Los Angelista

The Conversation of 11-Year-Old Boys: Bin Laden, 9/11 Conspiracies, Aliens, and Hiroshima

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 07:59:00 +0000

Think that 11-year-old boys are only wrapped up in pop culture and video games?

Spend some time with Mr. O and his friends and sure, you'll hear a bit about how much they despise Justin Bieber and how Batman Arkham Asylum is a great video game. But they're also discussing real issues with a curiosity and fervor missing from the conversation of many adults.

On Saturday afternoon Mr. O had his birthday party, and as I drove down the 101 Freeway with him and two of his best friends tucked into the backseat, I had the chance to overhear what the next generation is really thinking about.

1. Do people in Hiroshima and Nagasaki still feel the environmental effects of the atomic bombs? They say there's no way all that radiation is gone, and they wonder if they'd be able to survive a nuclear attack on Los Angeles.

2. What would it be like to grow up in either city, knowing you're walking where so many people died? Mr. O believes the spirits can still be felt and he wonders if ghosts hunters have ever visited.

3. Did George Bush know 9/11 was going to happen? They were quite divided on this and ended up deciding that Bush did not know, but other government officials probably did.

4. Was the way the U.S. military took out Osama bin Laden justified? They all believe he was a punk for hiding behind his wives and believe he should have been brought to trial or else put in the hands of the people "so they could do to him what the Libyans did to Gaddafi."

5. Yes, there are aliens! They're plotting how they can be the ones to bust into Area 51.

I'm so glad they're not shallow one-dimensional kids. I hope they don't lose this when they go to middle school next year.

OK, it wasn't all serious...there was some pop culture involved. One boy saw all my Depeche Mode stuff up in our house and started waxing poetic about how much he loves them. Seriously, that kid can come over to our house anytime!

Did Your King Day Celebration Have a Gentleman Biker in Head to Toe Pink?

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 15:23:00 +0000

Yesterday the family and I went to the 25th annual Kingdom Day Parade--and while there were celebrations and parades all across the country, I know nowhere else had a lowrider bike club in the house.

I would also bet big money that no other city had a gentleman rocking head to toe pink while cruising down the parade route. Can the church say fresh to death?

Seriously, when I grow up, I want to be him. Although, as Mr. T pointed out to me, that might be difficult to do literally since "You're a girl, and he's a boy, and you don't have a penis."

Mr. T and Mr. O both enjoyed the parade and loved seeing all the bands, and all the people who came out to march for what Dr. King demanded: jobs, justice, and peace.

We cheered the most for the many hardworking activists who refuse to stop working for equality.

Post parade I found myself thinking about how despite Los Angeles' long legacy of social activism, what gets most promoted about this city in the media is gang violence. There's more to this city than that, though, and it was nice to see it on proudly on display.

Throwback Thursday: Def Leppard and Riding a Bus to a Desegregated School

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 08:41:00 +0000

This morning I was stuck in hellish traffic and I found myself flipping through the radio stations, trying to find something good to listen to. I stopped the dial when I got to Def Leppard's rock classic "Photograph".

As the traffic inched down the freeway, I sang along at the top of my lungs with the lyrics I still know by heart nearly 30 years later. It's one of those songs that is on the soundtrack of my high school experience.

My high school was desegregated by busing two years before I got there. Kids from my mostly black, blue collar and middle class nieighborhood were bused out to a school in a predominantly white, well off area. My cousin was in that first class of black kids who were bused in, and he told me the tales of how he'd head to school, ready to learn, and see "go home n#%*%@'s" scrawled on doors and desks. Then he would get on the bus at the end of the day, with bus drivers who usually thought that kids from our side of town were nothing.

When I was a freshman, Def Leppard ruled top 40 radio and many of the white students at my school loved them--or at least acted like they did. But most of the black kids didn't listen to Def Leppard. And that style of music--the whole rock/hair metal/glam band scene became just another example of how we didn't fit in.

Once a student asked our bus driver to change the radio station to something more R&B or hip hop oriented like most of the kids on the bus wanted to hear. We were told that the music wasn't appropriate for a bus ride.

It made us mad that the drivers would never mix it up and play something new. They acted like every hip hop group was NWA. And so, as much as Def Leppard absolutely rocked, I started to hate them. I hated what our bus driver made them stand for: A white rock group was acceptable and seen as normal but stations that played black artists--R&B or hip hop--weren't.

Four years later at the end of my high school career, Def Leppard was still insanely popular, but danceable tracks from Jody Watley, C&C Music Factory, Bobby Brown, and Bell Biv Devoe had all become hits--and a black guy bused in to desegregate the school became the homecoming king.

Nowadays I will crank up some Def Leppard, but as much as I can belt out their hits, I've never forgotten how they became this strange symbol of the racial tensions in my high school and town.

On the Sixth Anniversary of My Brother's Suicide

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 00:57:00 +0000

Six years ago yesterday, my brother ended his life.

I made it through most of the morning without crying, but then I decided to send my parents flowers. The florist asking me what I wanted the accompanying message to say eroded my stoic facade. I started crying on the phone, and she admitted to me, "Gosh, you're making me cry, too."

Later on I felt guilty for crying, for still being so heartbroken six years on. It isn't that I have years and years of wonderful memories from the time spent with him. He was, sadly, caught in the cycle of addiction and incarceration that too many people end up in, and so he missed out on most of the births, deaths, graduations, and weddings in my family. Sometimes I wonder if that's what makes it so hard--when I think of his life there is a great deal of sadness and pain, and so it can't serve as a counter to the tragedy of his suicide.

When he killed himself, I hadn't seen him in a decade. The 18-year-old photo above is the last one that we would take together. He refused to come say hello when I was visiting over the holidays in December 2005, and I came back to Los Angeles only a few days before he made the irrevocable decision to put a gun to his head.

Six years on, I still think every day about going to see his body. It is a gruesome image that is forever seared into my memory, and this is what I wrote about it then:

"We stood to the side of the stretcher and Mr. O'Neal, the funeral director pulled the sheet down to uncover the face and neck. I haven't seen my brother since 1996 and there was such a sense of time stopping. I was, in that moment, unaware of anyone else in the room. I found myself focusing on his hair...shorter than I'd ever seen it, slightly graying around the temples. His closed eyes were beginning to sink into their sockets. I could see the back of his head, misshapen now, and all of the huge threads where it had been sewn shut again. I will never forget that. No book I read, no song I listen to, no story I ever write will take away the image of those huge threads."

When I wrote that six years ago, I didn't really know how true those words would prove to be. That memory comes to me at the most random times. I'll be in a craft store and I'll see threads that remind me of the threads in his head. Someone tells a story about visiting her brother, and it will come to me. Or sometimes I'll just be sitting in LA traffic, waiting for the car in front of me to move, and there it is...and so I turn up the music a little louder, trying to drown it out.

I know it shocks some people that I am so honest about all this but over the years, I've learned that this is a common tale in modern American life. I know this because too many people have written to me saying that they too lost someone who took his life because they were in such mental, emotional, and spiritual pain that whatever hell might be on the other side must've to be better than continuing to exist in this world.

I don't believe that the soul of someone who commits suicide burns forever. I believe death is just the start of something that we, with our limited focus on the physical and material, can't fully begin to grasp. And now my brother's soul has a fresh start and can continue to grow and develop.

Indeed, when I think about how much my life has changed over the past six years, I wonder how much his has changed, too. I like to pray for him and imagine his hopes and dreams blossoming in ways that I can't even imagine, his spiritual capacity expanded beyond my limited comprehension. When I think of that, that brings some measure of peace. Some sense of acceptance.

But for now, my feelings are raw, and so I will let myself cry for him, and for all that could have been.

