an actor is. you say you're an actor and they think of some movie star or some tv personality or some stooge on some sit-com, and and they think about how these bozos are all over the place all the time and why aren't i famous or on tv or in some tyler perry movie or something.
i remember when i moved to new york city and all these people i knew down south assumed that of course i'd be doing showtime at the apollo, so i could be on tv and wave at my momma. and whenever i'd talk to them, they'd ask me when i was going to be on the show and why hadn't i done it yet. that's what they knew. that's all they saw for me. that was their vision of what i should be doing in new york city. i had other ideas -- because like every actor, i've got my own goals and desires for my career and my life-- just like any other career anywhere else. every actor is different. and everybody doesn't want what i want.
that's why some people are perfectly happy whiling away their entire lives in the chorus of a broadway show. that's all they want.
the bottom line is that although there are a million and one variables that stand in the way of you and whatever you're auditioning for -- like, hello! there are absolutely NO black people in the cast of this show! -- get this, loud and clear: it doesn't matter if you have talent, or if you do a great audition, or if you're a massive star with the kind of charisma that can pull anyone's attention. it just doesn't matter. if it did -- if they gave the role to the person with the most talent and charisma, irregardless of race or body type -- there would hardly be any white people on broadway, at all.
there. i said it.
clearly, i didn't go to the spiderman audition so they could cast me as peter parker's girlfriend. but if they were to cast me in the show, what role would i get? think about it. they take ALL of their casting cues from the movie. aside from macy gray's 10 second cameo, did you see any black women with lines in spiderman the movie? were you hard-pressed to find any black people who were background talent? and this movie franchise is set in new york city -- arguably the world's biggest melting pot. so where were we? and if this is the case, then why would you expect them to put me in it? because miracles happen everyday?
i've got a lot of ideas that i'm growing, because i'm not very good at waiting for the phone to ring. while i'm growing things, i audition because auditioning is a skill that you have to hone constantly if you want to be good at it. and you have to be good at it and stay good at it, if you eventually want to get cast in anything. and that's only the tip of the iceberg. you have to be in a constant state of readiness -- vocally ready, and with all sorts of material prepared (if you can sing); physically together and ready for action (because what your body looks like matters); monologues all set to go for shakespeare and beyond. the more you can do, the more likely you'll work. and all of this requires coaching and lessons and workshops and workout sessions and study and so on. and all of that requires money.
don't worry. if anything happens, you'll hear it here first. but i'm not holding my breath. i'm actually hard at work.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
another day, another audition: spiderman, the musical
everybody knows that they're making popular movies into broadway musicals these days. when the star-studded movie version of the musical chicago happened, everyone in hollywood saw gold in them thar hills and opened divisions in movie studios to develop projects. the disneyfication of times square began some time ago, but this latest streak of blatant commercialism would definitely seal the coffin lid shut on all things creative and new and original on broadway. it's not that such productions would never see the light of day or the great white way. but when it takes 7 to 9 years on the average to write and develop a musical, when it costs just as much to produce a musical off or on broadway, and when film actors and hip-hop impresarios and pop tarts are starring in broadway shows to guarantee a profit, and revivals abound, it makes it seem as though the original stuff fell through the cracks, somehow. i know that they're not going to put me in brigadoon. or the sound of music. or the music man. or any of these other lily-white revivals. so that's that.
sometime ago, someone told me that they were going to make a musical out of the movie spiderman, with julie taymor directing and bono writing all the music. it sounded like something that someone who sits at a desk all day would make up. and then i read it in a trade magazine and i thought, uh-oh. and then i read all about the (wide) open (cattle) call they had at the knitting factory some time ago and i thought, ew. and then i read about an audition they had at equity earlier this year and i thought, whoa. it's getting closer. i read about the spiderman: the musical audition in backstage and i thought, okay, i'm going in. when i read the notice out loud to my friend (who also happens to be a massive comic book geek), he couldn't stop laughing. he thinks it's going to be a massive flop.
that didn't stop me from throwing on a wrap dress under my snow pants and throwing my pumps in my purse and going in, somewhere in mid-afternoon or thereabouts, straight to telsey in midtown. i would have been there sooner, but i had to wash my hair -- and every sister that's natural that reads this knows that a big afro may look cute, but it ain't nothing but some hard work. i'm determined to grow it out and so far, it's working. yay, me. but i digress.
when i got there, i was the only negress as far as the eye could see. when i got situated, i saw another negro -- and yes, we totally knew each other. as a matter of fact, chris lives two blocks away from me. as luck would have it, he went in right before i did. the words all ethnicities are encouraged to audition jumped out at me from the notice. so where were we?
everything was fairly straightforward. they wanted something like 32 bars of a rock song -- no show tunes. that was just enough to let them hear whether you could sing or not, so they could separate the wheat from the chaff. i was going to sing that del shannon song runaway -- way slower and darker than anything they were expecting. i was number 70-something on the alternative list, but i knew that i'd get in because they were seeing people until 6:30pm. the monitor was straight out of central casting: really peppy, really jaded, really chubby, really cute, kind of midwestern looking and well, really gay. (...not that there's anything wrong with that...)
as i looked around the room, all i could think was, who are these children? every one of them looked like they belonged on a playground, somewhere. it's kind of like being in college and looking at high schoolers and balking at how everyone is so wet behind the ears, but they think they're so grown and all this stuff. i don't know if it was their clothes. their hair. the way they sat in clumps and couldn't stop giggling and sifting nervously through their sheet music. i don't know. i thought they looked like a bunch of puppies.
i wish i could have given them some advice. something like, stop sweating -- it's not that deep. or how about, your clothes are way too tight. stop letting pop stars/video vixens dress you. or maybe even, go home. whatever. the bottom line is that all too often, talent doesn't matter as much as it should in these instances. a great audition won't necessarily get you the job, for a myriad of reasons. it shouldn't work that way, but it does.
i wish someone had explained that to me when i was a puppy.
sometime ago, someone told me that they were going to make a musical out of the movie spiderman, with julie taymor directing and bono writing all the music. it sounded like something that someone who sits at a desk all day would make up. and then i read it in a trade magazine and i thought, uh-oh. and then i read all about the (wide) open (cattle) call they had at the knitting factory some time ago and i thought, ew. and then i read about an audition they had at equity earlier this year and i thought, whoa. it's getting closer. i read about the spiderman: the musical audition in backstage and i thought, okay, i'm going in. when i read the notice out loud to my friend (who also happens to be a massive comic book geek), he couldn't stop laughing. he thinks it's going to be a massive flop.
