the south central chronicles

Don't Ask... Don't Get!

2010-12-31T12:59:00.000-08:00

Don’t Ask Don’t Tell has been the topic of discussion for much of 2010. Obama was able to end the year with at least one monkey off of his back by getting the policy repealed; making it possible for people to serve our country as they are, no matter their sexual orientation. Typically, I would have been more involved in this movement while leading heated debates laced with politics and lined with Louboutins. But in all honesty, much of the past few months has been a bit of a blur. Life as an indie artist has this new mother investing more time debating cloth vs disposable diapers opposed to my former self, who spent that energy comparing Chanel to YSL. Okay… I still do the latter but my priorities have been made over like Tina Turner. Motherhood has been an intense transition, rewarding, but super duper intense which usually has me pulled in a million different directions. One day, I was so overwhelmed trying to reconcile who I was with who I have to be and I looked around my house and yelled “WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYBODY?” Once I was sobered by my son Cassius' expression, who was looking at me as if he was certain I’d lost my mind and replaced his mother with the nutcase he was giving a once over, I remembered something. My friend Keith Harris’ mother Ms. Ruth, said to me a few years ago, “You have not, because you ask not!". She had witnessed me contemplate asking for a keepsake from her in laws wedding a bit too long and needed to slow my roll. When she said that to me, I froze because it was such a simple concept, yet I was making such a big deal out of asking... for a floral arrangement. Once I realized just how sophomoric I was acting, I marched over to one of the staff members and asked for a centerpiece. Needless to say, she was happy to oblige. In fact she offered me two! You would have thought I hit the jackpot and I did, have you seen the cost of Magnolia's lately? So back to my meltdown, with Cassius who was now looking at me as if he was back in the land of his familiar and I realized I still hadn’t fully absorbed that concept. I rarely asked anyone for help. Asking was still very taboo to me and was a sign of weakness. In the dynamic of a relationship, asking was on par with nagging and I would never want to be "that girl".

My epiphany was that I was a product of my environment and asking for help was like scratching a chalkboard. My grandmother, Hazel, owned a dry cleaners and a bar/lounge in upstate NY. She was amazing with money and very very savvy. Keep in mind, this was the 50’s-60's when she acquired these businesses which was a huge feat for a man, but almost unheard of for a black woman. In turn, my mother had a strong work ethic and made her own way to provide for my brother, sister and me. I never ever heard the “I don’t need a man…” mantra used loosely in my home, but seeing my matriarchs operate in the way they did where men were scarce, had its own unwilled impact. Not to imply the men in my family are lazy; in fact, most of them are in very solid marriages and are model fathers. It’s just that the women simply would not ask for the simplest of things. So while the game was on, on any given Sunday and the men were usurped in the play by play, the women were cooking. And since they were in the kitchen, they would just empty the trash; and while they were outside, they would grab the newspaper; and while they were walking back into the house, they would change the outside flood light; and on their way back in the house, they would sweep out the garage; all the while, hotlinks and cabbage with iron skillet corn bread was on the stove. Meanwhile, the men were steady asking, “When we gon’ eat?” That's just how it was. Now this has spawned a breed of young men who will watch a woman do manual labor and not feel any kind of way about it. What’s just as crazy, is that we have been conditioned to be on board with this epidemic. It’s given birth to a generation of resentment between the sexes where men will let a woman pull up to the pump and get her own gas while they are adjusting the radio dial. This surpasses chivalry but speaks of the disconnect from mom's teaching and the choices a man makes in a romantic relationship, where gender roles come into play. Trust, if a woman can't cook, clean or put out... he's ghost. And I do understand the fundamental unspoken ideals that make a relationship less sexist, but instead more functional. Listen, we all have to eat, so someone should be cooking. It's just that same person shouldn't have to clean the storm drain, too. Manual labor means “Man, you all” do that kind of work. I can do it when I don’t have you around, but when you’re there… your help is valued and appreciated. Thus... the hot meal and the hot pants you deserve! What’s the solution? Women simply have to start asking the men around to help. A virtuous man takes pride in doing those "Brawny paper towel role looking man or James from Good Times"things, but it doesn’t make him less than if he needs to be asked from time to time. This includes brothers, nephews, uncles and lovers. And when they say they will, let them do so in the way they see fit. The world won’t stop rotating on its axis because he didn't fold the towels into thirds or if the leaves aren’t piled to the left of the mailbox. I can’t show a man how to be a man, but I can provide an environment that allows him to contribute in his own way by asking, then falling back. It took me years to grasp this concept and I’m still no better at putting it into motion i.e. five days after my c-section on my roof... clearing the gutters, in the rain.