5 Things I Learned About Blah People This Week

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 08:02:00 +0000

It’s an eternal truth that politicians lie. This week we found out that modern politicians like presidential candidate Rick Santorum lie about what they’ve said even when there’s video footage to contradict the lie.

Thanks to Santorum we know that it's possible to dogwhistle to a mostly white crowd of Iowans by saying "I don't want to make black people’s lives better by giving them other people’s money." Then, when you're called on your racism, you can have the audacity to go on Bill O’Reilly’s talk show and say, "and I didn't say that. If you look at it, what I started to say is a word and then sort of changed and it sort of—blah—came out. And people said I said black. I didn't."

Blah people. Gosh, it turns out that this week I learned a LOT about blah people. For example:

1. Weight Loss Companies Like to Hire Blah People: Jennifer Hudson and Charles Barkley for Weight Watchers, Mariah for Jenny Craig, and Janet Jackson for NutriSystem. Blah celebrities are getting PAID to sell losing the chub and getting fit. So why do some folks give our blah First Lady Michelle Obama a hard time for promoting getting fit through exercise and eating right--for free? Oh wait, is it because she's blah?

2. Blah Teenagers Born in the U.S. Can Get Deported to Columbia: Texas teen Jakadrien Turner ran away from home at the age of 13. She was arrested for shoplifting a year later, gave a false name to police--yes, there was drama back home and she probably didn't want to go back to her parents--and ICE deported her, even though she spoke zero Spanish. Turner is now 15 and, thanks to Facebook, she was found by her grandmother--working as a maid and pregnant. Yes, our blah president, Barack Obama, has been informed that someone effed up.

3. Blah Girls Are Experts At Articulating Racism: Comedienne Franchesca Ramsey was my heroine this week with on-point her "Shit White Girls Say...to Blah Girls" video. I have had almost every one of these things said to me, especially the part about suntans and "twins" and ALL the hair crap. It went viral--over 2 million views in just a few days--because it's such smart commentary and it's hilarious. I keep watching it to make myself laugh.

4. More White Iowans Are On Welfare Than Blah Iowans: Really, less than 10 percent of welfare recipients in Iowa are blah. That means over 90 percent are NOT blah. Hmm. I guess hard facts aren't important to politicians. Not when it comes to blah people.

5. Blah People Aren't Sitting Back And Twiddling Their Thumbs Over Rick Santorum: No, modern blah folks will rake a fool like that over the coals, mocking him with tweets like "I'm not racist. Some of my best friends are blah." I saw variations of that one so many times I can't give credit to just one person.

How Santorum didn't get laughed out of the country with that crap, I'll never know. Oh wait, he's not blah, is he?

Does Facebook Make You Miserable?

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 08:40:00 +0000

Every few months I see a story headline that tells us, Facebook Is Making You Miserable/Depressed/Fat/Stupid/Impotent.

OK, I'm lying about seeing the impotent story. But I'm pretty sure I've seen something about Facebook ruining your sex life. All that updating your status with "I'm bored" is getting back to your partner.

But back to Facebook and misery. The latest round on this meme is from a writer named Daniel Gulati who says Facebook is making us miserable because when we read status updates about what people are achieving or have, we can't help but compare ourselves and then we all seethe with jealousy and go cry our eyes out.

Of course, I decided to ask my Facebook friends about this. "Read yet another article today stating that FB is making us all miserable and dissatisfied with our lives," I wrote. "Are we truly just jealous of each other's fabulous, curated existence? (Should I tell you something that's going wrong in my life so you feel better about yours?)"

The consensus was that attributing misery to Facebook is, as one friend put it, "giving Facebook too much credit."

"I am happy to know more about the goings on in my friends' lives. I'm glad to hear about people's successes, and I'm sure most of us have commiserated or consoled on bad days, too. Sounds like it was written by a jealous person," replied another--which garnered several likes and the desire to double like the comment.

Indeed, because I am only friends with people I actually adore and consider my friends, I am happy for them when something good comes their way. I like to see what they're up to. I like to cheer for their successes and wish them well.

I also think they know they don't have to put on a show for me so that only the shiny, bright, and new is on display. Sure, I don't post status updates for every terrible thing that happens to me, but I'm not making up good things just to impress people, either. I just think, as I shared with my friends, "it would help if we all had a better understanding of the role of tests and difficulties in our lives."

I know that for every bit of happiness someone is experiencing, there is also something that they've gone through (or are currently going through) that has caused them immeasurable grief and suffering. Because that's life. Sky high one day and rock bottom the next.

OK, real talk, I was HORRIBLY jealous when one of my friends posted that his job now has an unlimited vacation policy. Damn. Damn. Damn! He still has to get his work done, obviously, but if he wants to take however long off, he can. AAAGGHHH!

But that jealousy is on me, isn't it? I certainly didn't feel the need to one-up him by posting "Oprah's adopted me and made me her heir!"

The only Facebook + miserable in a story headline I want to see is, "Is the New Facebook Timeline Making You Miserable?" Sigh. That wish won't come true, will it? I'd bet good money that the Facebook is ruining your life story won't go away anytime soon.

Photo via (cc) Flickr user Sean MacEntee

The End of The Bodhi Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 08:28:00 +0000

Los Angeles is known as a place people come when they want to forget the past and reinvent themselves. But when I moved here in 1998, I had no desire to pack my identity into a box and stuff it into a storage locker. Instead, I needed someplace to remind me of my roots--to remind me of who I am. Someplace where I could breathe deeply and feel at peace.

Other than the Compton school I taught in, I had a difficult time finding places like that. Everywhere I went I felt like I was watching and participating in a fleeting piece of performance art. And that made me hate this city.

However, one Saturday I decided I was being too harsh on the vapidness I saw around me, so I made plans to go explore Melrose Avenue. Unsurprisingly, I hated the whole scene and all the overpriced, trendy clothing stores and unhappy looking people that came with it. After 15 minutes or so, I got in my car. I didn't know where I was going, but, being new to the city, I figured I'd drive west on Melrose, and see where the street would take me.

The trendy shops gave way to what seemed to be fancy furniture stores, and soon after that, I spied a sign that said "Urth Caffe". It looked like a promising spot to grab a cup of coffee and chill so I turned on a side street, parked my car, and began walking back toward the cafe.

I never made it to Urth that day because on my way there, I passed the first bookstore I'd seen in nearly two months in Los Angeles, the Bodhi Tree.

As the stacks upon stacks of books in my home can attest, I've never been able to not go into a bookstore and this one looked friendly enough. I walked up the three or four steps to the entrance and went inside.

Crossing the threshold was like entering a new world. Inside I found a magical assortment of crystals, scented candles, incense, yoga supplies and world music. But the real treasure was the literature. The Bodhi Tree was full of books about the world's great religious and faith traditions, philosophy, self improvement, spiritual practice, and all forms of mysticism. It was the first place I truly felt at home in this city.

During that first year, I went to the Bodhi Tree more than anyplace else, And in the years since then, even though it wasn't exactly close to me, I headed there as much as I could. In its stacks, I came across books that changed me creatively--Michael Gelb's How to Think Like Leonardo Da Vinci and Julia Cameron's classic The Artist's Way.

Being there also made me feel less homesick for Chicago. The Bodhi Tree sold the same kind of candles that I was used to buying back at Heartland Cafe in my old Rogers Park neighborhood. But, moreso, I'd head to the Bodhi Tree simply because I liked it. The staff always had a kind word and a cup of tea for me and anyone else who entered. It was a place of peace, calm, and of learning and healing.