that didn't stop me from throwing on a wrap dress under my snow pants and throwing my pumps in my purse and going in, somewhere in mid-afternoon or thereabouts, straight to telsey in midtown. i would have been there sooner, but i had to wash my hair -- and every sister that's natural that reads this knows that a big afro may look cute, but it ain't nothing but some hard work. i'm determined to grow it out and so far, it's working. yay, me. but i digress.
when i got there, i was the only negress as far as the eye could see. when i got situated, i saw another negro -- and yes, we totally knew each other. as a matter of fact, chris lives two blocks away from me. as luck would have it, he went in right before i did. the words all ethnicities are encouraged to audition jumped out at me from the notice. so where were we?
everything was fairly straightforward. they wanted something like 32 bars of a rock song -- no show tunes. that was just enough to let them hear whether you could sing or not, so they could separate the wheat from the chaff. i was going to sing that del shannon song runaway -- way slower and darker than anything they were expecting. i was number 70-something on the alternative list, but i knew that i'd get in because they were seeing people until 6:30pm. the monitor was straight out of central casting: really peppy, really jaded, really chubby, really cute, kind of midwestern looking and well, really gay. (...not that there's anything wrong with that...)
as i looked around the room, all i could think was, who are these children? every one of them looked like they belonged on a playground, somewhere. it's kind of like being in college and looking at high schoolers and balking at how everyone is so wet behind the ears, but they think they're so grown and all this stuff. i don't know if it was their clothes. their hair. the way they sat in clumps and couldn't stop giggling and sifting nervously through their sheet music. i don't know. i thought they looked like a bunch of puppies.
i wish i could have given them some advice. something like, stop sweating -- it's not that deep. or how about, your clothes are way too tight. stop letting pop stars/video vixens dress you. or maybe even, go home. whatever. the bottom line is that all too often, talent doesn't matter as much as it should in these instances. a great audition won't necessarily get you the job, for a myriad of reasons. it shouldn't work that way, but it does.
i wish someone had explained that to me when i was a puppy.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
not giving is giving
i'm on the train the other night. well. actually it was evening and night was coming on fast, turning the sky dark before the world could readjust. everything was slowing down and speeding up all at once, the way it always does when rush hour stops to catch its breath. i was on the 1 and i was past 96th street, which means i was almost home. something in me began to relax a little -- probably because i was imagining my sofa, my guitar, my ottoman and a pot of tea, and so on. i was so relaxed, i dozed off a little. it was the stench that woke me up.
there's no getting away from the full on assault on your senses, and your nose is usually the first thing to get blasted. something always stinks in this city. so when i smelled something foul, it didn't phase me. but when it lingered, i woke all the way up.
it was some non-descript mangy-looking homeless guy. he was lanky, he was black, he was moving slow, and he smelled like pure filth. shockingly coatless in this freezing weather. i can only imagine that his stench was the one thing that kept him warm. he had his hand out as he mumbled something like, could you help me out. something like that. it was singsongy, kinda catchy. i didn't really pay any attention to him. there must have been a half a dozen homeless people that passed in front of me since i jumped on at midtown. the question looms large on the horizon, especially in hard times like these: do you give money to homeless people on the subway or whereever? or do you give to the organizations in the city that are supposed to be helping them?
i only give homeless people food when they ask me for money because my theory is, you can't shoot up a sandwich. usually i have fruit but if the person in question only has five teeth in their mouth, how could they possibly gum down a granny smith apple?
i was on my way to ignoring this guy when the sister in front of me confronted him. she looked like she'd just come from a long hard day out working in a field somewhere. weary as all get out. she was bigger and taller than him, and she wasn't afraid of him.
the conversation went something like this:
woman: can i ask you a question?
homeless guy: (strikes a somewhat nonchalant pose) you can ask me whatever you want.
woman: (folds her arms and tilts her head, looks him up and down) you ain't got no physical disability or whatever. you're a man. a grown man. you ablebodied. why don't you go out and get a job, 'stead 'a begging people who work for a living for their hard-earned money?
homeless guy: (totally taken aback) i...i...i can't find a job. i can't find...
woman: you can go outta here tomorrow, go downtown and sell newspapers for $50 a day! did you hear me?! i said $50 a day!
homeless guy: (waving his arms around like kermit the frog) i went down there when they first started doin' that years ago but...but i couldn't get anybody to work with me...
woman: i get up at 5 o'clock in the morning every morning and i sell papers all day and you expect me to give you money? you know what you are? lazy! you're lazy!
homeless guy: i'm not lazy! they owe me! you need to tell them to give me my rations.
woman: you need to get a job. i'm a woman, and i...
homeless guy: you bein' a woman has nothing to do with anything.
woman: yes it does! you're a man, you're supposed to get out here and work.
homeless guy: gender has nothing to do with it.
woman: gender has EVERYTHING to do with it.
...and on and on they went, like no one else was on the train. and the train was packed. and as quiet as a tomb. this sister was relentless. she let him have it so hardcore that he quickly slid his way to the other car, yelling at her all the way, but steady moving in the opposite direction until nothing was left but the smell of him. as she found a seat at the opposite end of the car, she addressed the guy that gave him a dollar and said that if he had money to give away, he needed to give her some, too. and with that, there was a collective gasp. or an exhale. i couldn't tell. you're making it worse for all of us, she said.
and with that it was over. actually, it wasn't over. i finally got off the train.
that angry little exchange sealed it for me, afresh. i don't give money to homeless people. i just don't.
there's no getting away from the full on assault on your senses, and your nose is usually the first thing to get blasted. something always stinks in this city. so when i smelled something foul, it didn't phase me. but when it lingered, i woke all the way up.
it was some non-descript mangy-looking homeless guy. he was lanky, he was black, he was moving slow, and he smelled like pure filth. shockingly coatless in this freezing weather. i can only imagine that his stench was the one thing that kept him warm. he had his hand out as he mumbled something like, could you help me out. something like that. it was singsongy, kinda catchy. i didn't really pay any attention to him. there must have been a half a dozen homeless people that passed in front of me since i jumped on at midtown. the question looms large on the horizon, especially in hard times like these: do you give money to homeless people on the subway or whereever? or do you give to the organizations in the city that are supposed to be helping them?
i only give homeless people food when they ask me for money because my theory is, you can't shoot up a sandwich. usually i have fruit but if the person in question only has five teeth in their mouth, how could they possibly gum down a granny smith apple?
i was on my way to ignoring this guy when the sister in front of me confronted him. she looked like she'd just come from a long hard day out working in a field somewhere. weary as all get out. she was bigger and taller than him, and she wasn't afraid of him.
the conversation went something like this:
woman: can i ask you a question?
homeless guy: (strikes a somewhat nonchalant pose) you can ask me whatever you want.