In not asking, you're not having... either. This notion stretches far beyond a household, but it's a great place to start. I've gotten quite a few unfavorable things I didn't ask for as of late, so I will be very clear where my asking thoughts go. So ladies, the next time we are in the kitchen and the men are watching the game, let’s test the technique. Bring them their plate (with a smile), ask them to take out the trash and leave it at the door. Do try this at home. Lastly, if you find a man who fits the bill, HOLLEEEEERRR!

*** R.I.P Geraldine Hoff Doyle who was the inspiration behind the iconic ad "We Can Do It" died on 12/26/10. She took a factory job in support of the war after learning some young men who volunteered to fight, had been killed in the line of duty. Beauty and brazen make for a wonderful combination!

the HILLS have EYES

2010-08-13T00:31:00.000-07:00

Don't be alarmed by the sista with the backside of a Stallion, onion, bunion or whatever the latest homage to the booty is these days. This is her shining moment, on the corner of Washington and Crenshaw during peek hour traffic. For obvious reasons, she is more than going out of her way to make certain her top rests on the small of her back. Thank heavens for camera phones and my girl Kharyns' slick angle for the shot, because seeing is believing. You see, this was one of the many jaw dropping moments we shared at my annual 30th birthday party while eating Kahlua cake and telling each other how good we all look for our varied pretend ages. Mad jokes with a coupon for spanks on a warm valley Saturday night in the City of Angels. We laughed and packed plates with leftovers, snapped some photos and argued over which "Auntie" my son Cassius is more fond of. Come 12:30am, Cash and I were headed back to "The Aves" of S. Central to settle in as I reflected on yet another wonderful year I am most grateful to live to tell. As I continued to reflect on my life, another woman's fate would make headlines just two days later, but not in the City of Angels. In the dark cold mountains of Malibu. According to a French ornithologist (who was researching why the Owls were dying in that region) described Malibu as the "place of the sick Owls". Turns out, these beautiful mystic creatures were dying and no one knew why.

The Ventureño Chumash Indians were the aboriginal people, whom like many other natives were wiped out for pennies on the dollar for land control. No wonder the owls were getting sick. Too wise for their own good... any creature who sees in 360 degrees is bound to be vulnerable. They bring new meaning to The Hills Have Eyes and in the case of Mitrice Richardson, I'm willing to bet more than the owls saw what happened to her on that dark night last September.

On August 9th, 2010 human remains were found in the Malibu Mountains which would later be identified as Mitrice Richards. I remember seeing the news of her disappearance almost a year ago and like most of us, felt a kind of way... then. Nothing really added up, but one thing was certain. A black woman was missing and equivocating police officers were the last people to see her alive. Regrettably, a grim outcome would be the fate for this beautiful daughter and friend.

Malibu. One of the darkest places in LA both literally and figuratively. The ocean at night swallows the moon and the sound of the crashing waves can be both therapeutic and haunting. The Chumash Indians called the mouth of the Malibu Creek "Humaliwo" meaning, the surf sounds loudly. You could ask them for yourself if they, like millions of other natives, were still alive to speak of their beautiful folklore and traditions. Today, Malibu is for the wealthy families with deep pockets', hit film producers, Hollywood's elite and rolling hills of secrets and conspiracy. This young black woman will share her resting place with the thousands of Chumash Indians, who like Mitrice, trusted the wrong men.

Places like Paradise Cove was known to have been sacred Indian burial grounds like many other parts of Malibu, which is why most brown and black folks are cool on setting up shop there. We just know better. Besides, the mudslides ain't really the move. I digress. See... the woman on the bike and images of the like that are emblazoned into the psyche of white Americas conservatives can make them less than enthusiastic; about getting to the bottom of the obvious foul play re: someone like Mitrice Richardson. I'm all for liberation and sexual abandon, but all women pay for big booty girls on a bike. Don't get me wrong; the biker chick is not to blame, but the objectification certainly doesn't inspire the cops to grab a flashlight and a few dogs to look into the deep brush of the Malibu mountains. Perhaps... there was nothing to look for because they themselves know what went bump in the night. Either way, there will be one less black girl, coming to my neighborhood tonight. One less black girl who will mother a child. One less black girl who will make her mark in the world. But one more black girl who lay naked and dead in the cold of the night. Alone.