Even though I know nothing in this fragile world lasts forever, I suppose I thought the Bodhi Tree would always be here. But, after 41 years, on New Year's Eve, the Bodhi Tree closed it's doors. The owners are now in their seventies and, like many independent bookstores, sales are down significantly. They'd hoped for a buyer and still remain optimistic that someone will buy the store and relocate it, but so far, nothing has panned out.

As much as I wanted to, I couldn't make myself go over to say goodbye to the place that has meant so much to me over the 13 years I've lived in Los Angeles. I want to remember the Bodhi Tree as it was--full of warmth, positive energy, and plenty of good books. Bodhi Tree, you will be missed.

Photo via (cc) Flickr user joguldi

The Los Angelista January Fitness Challenge: Day 1

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 05:28:00 +0000

Last week I posed a question on the Los Angelista Facebook page: "Anybody want to do a workout challenge with me for the month of January? Exercise at LEAST 10 minutes a day every day?"

The response was a pretty resounding "YES"--which means I'm clearly not the only one who'd like to see more muscles in her hustle in 2012.

So, welcome to the Los Angelista January Fitness Challenge, an easy chance for all of us, black, white, yellow, red, and brown--and OK, the purple people, too--to build the habit of daily exercise.

At this time of year folks are always making resolutions to eat right and exercise. For 99 percent of people those resolutions are forgotten by February. Having been there before, part of the problem is that we try to do too much too quickly. Going from not exercising every day to putting in 30 minutes or an hour every day is a BIG change. If you're as busy as I am, some days finding 30 minutes to do anything extra feels like an impossibility.

That's why I figure a 10 minute minimum is a doable option. In 10 minutes, I can turn up the radio and dance around the house. I can do a workout that's on YouTube (like these from SparkPeople), or I can do what I did today, which is take my dog for a walk--yes, walking is exercise--through the hills. Even though I only planned to walk Andromeda for 10 minutes--the minimum--I ended up walking her for 27 minutes, which means I exceeded my goal! Whoo hoo!

Now that may not seem like a lot for someone who's training for a marathon--and yes, I did run 10.2 miles on Saturday--but even I need to step it up. Before I got acute bronchitis in November I was running three to four times a week. Not being able to breathe curtailed that workout schedule pretty quickly. I'm trying to work back up to that. So yeah, working up to exercising every day is going to be a challenge for me, too.

If you still want to join the challenge, it's NOT too late. I mean, today was a holiday so if you didn't do anything, I don't blame you. I didn't even get up till 2 p.m. and then I laid on the couch watching back-to-back episodes of Storage Wars--till Andromeda came bouncing around and I realized I needed to take her for a walk.

Every day in January I'll be posting my workout over on the Los Angelista Facebook page. And, every Sunday during the month of January I'll post an update here on our progress. Here's to collectively getting healthy in 2012!

The Obligatory Los Angelista 2011 Year-in-Review Post

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 07:09:00 +0000

It's almost time to bid 2011 adieu and welcome 2012 with open arms. But before I do, CLEARLY, I have to do a year-in-review post. Cuz, aheml, all the cool kids are doing them. Right?

Of course 2011 wasn't all ponies and rainbows for me, but this list isn't the here's-all-the-ways-my-life-sucked-in-2011 list. I'm not dwelling on the unpleasant things of life, and when a future me looks back on this blog entry, I want her to read about the events, things--and people--that most touched my heart.

January: I kicked off 2011 in a scary way. I was at the gym and began experiencing classic heart attack symptoms. I got banned from running for six weeks. Multiple doctor's tests later--the verdict was that I needed to be more like this dude:

Alas, even though I've been on vacation for the past week, overall I'd still give myself a D in chilling out. And not just because I still don't own a lowrider bike.

February: I headed to D.C. to interview Secretary of Education Arne Duncan. Here I am in the Eisenhower Executive Building and in the back of the White House:

I also went back to D.C. a couple of weeks later for the Teach For America alumni summit and fangirled all over Spelman College president Dr. Beverly Tatum. She's the author of one of my must-read books, Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?

Look at us in our gray dresses. We're like twins!

March: I got soaked to the skin ~~swimming~~ running the Los Angeles Marathon in a torrential downpour. I just love this picture of Mr. T running out to say hi to me at mile 18. Me in my stylish trashbag!

April: I went to see his purple badness, Prince!

May: My dreams came true and I met Depeche Mode's Martin Gore for the first time ever.

Equally special, I got to spend time with the Amazing Depeche Mode Crew. Really, my fellow Depeche Mode fans are the best.

And then my best friend in LA graduated from law school which was awesome...until later in the summer when she moved away for a fantastic job. I'm so proud of her, but I'm still heartbroken. This is my first Christmas and birthday without her in years. I cried on both days because I miss her so much.

June: Mr. T kicked off his summer vacation by breaking his wrist, which made me reflect on how jacked up our "healthcare" system is. Poor baby.

July: Mr. O shot an independent film with our friend, the awesome director Alex Rockwell. O had such a great time filming and it was incredibly interesting to see the behind-the-scenes genius at work.

And then we all cut up with the belly dancer at the wrap party. Look at Mr. T work it!

August: Vacation! I took four days off and headed up the central coast to Morro Bay where there was boogie boarding and exploring the coast. Yes, it was as cold as it looks. If you don't have a wet suit, you can forget getting in the water.

September: Mr. T and Mr. O started third and fifth grade, respectively. Ah, September, the heady days before I nearly lost my mind trying to find a decent middle school for Mr. O.

October: Medal! I ran the Los Angeles Rock-n-Roll Half Marathon! And no kidding, this track, Kalifornia, got me through the last two miles.

November: Another kid in Mr. O's classroom decided to call him the n-word, and then I filmed both of my boys talking about the racial slurs they've been called.

December: I met Depeche Mode's Martin Gore AGAIN! Really, as tough as 2011 was, a second chance at fangirling all over the architect of the soundtrack of my entire adult life again was the perfect way to cap off the year.

That smile! I am ALL teeth!

So what will 2012 bring? Well, if we believe the Mayan calendar, we're all going to meet our maker this year. I'm OK with that. But in the meantime, be good to yourself and be generous with your love and friendship. See you next year!

Having the Sex Talk

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 00:26:00 +0000

I'm sitting here watching Robin Hood Prince of Thieves with Mr. T and there's a part where one of the villagers gives birth to a baby. The helpful Saracen--played by Morgan Freeman--delivers the baby. It's a pretty PG birth scene, but they do show a slimy, sorta bloody baby.

Mr. T asks, "Did we come out all covered in blood like that?"

"Why yes, you did."

"Eww. That's gross."

"Well, yeah, but that's what happens when babies are born." And that's not the half of it, but he's only 8 so we don't need to get into all the graphic details.

"It makes me glad I'm not a woman so I don't have to have a bloody baby come out of ME," said Mr. T.

"Well, you will have to be extra loving and helpful to your wife when she has one coming out." Or else.

"Eww. That means I'd have to have IT. Ewwwww. Gross." He started writhing in his chair and making disgusted faces.

I was genuinely confused. "No, you don't give birth to the baby. Your wife does."

"EWW! I KNOW THAT! But ewwwww. I'd have to have IT."

I was still confused. He already knows the mom has the baby. "Have what?"

"I can't tell you."

"Just tell me."

"It's gross. I can't. And I'm never having a wife."

"You don't want a wife? Of course you want a wife."

"No I don't. I'm not doing that."

"But you don't have the baby! Your wife does!"

"FINE! I'd have to have S-E-X to have a baby. That's gross." And then, in a small voice, "And I don't think I'll like it. And my wife might not like it either because then she'll have to have the gross bloody baby."

"Oh, really," I laughed. "I think she'll like it."

"Well I won't," he declared. "I'm never having sex." And then he shook his fist at me. "EVER."