woman: (folds her arms and tilts her head, looks him up and down) you ain't got no physical disability or whatever. you're a man. a grown man. you ablebodied. why don't you go out and get a job, 'stead 'a begging people who work for a living for their hard-earned money?
homeless guy: (totally taken aback) i...i...i can't find a job. i can't find...
woman: you can go outta here tomorrow, go downtown and sell newspapers for $50 a day! did you hear me?! i said $50 a day!
homeless guy: (waving his arms around like kermit the frog) i went down there when they first started doin' that years ago but...but i couldn't get anybody to work with me...
woman: i get up at 5 o'clock in the morning every morning and i sell papers all day and you expect me to give you money? you know what you are? lazy! you're lazy!
homeless guy: i'm not lazy! they owe me! you need to tell them to give me my rations.
woman: you need to get a job. i'm a woman, and i...
homeless guy: you bein' a woman has nothing to do with anything.
woman: yes it does! you're a man, you're supposed to get out here and work.
homeless guy: gender has nothing to do with it.
woman: gender has EVERYTHING to do with it.
...and on and on they went, like no one else was on the train. and the train was packed. and as quiet as a tomb. this sister was relentless. she let him have it so hardcore that he quickly slid his way to the other car, yelling at her all the way, but steady moving in the opposite direction until nothing was left but the smell of him. as she found a seat at the opposite end of the car, she addressed the guy that gave him a dollar and said that if he had money to give away, he needed to give her some, too. and with that, there was a collective gasp. or an exhale. i couldn't tell. you're making it worse for all of us, she said.
and with that it was over. actually, it wasn't over. i finally got off the train.
that angry little exchange sealed it for me, afresh. i don't give money to homeless people. i just don't.
Monday, March 02, 2009
it's like this
yesterday when ralph came over, he remarked that in the vacant newly renovated apartment up the street, there's a microwave attached to stainless steel kitchen fixtures and such. like i said before, my landlord owns all the buildings on my side of the street. they've got on a construction rampage for the past two years or so, evicting long-time non-english speaking tenants and hooking up the empty apartments until they looked like something out of a pottery barn catalog.
yeah, i heard myself say, they're fixing them for all the downtown white people that are moving into the neighborhood -- because the black folk who live in the ghetto already can't afford them. and then my friend laughed and said, you know they have a laundromat in the basement. but you have to have a special key to use it -- and all the new tenants get one.
as ralph balked, my mind bounced back to little debbie's place in the ATL -- dunwoody, to be exact. when it was time for her to relocate to the south a few years ago because of work, she drove in from teaneck, new jersey with her two kids and rented her apartment sight unseen. it's a gated community that has 24 hour security, with a swimming pool, gym facilities, and whatnot. the apartment is spacious with a terrace and a washer/dryer and central air, and the kitchen is extra-special fancy, with brushed steel wonderment, a built-in microwave and all that jazz. her master bedroom has its own large well-appointed bathroom. all of this stuff isn't extra, by the way. it's standard issue. it comes with every apartment in her little community -- but i don't know of anyone in ATL who isn't living like this. it's the kind of stuff that almost everyone i know sort of takes for granted when they move into a new place.
and that's apartment living down there. that's rental. if you own your own house -- and if you're young, black, professional, female and in ATL, it's a good chance that you probably do -- you get that and way, way more. i grew up in a house in ATL that sits on 3 or 4 acres, with fruit trees in the backyard and a swimming pool and a sandbox. and woods to get lost in, woods that are filled with critters and berries and spiders and adventure.
i just read this article that said the $60K you make annually in new york city is worth $26K in the ATL. anyone that's been here for more than a week knows that you can't live on $60K. not if you don't want to live hand to mouth, with roommates no less, with zip amenities in a crummy neighborhood. no. if you want to live well in this town, you'll need to make at least 100K a year -- and if/when you do, you won't come anywhere near what little debbie and her kids have. not by a long shot.
no wonder new york yankees go down south, see how beautiful everything is and lose their damn minds. people who are from up here can't seem to fathom how good everyone has it elsewhere. and those of us who are not from up here have constant amnesia about what a decent quality of life is really supposed to be.
i can't forget because i have family down south who constantly remind me that in spite of the fact that i have a nice two bedroom apartment in west harlem and my name is on the lease, it's a stinkhole and something of a joke, compared to what i could have in the ATL for the same price. sometimes i wonder how much of a millionaire i'm going to have to be to have a middle class existence in the city, or if its something i'll even want if i ever get that far.
my new york city doesn't exist anymore. it's not just gentrification, per se. and yes, sex and the city ruined this city. but it's bigger than that. the city is in transition. it's dying. what we are hearing and seeing, from dire predictions about the economy and auctioning condos to the newly minted rentals up the block, is one long slow death rattle. soon enough, new york city will be very much like paris, france -- a place where only the very rich could possibly afford to live. people who service the city will come in from the outer boroughs. and after rush hour, the heart of the city will emptier than downtown houston at twilight.
yeah, i heard myself say, they're fixing them for all the downtown white people that are moving into the neighborhood -- because the black folk who live in the ghetto already can't afford them. and then my friend laughed and said, you know they have a laundromat in the basement. but you have to have a special key to use it -- and all the new tenants get one.
as ralph balked, my mind bounced back to little debbie's place in the ATL -- dunwoody, to be exact. when it was time for her to relocate to the south a few years ago because of work, she drove in from teaneck, new jersey with her two kids and rented her apartment sight unseen. it's a gated community that has 24 hour security, with a swimming pool, gym facilities, and whatnot. the apartment is spacious with a terrace and a washer/dryer and central air, and the kitchen is extra-special fancy, with brushed steel wonderment, a built-in microwave and all that jazz. her master bedroom has its own large well-appointed bathroom. all of this stuff isn't extra, by the way. it's standard issue. it comes with every apartment in her little community -- but i don't know of anyone in ATL who isn't living like this. it's the kind of stuff that almost everyone i know sort of takes for granted when they move into a new place.
and that's apartment living down there. that's rental. if you own your own house -- and if you're young, black, professional, female and in ATL, it's a good chance that you probably do -- you get that and way, way more. i grew up in a house in ATL that sits on 3 or 4 acres, with fruit trees in the backyard and a swimming pool and a sandbox. and woods to get lost in, woods that are filled with critters and berries and spiders and adventure.
i just read this article that said the $60K you make annually in new york city is worth $26K in the ATL. anyone that's been here for more than a week knows that you can't live on $60K. not if you don't want to live hand to mouth, with roommates no less, with zip amenities in a crummy neighborhood. no. if you want to live well in this town, you'll need to make at least 100K a year -- and if/when you do, you won't come anywhere near what little debbie and her kids have. not by a long shot.