Clearly, as open and upfront--and age appropriate--about sex as I am with Mr. T, there is still a looong way to go. In the meantime, I don't think I can stop laughing.

I Can't Tell You My Birthday Wishes

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 08:20:00 +0000

Being a year older feels good.

I live in Los Angeles, the epicenter of youthfulness fixation, and maybe because of that, I'm even happier to put another year under my belt and claim it: 39 years-old feels good!

It feels so good that I decided to kick it off at the California Department of Motor Vehicles, renewing my driver's license.

I had to go in to take a new picture--I've renewed twice without a new picture, so I guess they have to eventually make sure I haven't gone totally LA and hooked myself up in a blond weave. I decided to do it on my birthday, to make it real official.

Along the way, I learned a few DMV lessons:

1. Make sure people know you're walking past them in line because you have an appointment: Just say "Excuse me, I have an appointment." Let them know you aren't trying to cut them. Otherwise, folks become upset and get all loud. "S'cuse me. HEY. The line starts back there."

2. Take your own pen: The DMV employees won't lend you a pen and none of the pens available for public use work.

3. Guys will try to get their mack on EVEN in the DMV: "So, uh, yeah, I was peepin how you're sitting here all sexy, waiting for your appointment."

Waiting WITH my kids. Blank Stare.

I chased away the DMV drama with a chai and some retail therapy.

And...my day ended like this:

I made a bunch of wishes. Yes, world peace was one of them. No, I'm not going to tell you the rest of the wishes. If I do, they won't come true.

Some Risks Are Worth Taking

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 08:00:00 +0000

"I love skating." That's what my 8-year-old, Mr. T, wants the world to know.

On Monday we headed up the coast to Santa Barbara and--much to T's joy--I took him to the city's beachfront skate park. I watched him ride his board for over two hours, well past the moment when the shadows began to lengthen and sunset's chill began to creep in from the Pacific.

What's remarkable to me is that T still loves skating even though on the first day of summer vacation he fell off his skateboard and broke his wrist. Now he's back at it--going harder then ever.

As I watched him zoom around, I got to thinking about how it's that time of year when everyone's contemplating what resolutions they'll make for the new year and plotting what they're going to stick on their vision board for 2012. While I don't have any specific resolutions or visioning completely thought out--why does the Gregorian new year always seem to sneak up on me?--I do know one thing: I think I want to be more like T.

T frequently says we are twins. And indeed, our temperaments are very similar--we've both been caught dancing on tables before--but if I broke my wrist you couldn't pay me to get back on a skateboard. It wouldn't matter how much I enjoyed skating.

Indeed, I've admired T's fearlessness and his sense of adventure for several years. He reminds me that there are risks I should be taking that I'm not. I'm not talking about taking immature, jackass-style risks. There's no glory in being stupid and putting myself in harms way. It's just that we adults--ok, I tend to think of every.single.thing that could possibly go wrong. T doesn't. I miss not feeling the need to over-analyze all the details.

That said I suppose my equivalent of getting back on a skateboard is how even though I've been in several car accidents--all the other party's fault, thanks dumb Angelenos--I'm still driving a car. However, some of the fun of driving is gone. I'm always thinking someone's going to crash into me and that one of these days, the luck of the Irish may be M.I.A. and I may not walk away. I don't think T is thinking a broken bone is going to happen to him again.

So in 2012 and beyond--if that whole Mayan calendar turns out to be a hoax--here's to remembering that some risks are worth taking. Thanks, Mr. T, for the reminder.

Sometimes There Are Tears on Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 18:05:00 +0000

One of my neighbors is outside sitting on the steps right under my kitchen windows, sobbing into her cell phone. The sound of her crying--heaving, gasping for air--is heartbreaking. From what I can gather, she was dumped by her boyfriend last night.

I want to go tell her that any man who breaks up with her on Christmas Eve is not worth crying over. I want to tell her that no matter what, do NOT get back together with him. Cut all contact with him. Act like he's dead. And when the stores open tomorrow, she should go buy herself a good consolation present--something healthy like a massage, a day at a spa, a month of personal training or vegetarian cooking classes.

I don't think she's going to do that. She's still stuck in why.don't.he.love.me.anymore.when.I.did.everything.for.him.and.I.loved.him.so.much....

Maybe he was too cheap to buy her a Christmas present so he figured he'd get out of it by breaking up with her. I should just go take all the ice cream in my freezer downstairs and set it down on the steps next to her. With a large spoon. Except, even though she's having a very public meltdown, I don't know her well enough to go put my unasked-for advice into the mix. At least she has someone to talk to--a friend who will listen while she cries.

In all seriousness, so many people have things going on in their lives that are a thousand times more serious than getting dumped by some loser, and they don't feel they have a friend they can call up and talk to about whatever is going on. Combine that loneliness with the reluctance to seek professional therapy plus the overhyped fantasy of how people spend the holidays--a bustling, warm home filled to the brim with laughter, presents, and homemade Christmas cookies--and it's no wonder that people get so depressed at this time of year.

I don't have an easy answer for people who are depressed--or for the crying girl downstairs--but all I can think, dear reader, is that I hope you have the best gift of all: someone to talk to, someone who is a good listener, someone who loves you.

Photo (cc) by kevin dooley

3 Reasons I May Go Into Hiding Till December 26th

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 08:36:00 +0000

"It's the most wonderful time of the year
With the kids jingle belling
And everyone telling you 'Be of good cheer'

It's the most wonderful time of the year"

Every time I hear that song--usually in a commercial jingle--I figure its original singer, Andy Williams, is facepalming. That woman who pepper sprayed folks in Walmart on Black Friday was just the tip of the iceberg for how the shopping frenzy around Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa has spiraled to new heights of out of controlness.

Call me the Grinch if you must, but I've decided I need to hibernate till December 26th because of the following:

1. Traffic: I've lived in Los Angeles for 13 years so I'm used to bad traffic, but the past few nights people have been driving recklessly: Flagrantly running stoplights. Doing u-turns in the middle of busy streets. Flicking people off. Crashing into each other. Making hand signs like they're shooting a gun at me.

2. Insane Lines. I went to Barnes & Noble and the checkout line was 36 people deep--and that was with EVERY available cashier working. I felt sad putting the collection of O'Henry stories I wanted to buy back on the shelf, but there is nothing I want badly enough that I'll stand in a line like that, especially when I know it will still be there after December 26th.

3. Holiday Cheer is MIA: Maybe the cheer is out in the Valley, but tonight I saw two women get into a screaming match in Bath and Bodyworks over who was going to get the last of a particular gift basket. Sigh.

How many more days till Christmas? I am seriously waiting for this "most wonderful time of the year" to be over.

Photo via (cc) by Flickr user ashi

Want to Buy Cold Medicine at Target? They'll Try to Scan Your Driver's License

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 08:28:00 +0000

Years of exposure to advertising has taught me that when I go to Target, I should "Expect more pay less". Well clearly, they need to change their motto to "Expect to get your driver's license swiped through a barcode reader."

Indeed, this morning I got quite the surprise in the checkout lane. The cashier was happy to ring up all my purposes, but when she got to my box of DayQuil she paused. "I need to see your ID for this," she said.

Hmm. The DayQuil wasn't locked up and there was no sign saying I needed to show ID to buy it. But, I know folks use DayQuil and other over-the-counter meds to cook meth and other drugs. I figured the cashier just needed to see that I'm over 21. Even a blind bat could tell that I am, but whatever, I pulled out my ID and held it up so she could see photo and birthday.

The cashier tried to take it out of my hand. "I need to swipe it it."

Hold up. Swipe it?

"Yes," she said, pointing to a bar code reader on the side of the cash register. "I need to swipe it."