no wonder new york yankees go down south, see how beautiful everything is and lose their damn minds. people who are from up here can't seem to fathom how good everyone has it elsewhere. and those of us who are not from up here have constant amnesia about what a decent quality of life is really supposed to be.
i can't forget because i have family down south who constantly remind me that in spite of the fact that i have a nice two bedroom apartment in west harlem and my name is on the lease, it's a stinkhole and something of a joke, compared to what i could have in the ATL for the same price. sometimes i wonder how much of a millionaire i'm going to have to be to have a middle class existence in the city, or if its something i'll even want if i ever get that far.
my new york city doesn't exist anymore. it's not just gentrification, per se. and yes, sex and the city ruined this city. but it's bigger than that. the city is in transition. it's dying. what we are hearing and seeing, from dire predictions about the economy and auctioning condos to the newly minted rentals up the block, is one long slow death rattle. soon enough, new york city will be very much like paris, france -- a place where only the very rich could possibly afford to live. people who service the city will come in from the outer boroughs. and after rush hour, the heart of the city will emptier than downtown houston at twilight.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
oh, biggity-boy!
this month's national blog posting month (nablopomo) theme is giving (up). i'm not sure how much i have to say on that one but then again, writing about the theme is optional -- and writing everyday for public consumption sparks me up. i have no idea why. probably because i have to make a daily deadline, really commit to it. and yeah, sometimes there's feedback. it's easy to forget how important feedback is when what i'm doing is so solitary.
wierd. i've got a ton of ideas coming at me, like shrapnel, and i have no idea why. it's riveting, exhilirating stuff, really freeing and strange. i'm scrambling to write any of it down, document all of it somehow, so i can dissect whatever sticks later when i catch my breath.
not that i'm not writing a lot, anyway. i've got my morning pages to plow through as soon as i wake up and somewhere in the middle of my day, i sit down somewhere, have tea and scribble something else. i'm still working on the book for a jazz burlesque musical. i'm writing more songs and lyrics for two projects that are well underway. and the idea for a one person show is starting to take shape and grow stronger in the back of my mind.
okay. let's see if i can pull this off.
wierd. i've got a ton of ideas coming at me, like shrapnel, and i have no idea why. it's riveting, exhilirating stuff, really freeing and strange. i'm scrambling to write any of it down, document all of it somehow, so i can dissect whatever sticks later when i catch my breath.
not that i'm not writing a lot, anyway. i've got my morning pages to plow through as soon as i wake up and somewhere in the middle of my day, i sit down somewhere, have tea and scribble something else. i'm still working on the book for a jazz burlesque musical. i'm writing more songs and lyrics for two projects that are well underway. and the idea for a one person show is starting to take shape and grow stronger in the back of my mind.
okay. let's see if i can pull this off.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
A NYC Memory
Since today is National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day, I thought I'd post a rather sobering top 10 list. But first, a New York City memory.
I met this sister on the bus a few years ago. I was headed home from 125th Street, so it was a relatively short ride. I don't know how we started talking. Maybe it was something that I was reading, something we both saw and laughed at. I don't know. What I remember is her telling me that it had been 11 years since she'd been to a gynocologist or a doctor of any kind -- and at this point, she was sort of afraid that something was probably wrong with her and there was nothing that she could do about it. The look on my face compelled her to explain, with a wave of her hand, that she didn't have money to see a doctor, she barely had money to pay her rent and keep her lights on, that sure, she wanted insurance but she couldn't afford it unless she gave up buying groceries and she couldn't do that because she had kids and kids need stuff every five minutes. And on and on she went.
I have been going to see a doctor at least every 6 months ever since I left my parents' jurisdiction. As a college student at UT (Austin), there was the clinic on campus that served 60,000 students more or less. When I decided that I didn't like them anymore, there was another one off campus, a community center that was run by what seemed to be educated, well-intentioned, bilingual hippies. I remember in particular that they nailed a bin to their door and stuffed with condoms, free of charge. They would sit and talk to me -- as opposed to the campus doctors who treated me like I was on a conveyor belt. I was so sad to see that, upon my most recent visit to The Nation's Capital, they were gone. But I digress.
When I moved to New York City and whined to my daddy that I didn't have health insurance because I didn't have a corporate job and I couldn't afford to purchase it a la carte, he told me that in this town -- to sort of quote the Stones, man -- I couldn't always get what I wanted but if I tried hard enough, I would get exactly what I needed. And you know what? He was absolutely 100 percent correct. He would know. He came to this town during the Great Migration North just as the Depression hit the nation, and he left during the Great Migration South, when African-Americans began going home in droves.
When I decided to finish my BA at The New School and they decided I needed a booster shot that I was missing from my childhood records, I opened the Yellow Pages and found a clinic somewhere in Chelsea that gave me that shot for free. You should have seen me, standing in a long, seemingly endless line with all those other black 9 year olds. You should have seen the doctor's face, when I came in without a little kid in tow and turned around and hiked up my dress and put my panties down. You should have seen the nurses' face when I insisted that she give me a lollipop, too. You should have seen the way the parents looked at me as I left.
Ah, memories.
I told my black sister on the bus that there was a clinic in the Adam Clayton Powell building that's run by a huge conglomerate of a hospital on the upper east side, specializing in mammograms -- but you can see a gynocologist and get a pap smear and anything else you can think of, if you want. And it's completely and utterly free.
She looked at me like I just threw up in her lap.
Look. There are a lot of variables floating around out there that can tell you why African Americans are infected with HIV/AIDS at such a high rate. Ignorance. The stigma of homosexuality and bisexuality in the black community. Lack of healthcare. Poverty. Incarceration rates. Higher prevalence of sexually transmitted diseases. Ghetto miasma. But the bottom line, really, is that this is a lifestyle disease. What that means is, if you live a certain way -- that is, having unprotected risky sex with multiple partners -- you are more likely to get this disease than if you don't.
We have to educate ourselves, we have to protect ourselves and we have to stop lying to ourselves. Don't stay in the dark about AIDS because you're delusional enough to think it's a gay white man's disease -- because the stats say that at this point, it's definitely an African American disease, and it's getting worse. Figure out what it is and get tested -- for everything and anything, actually -- so you'll know if/how it affects you. Don't have unprotected/unsafe sex with anyone -- ever, ever, ever. But instead of pointing at black people and asking, why can't they get it together, there's something we should all realize.