"Why do you need to swipe my ID?" I know I had on my Major Side Eye face when I asked, but I didn't care. Any corporation trying to swipe my government ID sends warning bells off in my head. Heck, they don't even swipe driver's licenses at the airport, so why does Target need to do so?

"To verify your age," she replied. "Because that's our store policy."

Since when? I've had bronchitis since mid-November and have been in Target buying both DayQuil and NyQuil. And generic OTC Claritin. No one has so much as peeped about scanning my license.

I refused to hand my license over, so the clerk said I couldn't buy the DayQuil. I asked for a manager and explained to him that there was no way in hell I was going to hand over my goverment issued ID so that Target could scan and download all the data available in the barcode on the back.

"Legally, you can't make me do that," I told him. "And if I you did swipe it and download my data and your system got hacked by identity thieves, I would file a class action lawsuit against you since your request is illegal."

Now, I don't really know if it's illegal for them to require me to let them scan my ID for DayQuil, but I was betting on them not knowing either. Plus, I live in Los Angeles. Any mention of lawsuits scares folks.

Next thing you know, the manager agreed to allow me to verbally tell them my birth date, which they then typed into the register. Then he entered a password to override the ID-swiping requirement.

Here's the funny thing: I've been sick since November 13, so I've purchased a LOT of cold medicine. During one trip to Rite Aid, I bought some DayQuil, NyQuil AND TheraFlu--all at the same time. That cashier at Rite Aid didn't say anything to me about ID.

What's going on with Target and their little ID scanning scheme, and what are they doing with everybody's data?

Photo via Some rights reserved by kevin dooley

"If I Was a Black Kid": Grammatically Incorrect Racism at Forbes

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 18:18:00 +0000

Back in 1729, genius author and satirist Jonathan Swift wrote “A Modest Proposal”—a searing indictment of societal attitudes toward the poor and the ridiculous solutions being offered up to solve poverty. Swift suggested that it made economic sense for poor folks to sell their year-old babies as food "to the persons of quality and fortune" in order to earn money and survive.

Yesterday when I followed a link over to the Forbes website and began reading Gene Marks’ essay, “If I Was a Poor Black Kid”, I just knew I had to be reading a Swift-style satire—albeit a poorly written, grammatically incorrect one—of the racist, simplistic solutions that are all too common in education reform and society as a whole. Indeed, Marks, who aptly describes himself as a “short, balding and mediocre certified public accountant” offered up a slew of lame Horatio Alger-type remedies for closing the black achievement gap.

Unfortunately, Marks is like so many other Americans who have bought into the racist mythology that black kids just need to work harder to get ahead. And, his essay, although chock-full of "advice" for poor black kids, is actually not speaking to them. Jay-Z may have had a recent Forbes cover but trust, poor black children are not logging on to Forbes to read Gene Marks.

Instead, Marks is speaking to the Forbes audience: mostly well off, conservative white men who, at a time of racial, social, and economic change—a black president, 25 percent child poverty, and the rise of the "We Are the 99 Percent" movement—are needing reassurance of their place of superiority and privilege in the world.

The superiority Marks must have in order to write, “If I was a poor black kid I would first and most importantly work to make sure I got the best grades possible. I would make it my #1 priority to be able to read sufficiently. I wouldn’t care if I was a student at the worst public middle school in the worst inner city,” is stunning. But it's not unusual. In America, we have all had a frustrating conversation with an "I'm not racist. I'm trying to help you people" Gene Marks kind of individual before.

Marks has probably never even been in the worst public middle school in the worst inner city. Unless he's done some serious Black Like Me-style research or hung out with someone like Jonathan Kozol, he has no idea what he's talking about.

We shouldn't be shocked. In America, someone who has no clue what's really going on usually has the power to decide what is the appropriate solution for another group of people, all without consulting that group of people.

We must remember that accuracy doesn't really matter for someone like Marks. White privilege means that he is automatically—by virtue of the superiority his skin color offers—correct.

In his essay Marks is simply doing what America has done for centuries: He's holding up the carrot of the American Dream, telling folks to jump up to get it, all the while knowing that their legs are chained to the ground by the racism, oppression, and crippling circumstance they face. And when they can't reach that carrot, he blames them and tells them they're not trying hard enough.

Marks and others of his ilk desperately want to believe that inequality is a matter of choices. Instead of focusing on how to ensure that all people are treated justly and genuinely have an equal opportunity, he boils it down black people choosing not to take advantage of opportunities.

To really take away any element of human responsibility—his responsibility—Marks suggests that technology is the answer to everything. “If I was a poor black kid I’d use the free technology available to help me study. I’d become expert at Google Scholar,” he says.

And now, poor black kids, since Mr. Gene Marks, has told you about Google Scholar, you have no excuse for not achieving unless you choose not to do so. You are choosing not to access Google Scholar on your nonexistent home computer with your nonexistent internet.

C'mon, black kids, Marks knows you have a home computer and internet because someone told him this is the case. Somebody call all the researchers who study the digital divide and inform them of this, please.

Marks also says that in case they don't have a computer, all the poor black kids should just buy a computer from the Dell Factory Outlet--seriously--or go to the public library and use all the free technology there.

It doesn't matter that poor black families don't have several extra hundred dollars sitting around for a new home computer. If they really wanted it, they would save every penny they could to get one. Even if it takes them years to do so. That pervasive attitude is why Marks feels comfortable writing, "Technology can help these kids. But only if the kids want to be helped."

Marks' inside sources on poor black neighborhoods also neglected to inform him that many public libraries aren't open as much thanks to budget cuts. Public libraries in poor communities of color also don’t get the nice amenities—like multiple computers that actually work—like their counterparts in wealthier, whiter neighborhoods. Plus, if you're poor and/or black the library staff may be likely to make certain assumptions about you, be reluctant to help you, or be downright rude to you, particularly if you're a powerless child.

But remember, black kids don't access all the resources Marks has helpfully laid out for them because they're lazy and don't want to be helped.

Then Marks started in on how black kids need to research the best magnet and charter schools for themselves to attend. "I would use the internet to research each one of these schools so I could find out how I could be admitted. I would find out the names of the admissions people and go to meet with them. If I was a poor black kid I would make it my goal to get into one of these schools."

Oh really? Marks should talk to some of my peers, college educated parents of all backgrounds who have spent the past few months trying to figure out the LAUSD magnet process so we can get our children into a decent middle school. I'm sure the average poor black kid can do what we've done—spend countless months calling people, calling them back, leaving messages, driving all over the city visiting schools—even if it's like having a part time job.

If a poor black kid isn't able to do that, according to Marks, that's their choice. They had the chance to hustle and jump through a million hoops and they chose not to. They didn't want to be helped. They must not really want to succeed—unlike all the hustling white children who roll out of bed and walk 10 minutes through their safe, tree-lined neighborhood to attend their excellent neighborhood school.

But say the stars align and that one poor black kid who really cares about her future somehow manages to get into an excellent school. According to Marks, the first thing she should do is march straight to the guidance counselor and become BFFs with her.

"This is the person who will one day help me go to a college," says Marks, taking on his Sybil-like personality of a poor black kid in a middle-age white man's body. "This is the person who knows everything there is to know about financial aid, grants, minority programs and the like. This is the person who may also know of job programs and co-op learning opportunities that I could participate in. This is the person who could help me get summer employment at a law firm or a business owned by the 1% where I could meet people and show off my stuff."

Except, Mr. Marks, the guidance counselor might look at you, a poor black kid, like she hates you. She might deliberately not tell you about any of those opportunities. She might suggest that instead of going to college, being an AUTO MECHANIC is a good career option for someone like you, a black kid who's taking all honors and AP classes and has stellar SAT scores.