Lifestyle diseases are a phenomena of this modern industrial age. Think about it. With cars and subways and such, we stopped the all-day physical labor that comes with working on farms for example, or having to ride a bike or walk everywhere. We started eating way more dairy and meat and stuff like margarine and way less fresh vegetables and fruit. And surprise! We got fat. And then fast food happened, and we got really fat. And then junk food came along, and we collectively hit the couch as a nation, and we've been getting progressively fatter ever since. Throw in smoking tobacco, recreational drugs and unprotected sex and you get a real picture that shows most Americans what they look like. And apparently, thanks to fast food franchises all over the Western world, Europeans aren't too far behind. My point is this: all of it is within the individual's control.
It's not complicated. Stop eating garbage. Lay off the pork. Quit smoking (crack). Excercise. Use a good astringent to clease your skin, and then moisturize. (Yes, that's right! Acne is a lifestyle disease!)
But then again, it is complicated.
I think about that sister on the bus, how hard she works. I think about how difficult it is to find fresh fruit and vegetables in the ghetto -- and when you do, how expensive they can be. I think about how there are not one but three 24 hour McDonald's restaurants within a 10 block radius of my apartment -- all of them doing a brisk business with that ominous glowingly friendly dollar menu. Before Fairway came to my neck of the woods, I had to go all the way behind God's back to get the food I needed. And then I had to drag it all the way back home. And I did it, week after week. But it would have been so much easier to just throw up my hands and get a double cheeseburger for a buck.
It's like my trainer at my gym says about weight loss: You have to want it. But really -- don't you have to know what it is before you can really want it in the first place? I've worked in enough kitchens to know how to steam and saute vegetables until they're piping hot and brightly colored and crunchy. When I go down south and cook that way for my friends and a lot of my family members, they swear that none of it is ready to eat.
*sigh*
I've had the same gynocologist since I did my first national tour and went legit but I still go to that free clinic for mammograms. I hope sister woman took my advice and went there. Maybe I'll see her in the lobby one day, and we'll find something else to laugh about.
Here's that list. Enjoy.
I met this sister on the bus a few years ago. I was headed home from 125th Street, so it was a relatively short ride. I don't know how we started talking. Maybe it was something that I was reading, something we both saw and laughed at. I don't know. What I remember is her telling me that it had been 11 years since she'd been to a gynocologist or a doctor of any kind -- and at this point, she was sort of afraid that something was probably wrong with her and there was nothing that she could do about it. The look on my face compelled her to explain, with a wave of her hand, that she didn't have money to see a doctor, she barely had money to pay her rent and keep her lights on, that sure, she wanted insurance but she couldn't afford it unless she gave up buying groceries and she couldn't do that because she had kids and kids need stuff every five minutes. And on and on she went.
I have been going to see a doctor at least every 6 months ever since I left my parents' jurisdiction. As a college student at UT (Austin), there was the clinic on campus that served 60,000 students more or less. When I decided that I didn't like them anymore, there was another one off campus, a community center that was run by what seemed to be educated, well-intentioned, bilingual hippies. I remember in particular that they nailed a bin to their door and stuffed with condoms, free of charge. They would sit and talk to me -- as opposed to the campus doctors who treated me like I was on a conveyor belt. I was so sad to see that, upon my most recent visit to The Nation's Capital, they were gone. But I digress.
When I moved to New York City and whined to my daddy that I didn't have health insurance because I didn't have a corporate job and I couldn't afford to purchase it a la carte, he told me that in this town -- to sort of quote the Stones, man -- I couldn't always get what I wanted but if I tried hard enough, I would get exactly what I needed. And you know what? He was absolutely 100 percent correct. He would know. He came to this town during the Great Migration North just as the Depression hit the nation, and he left during the Great Migration South, when African-Americans began going home in droves.
When I decided to finish my BA at The New School and they decided I needed a booster shot that I was missing from my childhood records, I opened the Yellow Pages and found a clinic somewhere in Chelsea that gave me that shot for free. You should have seen me, standing in a long, seemingly endless line with all those other black 9 year olds. You should have seen the doctor's face, when I came in without a little kid in tow and turned around and hiked up my dress and put my panties down. You should have seen the nurses' face when I insisted that she give me a lollipop, too. You should have seen the way the parents looked at me as I left.
Ah, memories.
I told my black sister on the bus that there was a clinic in the Adam Clayton Powell building that's run by a huge conglomerate of a hospital on the upper east side, specializing in mammograms -- but you can see a gynocologist and get a pap smear and anything else you can think of, if you want. And it's completely and utterly free.
She looked at me like I just threw up in her lap.
Look. There are a lot of variables floating around out there that can tell you why African Americans are infected with HIV/AIDS at such a high rate. Ignorance. The stigma of homosexuality and bisexuality in the black community. Lack of healthcare. Poverty. Incarceration rates. Higher prevalence of sexually transmitted diseases. Ghetto miasma. But the bottom line, really, is that this is a lifestyle disease. What that means is, if you live a certain way -- that is, having unprotected risky sex with multiple partners -- you are more likely to get this disease than if you don't.
We have to educate ourselves, we have to protect ourselves and we have to stop lying to ourselves. Don't stay in the dark about AIDS because you're delusional enough to think it's a gay white man's disease -- because the stats say that at this point, it's definitely an African American disease, and it's getting worse. Figure out what it is and get tested -- for everything and anything, actually -- so you'll know if/how it affects you. Don't have unprotected/unsafe sex with anyone -- ever, ever, ever. But instead of pointing at black people and asking, why can't they get it together, there's something we should all realize.
Lifestyle diseases are a phenomena of this modern industrial age. Think about it. With cars and subways and such, we stopped the all-day physical labor that comes with working on farms for example, or having to ride a bike or walk everywhere. We started eating way more dairy and meat and stuff like margarine and way less fresh vegetables and fruit. And surprise! We got fat. And then fast food happened, and we got really fat. And then junk food came along, and we collectively hit the couch as a nation, and we've been getting progressively fatter ever since. Throw in smoking tobacco, recreational drugs and unprotected sex and you get a real picture that shows most Americans what they look like. And apparently, thanks to fast food franchises all over the Western world, Europeans aren't too far behind. My point is this: all of it is within the individual's control.
It's not complicated. Stop eating garbage. Lay off the pork. Quit smoking (crack). Excercise. Use a good astringent to clease your skin, and then moisturize. (Yes, that's right! Acne is a lifestyle disease!)
But then again, it is complicated.
I think about that sister on the bus, how hard she works. I think about how difficult it is to find fresh fruit and vegetables in the ghetto -- and when you do, how expensive they can be. I think about how there are not one but three 24 hour McDonald's restaurants within a 10 block radius of my apartment -- all of them doing a brisk business with that ominous glowingly friendly dollar menu. Before Fairway came to my neck of the woods, I had to go all the way behind God's back to get the food I needed. And then I had to drag it all the way back home. And I did it, week after week. But it would have been so much easier to just throw up my hands and get a double cheeseburger for a buck.