At least, that's what my high school guidance counselor did. I'm sure no other excellent black student in America has ever had a similar experience, because racism has nothing to do with anything. It's how hard you try. Right, Mr. Marks?

Marks' audience wants to hear that "the biggest challenge we face isn’t inequality. It’s ignorance." And now poor black people—and Latinos, and anyone else who's not a Forbes reader—have been informed. It's up to them to follow through on the information, no matter if it takes a Herculean effort to do so. That's why Marks wrote, "the opportunity is still there in this country for those that are smart enough to go for it."

For racists, opportunity must always rely on so-called intelligence. We've heard the black people aren't as intelligent lie for centuries. Facts don't really matter in a racist system that relies on the illusion of equal access and Marks knows that.

But if Marks was at all interested in the truth, he'd recognize that black people have only survived for centuries in this country because we are smart and hard working. Without our entrepreneurial spirit and culture of perseverance, we would never have gotten this far. We are not the problem.

Back when I was a young school teacher I always told my students, many of whom were poor and black, that although I expected excellence from them and wanted them to learn to read and write on or above grade level, neither of those things were the most important things in life. After all, Hitler knew how to do both. Hitler even wrote a book and plenty of people bought it.

Instead, I told my students that the most important thing was that they learn to read, write, do math, critically think, and independently investigate the truth so that they could further equality and justice in the world.

Marks makes me glad that I gave my students that advice. He is proof that any insidious fool can slap together some sentences to justify their inherent sense of superiority. And clearly, they can get published in a well-respected, mainstream magazine (who is now profiting from all the traffic being driven to their site.)

Marks is even defending himself in the comments section, sharing examples he's found of children who "don’t seem to have any problem understanding the importance of an education" and "have such a good outlook on life and want to work hard to succeed with limited resources."

His stubborn refusal to admit he is wrong doesn't mean that the rest of us have to stand idly by and let lies go unchecked and unchallenged. We all have to step up, take action in our communities, and be the advocates for poor black children—for all children—that people like Marks don't want to be.

Photo untitled by John Steven Fernandez on Flickr.

There's Sagging, and Then There's Captain Red Underpants

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 07:56:00 +0000

After 13 years in Los Angeles, I'm used to most of the over-the-top ridiculousness happening over on the trendy section of Melrose Avenue. Fortunately my sons aren't so jaded. They're still talking about this Captain Underpants duo that they saw on Saturday afternoon, particularly, the red rear-end fellow on the right.

Red Drawls is strolling along like it's normal to have your behind hanging out--obviously, he thinks he looks cool and hip. But Mr. T, Mr. O, and their friend Mr. H just about fell out on the sidewalk as he passed us.

"Gross! Look at his BOOTY!!"

"Eww, his BUTT is showing."

"That's disgusting! Why doesn't he pull up his shorts?"

But when they began chanting "Santa Claus underpants"--because, as Mr. T pointed out, "He has on Christmas colors"--over and over again, I knew I had to snap a photo with my phone.

Sure, this guy provided a few minutes of comedy, but really, is this necessary? Why even put on the shorts? Just wear the underwear out in public if it's like that--and then tell everyone you're making the ultimate fashion statement.

Sigh. I really wonder how long it will be before the whole sagging thing falls out of fashion. I hope that day arrives sooner rather than later because seriously fellas, having your butt hanging out like this is not a good look.

When Lightning Strikes Twice: I Met Depeche Mode's Martin Gore AGAIN!

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 12:00:00 +0000

"And I would have to pinch her
Just to see if she was real
Just to watch the smile fade away
And see the pain she'd feel"

If Mr. Martin L. Gore--singer, songwriter, musician, and founding member of Depeche Mode--pinched me, I'd probably smile even harder. Indeed, I've been beaming all week because last Saturday I headed up the coast to Santa Barbara because not only is Gore quite the musical genius, he also gives back to his local community by DJing events that raise money for music education programs for youth. Making the soundtrack of my life for the past 30 years AND a heart of gold! Who is this man, and can we clone him for posterity?

I bought tickets for the event, not knowing who was going to watch my kids, whether I'd be rolling solo or if my husband could get the night off--all I knew is I was going. After meeting Martin in May--and somehow managing not to throw any underwear at him--I figured it would be STUPID to pass up another opportunity to admire his hair up close and personal. I've even had bronchitis since mid November and pretty much the only reason I went to the doctor last week is that I didn't want to be coughing all over the place and feeling too sick to enjoy myself at the event.

You see that smile in my picture with him? That's me MAJORLY enjoying myself. Actually I'm surprised my smile didn't jump off my face and attack him.

Just think, if only my phone had been turned on so he could hear that verse from Depeche Mode's 1990 B-side "Happiest Girl" ringing while I stood next to him. I could've been all, "Gee, didn't you write this song? I listen to it at least a dozen times a day. I even have that verse as my ringtone..."

Yeah, maybe it's better that didn't happen. Sigh.

There were a few technical difficulties at the start of his set. I love that as many times as he's been on stage, he actually looks a bit worried. Prince always says that he's gonna put on an amazing show whether he's performing for 10 people or 10,000. It's pretty clear that Martin feels the same way.

Fortunately, the problem was minor--something wasn't plugged in properly--so after only a few minutes Martin finally managed to get his DJ groove on for us. I was completely thrilled that he played his latest project, a techno record named "Spock", which is the product of a collaboration with former Depeche Mode member Vince Clarke--who went on to create Yaz and Erasure after leaving Depeche Mode.

Of course, along with Mr. Gore being the bombdizzle, the thing that always makes any Depeche Mode event an amazing experience is the time spent with other fans. In particular, I was so happy to meet Lenina, who is one of the Depeche Mode Message Board moderators, for the first time. She came all the way from Mexico and I couldn't give her enough hugs.

She's so thoughtful that she remembered that my birthday is coming up at the end of the month, and so she brought me a lovely pair of silver moon and star earrings.

Fans like Miranda--who has one of my fave Depeche Mode tattoos--were also there. Really, if I didn't fear pain I might go for something like this:

There was also a cake, complete with a Martin Gore cookie that I hear someone jacked early on in the evening. I wonder if the person who grabbed that cookie is going to freeze it like a wedding cake and just take one bite per year.

There was plenty of dancing and general good energy. But, before I knew it, it was midnight, Mart's set was over, and it was time to head home to Los Angeles. He looked so happy at the end of it. I think everybody in there was really touched by how happy he was.

What amazes me is that I've loved Depeche Mode forever and never met any members of the band. Now, in 2011 I've met Martin twice. Earlier this week a friend commented that in the picture of the two of us, we look like old friends. My reply? I have kind of known him for nearly 30 years. He's been there for all the ups and downs, even if he doesn't know it. For that, thank you, Mr. Gore.

Yes, Tintin Is Crazy Racist and Anti-Semitic. No My Kids Won't See It

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 14:51:00 +0000

Back in the late 1970s when I was a kid roaming the stacks at my local public library, I wandered across a set of adventure books with a character named Tintin. I read the back cover of one and it looked fun. I loved Tintin's cute dog named Snowy. However, my mom always reviewed the books I was taking home so she saw a Tintin book in my to-be-checked-out stack.

"You can't get that one," she said, removing the Tintin book from arms. "Those stories are racist."

Of course, I decided that I was going to read the Tintin books on the sly during the two (sometimes three) hours we'd spend in the library every week. Well, then I picked up a well-worn copy of Tintin in the Congo. There on the cover was a black guy with bright red lips. Hmm...I'd seen that kind of imagery before and it was a red flag for me. But, I cracked the book open, read it, and wow, my mom was right.

Just as I'd seen black Americans portrayed as bumbling, monkey-like idiots, black Africans--the Congolese people--were being depicted in a similar light. I was done with Tintin before we even really got started.