It's like my trainer at my gym says about weight loss: You have to want it. But really -- don't you have to know what it is before you can really want it in the first place? I've worked in enough kitchens to know how to steam and saute vegetables until they're piping hot and brightly colored and crunchy. When I go down south and cook that way for my friends and a lot of my family members, they swear that none of it is ready to eat.
*sigh*
I've had the same gynocologist since I did my first national tour and went legit but I still go to that free clinic for mammograms. I hope sister woman took my advice and went there. Maybe I'll see her in the lobby one day, and we'll find something else to laugh about.
Here's that list. Enjoy.
- According to the 2000 census, African Americans are 13% of the population (40.3 million, more or less) -- but as of 2006, we're 49% of all HIV/AIDS cases.
- Over 200,000 African Americans have died of AIDS, over half a million are living with HIV and African Americans are 10 times more likely than whites to have AIDS.
- Over half (52%) of African Americans living with AIDS and 58% of newly diagnosed cases amongst us are -- where? -- in the South. And we are only 19% of the population there.
- ...then again -- in DC, more than 80% of all HIV cases are amongst black folk. That's 1 in 20 people.
- Of all the black men living with HIV/AIDS, the primary transmission category was sexual contact with other men.
- In 2006, Black gay and bisexual men between the ages of 13 and 29 accounted for more new HIV infections among gay and bisexual men than any other race or age group. And more than half, or 52 percent, of all Black gay and bi men infected that year were under 30 years old.
- Of all the black women living with HIV/AIDS, the primary transmission category was high-risk (unprotected) heterosexual contact.
- HIV/AIDS is the number one cause of death amongst African American women aged 25 to 34.
- The HIV Cost and Services Utilization Study (HCSUS) -- the only nationally representative study of people with HIV/AIDS receiving regular or ongoing care for HIV infection -- found that Blacks fared more poorly on several important measures of access and quality than whites; these differences diminished over time but were not completely eliminated. Blacks were more likely to report postponing medical care because of a lack of transportation, were too sick to go to the doctor, or had other compelling reasons.
- If we were our own country, we would rank above Ethiopia (420,000 to 1,500,000) and below the Ivory Coast (750,00) in HIV population.
Monday, February 02, 2009
guess what?
you're probably not going to believe this, but i got a callback on that "opportunity of a lifetime" situation. it's for a doc series called "black to my roots" and here's the kicker: an exec at BET is producing it. and you know what i think of BET.
heh.
i am more than a supposed african-american anomaly. to tell you the truth, i just might be the epitome of everything that they are not expecting. this week, i do a 15 minute on-camera interview. this should be interesting.
...and yes, i have to admit it. i really am kind of happy that i went to the new york reality tv school. twice.
heh.
i am more than a supposed african-american anomaly. to tell you the truth, i just might be the epitome of everything that they are not expecting. this week, i do a 15 minute on-camera interview. this should be interesting.
...and yes, i have to admit it. i really am kind of happy that i went to the new york reality tv school. twice.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
the opportunity of a lifetime?
A brother and fellow Southerner sent me this notification the other day. He found it on Craigslist. Needless to say, I couldn't resist the urge to apply. When I responded to this, they sent me a questionnaire. When I sent the questionnaire, they gave me a call. A hearty round of phone tag ensued. I'm not sure, but I could be "it" at this point. Let's see what develops.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
HAVE YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO VISIT AFRICA? THIS CAN BE THE OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFE TIME.
A diverse group of African Americans (rich, poor, Northern, Southern, College Grad., High School Grad., Suburbia) are united on a trip to Africa to explore the Homeland. From townships and shanties to modern cities and skyscrapers, watch what happens when African Americans come face-to-face with the real Africa. Black to My Roots is a pilgrimage of personal and cultural discovery.
We are searching for a diverse group of applicants (Lawyers, Doctors, writers, hip hop artists, teachers, actors, nutritionists, fashionistas, etc). Please email a paragraph describing yourself and what makes YOU the ideal candidate for this opportunity, essentially what makes you UNIQUE.
Also, attach a photograph and your contact phone number. All entries must be received by 1/30/09. Openfocuscasting@gmail.com
----------------------------------------------------------------------
HAVE YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO VISIT AFRICA? THIS CAN BE THE OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFE TIME.
A diverse group of African Americans (rich, poor, Northern, Southern, College Grad., High School Grad., Suburbia) are united on a trip to Africa to explore the Homeland. From townships and shanties to modern cities and skyscrapers, watch what happens when African Americans come face-to-face with the real Africa. Black to My Roots is a pilgrimage of personal and cultural discovery.
We are searching for a diverse group of applicants (Lawyers, Doctors, writers, hip hop artists, teachers, actors, nutritionists, fashionistas, etc). Please email a paragraph describing yourself and what makes YOU the ideal candidate for this opportunity, essentially what makes you UNIQUE.
Also, attach a photograph and your contact phone number. All entries must be received by 1/30/09. Openfocuscasting@gmail.com
Friday, January 30, 2009
...and now, a few words from chuck d
While Bill O'Reilly at FOX News taunts hip-hop artists like Jay-Z, ridicules Cam'ron and Damon Dash on his show and ignores challenges from Nas to book an interview with Young Jeezy, Chuck D is in the UK and Europe, pontificating about the Obama effect and the state of things stateside on high brow chat shows and the like with political pundits and social/cultural theorists. I don't know what's more shocking for me -- the fact that this is an intelligent, thoughtful, opinionated, politically astute hip-hop artist in our midst, or that he is treated with such a high level of respect. Certainly his work as a seminal member of Public Enemy precedes him, especially in other parts of the world where they were wildly popular once upon a time -- and still are.
It should be duly noted that unlike most hip hop artists, Chuck D is a college graduate. He's also written a best-selling autobiography, has been tirelessly involved in political activism in the music industry and beyond since PE's inception (and received awards for it, by the way) and has remained popular on the college lecture circuit -- from Harvard to Howard -- for more than 20 years. One would think that if a tv show/news magazine would want to hear from an artist in the hip hop community, this guy would be on the short list. But he's not. At least, not in this country.
I know everyone in neoconservative America is raising a stink about the Jay-Z/Young Jeezy My President is Black remix but recently, Public Enemy made news when President Obama remarked that on his first date with his wife Michelle, he took her to see Spike Lee's film Do The Right Thing which featured the song Fight the Power. The media kind of ignored this one. If you read any of Public Enemy's lyrics, you'll know why. They started cranking out the jams in the 80s and the stuff is still poppin' fresh like it came out last year. Especially the song Fight the Power.
It's time to play the lyrics. Everyone's lyrics. For now, here's what Barack and Michelle were listening to on their first date.
Fight the Power
1989 the number another summer (get down)
Sound of the funky drummer
Music hittin' your heart cause I know you got sould
(Brothers and sisters, hey)
Listen if you're missin' y'all
Swingin' while I'm singin'
Givin' whatcha gettin'
Knowin' what I know
While the Black bands sweatin'
And the rhythm rhymes rollin'
Got to give us what we want
Gotta give us what we need
Our freedom of speech is freedom or death
We got to fight the powers that be
Lemme hear you say
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
We got to fight the powers that be
As the rhythm designed to bounce
What counts is that the rhymes
Designed to fill your mind
Now that you've realized the prides arrived
We got to pump the stuff to make us tough
from the heart
It's a start, a work of art
To revolutionize make a change nothin's strange
People, people we are the same
No we're not the same
Cause we don't know the game
What we need is awareness, we can't get careless
You say what is this?
My beloved lets get down to business
Mental self defensive fitness
(Yo) bum rush the show
You gotta go for what you know
Make everybody see, in order to fight the powers that be
Lemme hear you say...
Fight the Power
Fight the power
Fight the power
We got to fight the powers that b
Elvis was a hero to most
But he never meant shit to me you see
Straight up racist that sucker was
Simple and plain
Mother fuck him and John Wayne
Cause I'm Black and I'm proud
I'm ready and hyped plus I'm amped
Most of my heroes don't appear on no stamps
Sample a look back you look and find
Nothing but rednecks for 400 years if you check
Don't worry be happy
Was a number one jam
Damn if I say it you can slap me right here
(Get it) lets get this party started right
Right on, c'mon
What we got to say
Power to the people no delay
To make everybody see
In order to fight the powers that be
Fight The Power
Fight the power
Fight the power
We got to fight the powers that be
Thursday, January 29, 2009
a panel discussion in brooklyn about black women?
On Saturday, January 31st, from 2-4 p.m. the Brooklyn Museum will present a panel discussion entitled “What’s Black Got To Do With It?”
Moderated by Elvis Mitchell, film critic and writer of the HBO award winning film, The Black List Project, this panel will discuss how race, history, and individual striving have shaped Black Women’s stories of success, as well as what the next four years might hold for Black women now that Michelle Obama and her daughters have moved into the White House. Panelists include: Thelma Golden, Director and Chief Curator of the Studio Museum of Harlem; acclaimed artist Lorna Simpson, who is featured in the Black List Project; and Lola Ogunnaike of CNN’s American Morning.
For more information, click here.
Moderated by Elvis Mitchell, film critic and writer of the HBO award winning film, The Black List Project, this panel will discuss how race, history, and individual striving have shaped Black Women’s stories of success, as well as what the next four years might hold for Black women now that Michelle Obama and her daughters have moved into the White House. Panelists include: Thelma Golden, Director and Chief Curator of the Studio Museum of Harlem; acclaimed artist Lorna Simpson, who is featured in the Black List Project; and Lola Ogunnaike of CNN’s American Morning.
For more information, click here.
Monday, January 19, 2009
happy MLK Jr day
i've blogged a lot about martin luther king jr and what today means to me in these entries.
"Martin Luther King Jr Day" and Me
Martin Luther King Jr's Letter from Birminghan Jail
America, United
Senator John McCain's Black Gaffe
Where Are Our Black Leaders?
Telling It Like It Is
Don't Miss This CNN Special Report
In Observance of Cinco De Mayo: A Lingering Afterthought
this year, i've posted another speech that moved me -- obama speaking at ebenezer baptist church in the ATL during his successful run for the presidency.
enjoy.
"Martin Luther King Jr Day" and Me
Martin Luther King Jr's Letter from Birminghan Jail
America, United
Senator John McCain's Black Gaffe
Where Are Our Black Leaders?
Telling It Like It Is
Don't Miss This CNN Special Report
In Observance of Cinco De Mayo: A Lingering Afterthought
this year, i've posted another speech that moved me -- obama speaking at ebenezer baptist church in the ATL during his successful run for the presidency.
enjoy.
Friday, January 16, 2009
i'm african, part one: it started with the girl scouts...
i have always felt a genuine connectedness with any african i have ever met -- whether it's someone that i greet in passing or friends that i have made along the way. this connection is so real, it's almost tangible. neither the african in question or i know exactly what it is but we know that it's there and sometimes we are literally jumping up and down in the street, because we are so happy about it. when i tell them that i'm not from africa, they look a little disappointed. when i tell them that neither of my parents are from africa, they look somewhat confused.
when i walk down 125th street, i smile and wave like i'm the newly crowned miss black america. i greet all the africans in french -- the senegalese mommies with their babies on their backs, the haitian cab drivers, the angolans selling things in their little shops, the ladies from places like togo and cote d'ivoire and ghana who ask me if i want to get my hair done, the nigerian students -- and when i do, they light up and call me sister. how cool is that?
"you are a real african girl!" an older gentleman from ghana said to me recently. he blurted it out, like he was so overwhelmed with the idea of such a thing, he couldn't keep it to himself. and he so loved the idea of it, he turned it into a question and posed it to his friend, who smiled softly and nodded in agreement.
this has happened to me ever since i can remember.
when i was a kid, i used to babysit for an adorable nigerian couple -- graduate students at georgia state university who had two daughters. they would show me off to their african friends and say, "look at this pretty nigerian girl!" heh. some of them thought i looked yoruba. the rest said ibo. those were lite beer from miller "tastes great -- less filling" moments that still make me laugh. all of them encouraged me to ask them all the stupid questions i wanted. they would show me pictures and little movies and they would feed me fufu and tell me stories and explain all kinds of things. babysitting for them immersed me in their languages, their culture, their music. it was a pretty cool experience.
but as lovely as they were, they weren't my introduction to all things african. that happened with the girl scouts. (yeah, you heard me right. the girl scouts!)
this may come as a shock to all the blacker-than-thou black folk i know in brooklyn and newark, but it's true: more black folk live in the state of georgia than any other state in the nation. it's been that way for a very long time -- and with the new great migration that's been in flux for the past 30 years or so, our numbers there are increasing. also true: juliette gordon low, the founder of the girl scouts, is from savannah, georgia.