Later on I found out that some Tintin stories also depicted Jewish characters as sinister villains and moneylenders. So showing black folks as animal-like and an anti-Semitic angle...WINNING!

Fast forward to 2011 when a Tintin movie is about to come out here in the U.S. Last night I asked on Twitter, "Curious if there are other parents out there who are not taking their kids to see Tintin because of it's racist, anti-Semitic history."

One of the responses, from Side-Line Magazine, retweeted my tweet, prefacing it with "load of crap."

This morning, I asked them for clarification, tweeting back, "I'm sorry, what's a load of crap, a movie based on a racist book character or... ?"

Their reply? "not a racist character at all. I think you've never read cokes in stock, the blue lotus. All very humanistic Tintin stories."

Of course, Side-Line is based in Belgium, home of Tintin author and illustrator Hergé. I can understand being patriotic for your country, but c'mon son, don't act like what happened didn't happen. I can also appreciate that Hergé's attitudes changed over the years. But that still doesn't mean I have to support it. Or that I have to act like I don't know the real history of Tintin.

I'm not alone in my concerns about Tintin. A human rights lawyer in the U.K. recently lobbied to get it removed from children's bookstores. That led to the Telegraph posting a list of the racist allegations against Tintin. Gems like:

"In 2007, the UK's Commission for Racial Equality called for the same book to be banned, saying it contained imagery and words of racial prejudice. One of the most controversial scenes shows a Congolese woman bowing before Tintin, saying: "White man very great. White mister is big juju man".

I've also heard how some Congolese just love them some Tintin. Colonialism, like slavery and Jim Crow wasn't just physical oppression. Psychological oppression did a number on folks of African descent, too.

I know, pointing out the truth is spoiling all the fun. Some people will say I shouldn't be so sensitive...Everything can't be perfect and the past is in the past, right? Spielberg is Jewish so if it was racist or anti-Semitic, he would refuse to make the film, so what's my problem?

Explain to me how I'm supposed to forget racist depictions of black people in the source text for a film and take my children, who get called the n-word at school, to see it? Yeah, right. I'm just going to have to be sensitive because this film won't get a dime of my money.

Yes, I'm Calling the Cops if I See Your Grade School Age Kid Walking Alone at Night

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 04:42:00 +0000

If you ever see either of my sons walking down a major street at night by themselves, feel free to call the police on my trifling behind. I'm not kidding. There is no reason in this day and age that a small child should be out roaming around by himself.

Tonight, for the second time, I had to call the cops because there is a little boy who lives in the sketchier side of my neighborhood whose mother is so clearly out of her #*@^(&% mind that she has her kid out walking down the street by himself.

Three weeks ago I was headed to Skylight Books for a Saturday night of fun. I planned to see my good friend Jason Sperber read from Rad Dad--it's a fab new anthology he's featured in--but those plans were derailed at a stoplight when I spotted a young black boy--maybe 5 or 6-years-old--standing on the corner by himself, waiting for the light to change. I looked around and saw no adult standing with him--sure there were plenty of other questionable characters around--but the kid was by himself. So, my husband, my sons and I had a quick conversation:

Me: You see that kid over there?
Him: The one by himself?
Me: Yeah, what should we do?
Mr. O & Mr. T (outraged): Where are that boy's parents?

Question of the moment. It was after 6 p.m. and nice and dark. Where were his parents?

The light turned green and the boy started to cross the street, going in the same direction we were driving. I drove through the intersection, during which my husband and I had another quick debate over who was gonna get out of the car and approach this kid to make sure he was OK. We voted on me as being the less threatening of us both, so I pulled the car up alongside the curb and got out and ran after the boy.

"Excuse me, young man," I said as I approached him. "Where is your mom or dad?" I was so uncomfortable asking him--rule number one is don't talk to strangers and here I was, a stranger.

His reply broke my heart: "She left me."

My phone started buzzing with my husband calling me, but I kept questioning the boy as I walked alongside him. "Why did she leave you?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Where is she now?"

"Up there." He pointed to a figure walking a couple blocks ahead of us that hadn't looked back at all. I answered the phone and quickly told my husband the deal as the boy took off running. We agreed that we had to call the cops.

I ran down the street after the kid while explaining the situation to the police. I gave them his description--young, dark skinned, bald headed black male child in a green and white striped shirt and jeans. I saw him dart into a driveway--while my husband, who had driven around the block, pulled up alongside me.

I am not the one for going down strange driveways but my husband investigated and determined through a conversation with two dudes getting drunk on the steps outside the apartment building's entrance that the boy had gone inside. I gave the police the address and told them I was leaving the scene because I did not want to get myself or my kids jumped by some trifling woman who let her child walk down the street alone and is mad because the cops got called.

My whole family was upset so we ended up driving home instead of going to Skylight. Ten minutes later, the police called, wanting to know if I could come back to the scene and identify the child.

Um, no. I gave y'all a description. No, I'm not coming over there so the mom can see who called the cops. I live around here and I'm not trying to endanger my life or my family's. I told the officer on the phone all this very directly. "Well OK, ma'am. Thank you." Click.

My husband told me that the cops probably wouldn't do anything about it--and I guess he was right because sure enough, I saw this poor child out again tonight by himself, walking down the street on the edge of my neighborhood--a spot I wouldn't be comfortable walking through at noon.

Where was his mom? Who knows. This time she was nowhere to be seen. I again dialed 911 and gave the police his description and the details. I didn't stick around to see what happened to him. I was by myself and, like I said, it is seriously sketchy over there. Tonight there was no pulling over to ask him if he was OK. The police didn't call me this time so I have no idea whether they found him or not.

I feel horrible about not stopping to see if he's alright, but what can I do about it other than call the police? I suppose in my mind I'd created a scenario where the police went and arrested the mom for child endangerment or abandonment and then the boy ended up in a cozy foster home.

Yeah, I'm living in fantasy land...and it makes me so angry that this child is going through this and there really isn't any help for him. But I guess I'll just have to keep calling the cops and hoping that somehow God protects this child from all the terrifying things that I imagine are happening to him.

Lovers and Prayers

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 07:55:00 +0000

Just a glow lingering over the horizon of the Pacific, a sliver of a crescent moon and Venus right above...Some sunsets are so beautiful that they seem simultaneously made for lovers and for prayers.

Muppets Are For the Lovers, the Dreamers and Me

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 07:42:00 +0000

Did you have a wonderful Thanksgiving?

I have to say thanks to all the staff working in my local grocery store on a holiday because I was up in there three times today. Somehow I'd forgotten to buy graham crackers for the pumpkin pie crust (trip one) and whipped cream for the pumpkin pies (trip two to the store), and even though I told my husband to get fresh green beans, he bought canned ones home.

Yeah, by the third visit I had to make sure I went to a different checker because seriously, it was about to be a "You, again?" scenario.

This is the first Thanksgiving in almost five years that we haven't had anyone over or gone to anyone else's house. The past few years I've gone to Thanksgiving with a dear friend and her family, but then my friend moved out of LA this summer--so we had a lot of sadness around the table wishing they were still here. That said, the dinner was fabulous--both the cooking and the eating with my family.

After all the dishes were washed--which felt like it took forever--we went to the movies to see "The Muppets". And for the record, I would've been up in the theatre even if I was a single woman with no kids.

I mean, I still miss my childhood Pigs in Space lunchbox. I also had a Kermit stuffed animal that I slept with and I loved the two grumpy old men that sit in the balcony on "The Muppet Show".

I'm not going to reveal any plot details but the movie is SO good. Everybody in my family loved it--we were talking about it the whole car ride home and after we got home, we still talked about it while eating our homemade pumpkin pie.