the girl scouts faction that you belong to basically yields to the whim of its troop leader. so if that adult leader wants to sell cookies all year, that's the way the deal goes down. it was the 70s, though, and it was atlanta -- and my troop leader was the epitome of afrocentric. she was evelyn ridley, the blackest woman on the planet -- certainly one of the blackest women i'd ever met. when i say black, i don't mean "of the negro persuasion" -- i mean she had that james brown "say it loud, i'm black and i'm proud" kind of black pride that had all this fire and immediacy up in it. she had a short, well groomed natural. she wore dashikis and wooden jewelry. she was married with kids but she had her own business, she was her own woman. she loved herself. she loved her blackness. she was pleased with her african features. she was savvy, smart, and really really cool. all of this radiated out of her essence as genuine self confidence and joy. when i met her, i knew that she was the fist that stuck out on the end of that afro pick i used every day to lift my blowout. and i loved her for it.
by calling her the blackest woman on the planet, i'm not taking anything away from any of the other black women in my life. but this brand of blackness was something new. in my little kid mind, she belonged in a pam grier movie, fighting "the man" and helping "the community" -- not here with us girl scouts. as it turned out, miss ridley was right where she needed to be.
she brought out a map of africa and made us learn about each country and talk about it, and she didn't stop there. we had all kinds of activities going all the time. we made field trips to museums to see exhibits that pertained to anything african, read books and articles, met and conversed with africans and had job fairs that sparked many of us to seriously think about what we wanted to do with our lives for perhaps the first time. at one point, we made outfits out of african fabric and did a harvest dance, with drummers and musicians and art and everything, and presented it in a big assembly at school. the rehearsals for that one performance were dynamic, instructional and fun.
my niece madison is in the girl scouts. she and her three brothers and her parents live in decatur. she also plays the cello, studies german and is a member of a black girl leadership incentive in her school called "the little corettas," in honor of coretta scott king. they also have formal father/daughter dances, and theater and museum outings. that's a pretty well-rounded life for a little black southern girl. every so often, she'll sell me a box of cookies. hm. now that i think about it, i don't think we ever sold any cookies under miss ridley's jurisdiction.
whatever happened to miss ridley, you may ask? she and my mother became close friends -- so close in fact that when my little brother moniah was born, she was chosen to be his godmother. i see her whenever i go home. she's still got that afro, too -- and i must admit, my blowout occasionally makes a reappearance.
this was my introduction to africa. from there, things got really interesting...
when i walk down 125th street, i smile and wave like i'm the newly crowned miss black america. i greet all the africans in french -- the senegalese mommies with their babies on their backs, the haitian cab drivers, the angolans selling things in their little shops, the ladies from places like togo and cote d'ivoire and ghana who ask me if i want to get my hair done, the nigerian students -- and when i do, they light up and call me sister. how cool is that?
"you are a real african girl!" an older gentleman from ghana said to me recently. he blurted it out, like he was so overwhelmed with the idea of such a thing, he couldn't keep it to himself. and he so loved the idea of it, he turned it into a question and posed it to his friend, who smiled softly and nodded in agreement.
this has happened to me ever since i can remember.
when i was a kid, i used to babysit for an adorable nigerian couple -- graduate students at georgia state university who had two daughters. they would show me off to their african friends and say, "look at this pretty nigerian girl!" heh. some of them thought i looked yoruba. the rest said ibo. those were lite beer from miller "tastes great -- less filling" moments that still make me laugh. all of them encouraged me to ask them all the stupid questions i wanted. they would show me pictures and little movies and they would feed me fufu and tell me stories and explain all kinds of things. babysitting for them immersed me in their languages, their culture, their music. it was a pretty cool experience.
but as lovely as they were, they weren't my introduction to all things african. that happened with the girl scouts. (yeah, you heard me right. the girl scouts!)
this may come as a shock to all the blacker-than-thou black folk i know in brooklyn and newark, but it's true: more black folk live in the state of georgia than any other state in the nation. it's been that way for a very long time -- and with the new great migration that's been in flux for the past 30 years or so, our numbers there are increasing. also true: juliette gordon low, the founder of the girl scouts, is from savannah, georgia.
the girl scouts faction that you belong to basically yields to the whim of its troop leader. so if that adult leader wants to sell cookies all year, that's the way the deal goes down. it was the 70s, though, and it was atlanta -- and my troop leader was the epitome of afrocentric. she was evelyn ridley, the blackest woman on the planet -- certainly one of the blackest women i'd ever met. when i say black, i don't mean "of the negro persuasion" -- i mean she had that james brown "say it loud, i'm black and i'm proud" kind of black pride that had all this fire and immediacy up in it. she had a short, well groomed natural. she wore dashikis and wooden jewelry. she was married with kids but she had her own business, she was her own woman. she loved herself. she loved her blackness. she was pleased with her african features. she was savvy, smart, and really really cool. all of this radiated out of her essence as genuine self confidence and joy. when i met her, i knew that she was the fist that stuck out on the end of that afro pick i used every day to lift my blowout. and i loved her for it.
by calling her the blackest woman on the planet, i'm not taking anything away from any of the other black women in my life. but this brand of blackness was something new. in my little kid mind, she belonged in a pam grier movie, fighting "the man" and helping "the community" -- not here with us girl scouts. as it turned out, miss ridley was right where she needed to be.
she brought out a map of africa and made us learn about each country and talk about it, and she didn't stop there. we had all kinds of activities going all the time. we made field trips to museums to see exhibits that pertained to anything african, read books and articles, met and conversed with africans and had job fairs that sparked many of us to seriously think about what we wanted to do with our lives for perhaps the first time. at one point, we made outfits out of african fabric and did a harvest dance, with drummers and musicians and art and everything, and presented it in a big assembly at school. the rehearsals for that one performance were dynamic, instructional and fun.
my niece madison is in the girl scouts. she and her three brothers and her parents live in decatur. she also plays the cello, studies german and is a member of a black girl leadership incentive in her school called "the little corettas," in honor of coretta scott king. they also have formal father/daughter dances, and theater and museum outings. that's a pretty well-rounded life for a little black southern girl. every so often, she'll sell me a box of cookies. hm. now that i think about it, i don't think we ever sold any cookies under miss ridley's jurisdiction.
whatever happened to miss ridley, you may ask? she and my mother became close friends -- so close in fact that when my little brother moniah was born, she was chosen to be his godmother. i see her whenever i go home. she's still got that afro, too -- and i must admit, my blowout occasionally makes a reappearance.
this was my introduction to africa. from there, things got really interesting...
Thursday, January 15, 2009
happy, happy, joy, joy, joy!
the new website is up and running, and it's ultrapayloaded. have a look and let me know what you think of all the bells and whistles. of course it's the same same bat time and the same bat channel -- but totally revamped. here it is for those of you who are playing along at home:
www.queen-esther.com
www.queen-esther.com
yay.
how did this come to pass? evidently, i have a friend in sweden -- and i can't thank him enough. (thank you, gunnar!)
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