I remember going to see "The Muppet Movie" when I was a kid, and I fell in love with the song "Rainbow Connection" that opens the film. It was nice to hear it again in "The Muppets". OK, that's one detail but that's IT I'm not telling you anything else!

When "Rainbow Connection" came on in the film, I immediately started singing along--as did most of the adults in the theatre--and 8-year-old Mr. T turned to me in surprise and said, "You know this song???" But by the time the chorus came along the second time, he was singing along with me.

It was such a sweet moment that I almost started bawling right there in my seat. I have a pretty awful memory but it was one of those moments that I know I'll remember when he's all grown up. And I certainly hope in this jaded world that when he grows up he doesn't forget to be a lover and dreamer.

A Butt Made of Fix-a-Flat? What Would The Hottentot Venus Say?

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 07:55:00 +0000

Two hundred years ago, a South African woman named Saartjie Baartman was lured onto a ship bound for Europe with the promise that she'd be able to make a fortune by putting her body--OK, her ass--on display. Indeed, for five years, Baartman's extremely large--and 100 percent natural--behind was on display in both England and France. Visitors could come to Picadilly to see the Hottentot Venus, as Baartman was called, displayed naked in a cage--being ordered by her keeper to squat, sit, stand, or walk. Baartman was used to prove the animalistic nature--the out of control sexuality and inferiority of black people.

When abolitionists of the time attempted to rescue her from her situation, Baartman, who was most certainly under pressure from her captors, claimed that she was willingly putting herself out there. And, it was all good because she was, unlike other slaves, getting paid.

Fast forward to the present:

The pursuit of an ass that can be tooted to the sky for attention has gotten so out of control that we have Oneal Ron Morris--a transsexual man who clearly has had some "help" distorting his own rear--posing as a back-alley doctor and injecting cement, Fix-a-Flat, mineral oil and super glue into another woman's booty. And this other woman paid Morris $700 to do it.

Now Morris is in jail, the woman developed a slew of medical problems, and Saarjite Baartman--who became an alcoholic and died after five long years of 19th century backshots--is surely turning in her grave.

I imagine Baartman would tell these ladies that the check--and the attention--isn't worth the physical or emotional pain. We are more than our asses. Too bad we've been trained well over the centuries to think otherwise.

“Why’d You Give That N***** Your Eraser?”: When Your 10-Year-Old Is Called Racial Slurs at School

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 00:31:00 +0000

“Why’d you give that n***** your eraser?”

I send my two sons to school to learn, not so that they can be called racial slurs. But on Wednesday, a boy in 10-year-old Mr. O’s fifth grade class decided to make sure that the classroom was an extra welcoming learning environment. He posed the above question to another student, after that kid decided to give my son an eraser.

My son told me about it when I went to pick him up from his after school program and of course I was angry and upset, but I also felt numb. I am the mother of two black males in the United States. That means this is not the first time my boys have been called a racial slur.

I could write about how we are not post-racial and this is exhibit A of why I believe that racism is still America's most vital and challenging issue. But it came to me that there's something powerful about letting children--the most innocent of us all--share what it feels like to be called the n-word in class.

Last night I asked the boys if they'd like to talk about the racial slurs they've been called, and how it makes them feel. They were excited to share--we all know it's cathartic to be able to share something painful that's happened--and I'm glad that they know that they don't have to keep the racism they face a secret or act like it's not a big deal--or that it's something they have to be ashamed of.

I filmed this interview with my boys before they went to sleep and in it Mr. T, my eight-year-old details being called an African bitch at school, and he talks about the first time he remembers being called the n-word. Mr. O talked about this most recent incident in his school, and then both boys talked about how it feels to know that when kids say these things, you still have to be in the classroom with them and what they think schools should do.

I have cried every time I watch the six minutes of this clip. It hurts like nothing else to know that children think it's OK to call other children dehumanizing names that are steeped in the sickness of this nation's racism.

You Should Probably Assume That Someone You Know Is a Child Molester

noreply@blogger.com (Los Angelista) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 16:52:00 +0000

Since the Penn State child sex abuse scandal came to light last week the question I've heard asked more than any other is why didn't someone say something? Why didn't any of the Penn State administrators, football team staff, or their wives--because you know those guys went home and told their significant others what they'd seen or what rumor they'd heard--say anything?

I've heard plenty of talk about money, money, money. We all know that college football is big business, and anything that might mess up the gravy train had to be squashed. However, what confuses me about this motive is that it would've made sense for somebody involved to try to pay off the boys and their families and have them sign non-disclosure agreements. As far as I've heard, that didn't happen. That said, if Jerry Sandusky had been busted embezzling millions from Penn State, we all know someone would've told with a quickness.

Most of the abused boys are black, so maybe the problem is that Happy Valley is a racist place. Who cares what happens to some black boys, right? They're only useful when they're making awesome punt returns or catching an amazing pass in the end zone, but valued, loved, and respected?

I don't think we can say that black boys are valued, loved, and respected in our society. I don't need to rehash the dismal academic stats on black boys to have a clear picture of just how much we don't care about them--especially if they're not Division I athletes.

What I keep coming back to is that the discussion about why nobody said anything has to take place in a broader context beyond what happened at Penn State. If one in four girls and one in seven boys are being molested, there's a whole lot of people out there not speaking up and telling what they know or saw.

Teachers are mandatory reporters of abuse, but I can recall a few incidences where I told colleagues that I was going to report something and I was, shockingly, told that maybe I shouldn't. "She's just lying to get attention," was what one teacher across the hall told me. "Her whole family is liars. She can't help it."

One well-meaning yet completely stupid piece of advice was that by reporting that a student's mom's boyfriend was raping her, I'd be making the student's life worse. "If you report that and they get taken out of the home, they'll probably end up in an even more abusive foster care situation."

I did my duty and reported every single time. But what's sad is that usually the parent knew that no one else would say anything, so it HAD to be me. At the end of some days I just wanted to write a letter that said:

"Dear Parent, Thank you for coming up to the school and threatening to slash my tires and telling me I better watch my back because I reported that your boyfriend has been raping your daughter. By the way, I hope you burn in hell for all eternity."

Yeah, the moms always knew. The neighbors sometimes knew. Nobody ever called the police.

Of course, this isn't isolated in schools. We have a code of silence when it comes to sexual abuse, and it's to the benefit of the perpetrators. They get away with their actions because people--not just those employed by Penn State--frequently turn a blind eye to it. "That's a private thing," I've been told. "I don't want to get the police involved. I don't want to have to be answering a bunch of questions about it."

The last time I had to report sexual abuse, I wasn't a teacher. I had to report someone that my family knew, and yep, there was no denying that this was the end of friendships, to say the least.

Guess what? I didn''t care. Immediately after I found out what was going on, I called the police and told them what I knew.

What was the LAPD response? "Ma'am, what exactly do you want us to do about this?"

I'm still floored that the officer had the nerve to say that. Sure, the detectives apologized later for the horrible response of the officer manning the non-emergency number, but it sums up the problem in a nutshell.

Everybody wants to pass the buck and act like its not happening. Or we're supposed to sweep it under the rug--let families handle it however they choose--which usually means not handling it.

Frankly, I'm surprised that so many people are shocked by what's happened at Penn State. Do we really think that NO ONE running any of the big football programs is a child molester? If you say yes, welcome to my instant side-eye.

Maybe I'm cynical. Maybe I'm paranoid--but given the stats, I always assume that someone I know is a child molester. It's usually someone you know--and I know that given the chance to be alone with my child, they'd go down that road.

The people sexually abusing kids aren't lurking under a viaduct, waiting for one of my sons to walk by. They're the coaches, just like Jerry Sandusky.