No wonder the owls die... they know whooooo.

For details re: Mitrice Richardson's case, see the family website. Let's pray for peace beyond understanding for the Richardson family and justice for Mitrice.

http://www.bringmitricehome.org/

Zapp, jail and bean pies.

2010-06-15T10:31:00.000-07:00

I was stopped at the light at Florence and Crenshaw with the sunset glaring blindly into my eyes when through my squint I noticed Zapp had an upcoming show. Songs like Heartbreaker and More Bounce To The Ounce had me reaching for the phone to see who wanted to roll to the concert when I noticed the sign underneath. "Receive calls on your cell phone from jail" with a number and discount. Once around 3 people blew their horns and screamed expletives indicating the light was green, I realized I wasn't seeing things. I needed to make a block and come back around to capture the moment. As I was standing on the corner getting the shot and was fortunate enough to get offered both a bean pie and someone's hand in marriage, I got annoyed. But not at the toothless charming man or the brotha offering me Tyler Perry bootleg dvd's. But at the realization that this sign would never be posted in Westwood, Brentwood or Hollywood, but was a no brainer in Inglewood.

I decided to call the toll fee number and see what the terms and conditions were. Turns out while a loved one is on lock down you can reach out and touch them... well through your wireless carrier. Just Talk Communications has several packages as low as $22.00, depending on your area and the correctional facility. How it works is you pre-pay, get an assigned number, your locked down boo uses that number to call collect, it is then routed to your cell at around 20 cents per minute and voila, you're connected. They even have a facebook page http://www.facebook.com/pages/Glendale-AZ/Just-Talk-Communications-LLC/112001933065?v=wall&ref=search.

So... don't bother to thank me. I do this for all of you and yours. The Zapp concert came and went and seeing as though the founding members are deceased, I'm not sure it would have been a good look. I went back by that corner a few weeks later, the sign was still up, the dvd's were still being slung, but this time... I left with a bean pie.

The Unlikely Patriot.

2010-05-16T14:05:00.000-07:00

I was driving west down 60^th in route to Cedars Sanai Hospital 3 days before I was scheduled to fly to Tunisia. I was finally going to Africa. Ok, it's N. Africa where the concept of colonialism was conceptualized, but it's still Africa. I was beyond excited for this journey and learned about 30 words in Arabic that I planned on putting to great use. But on this particular day, I would not be practicing my masculine and feminine nouns. I had the task of being attentive and documenting the most infinitesimal details while a dear friend was consulting with her plastic surgeon. She was having a double mastectomy in two weeks and I was the friend she chose to be there for moral support and to take notes. I was determined to be on time, but with my track record I knew she’d given me a 15 minute grace period due to my notorious tardiness. Why didn't I take Slauson to Crenshaw is what crossed my mind as I was compelled to bust a u-turn and go home to grab my camera. But not to capture moments in my friends journey to beat cancer, or a candid shot of us toasting to a speedy recovery. I had to document what I thought I’d just seen to make sure I wasn't... seeing things.

Three homes west of my corner sat a woman with a sign that read, "New Wemon Shoes 6-12" on a table with an assortment of old shoes. I was shocked and as I made my way around the block at a failed attempt to be inconspicuous, I felt confused. How can you be something you can't spell. Wemon? This was a legible sign with good penmanship and it was clear that who ever made it, took their time. So how did this happen in 2008? I snapped my picture as she watched me as if she knew what my intentions were.

I made my way up to the hospital, prepared to help my friend. I took notes while the gravity of her reality was sinking in. Breast cancer at 42. But the woman on my block was on my mind as well.

I landed in Tunisia around mid-night and could hear prayers from local Mosques that echoed throughout Tunis. I could smell the Mediterranean Sea, the night air was full of humidity and salt. I was going to pray for my friend on their holy soil, for her healing and strength. Oh yes, and the woman on 60^th as well. My first day was spent at a Hammam, which is a marble lined bath house where men and women go, (separately of course) to get bathed once a week. Vanity goes out the door when you’re getting your skin scrubbed by what feels like an SOS pad on a slab of marble by a robust woman who could easily bench press 300 lbs. The room was buzzing with curiosity as I was clearly a stand out. In a country where divorce is disgraceful and being American insinuates you're a Bush advocate who has lattes with Condoleezza Rice, one thing was clear. Seeing that I was both divorced and American, meant I had a first class ticket straight to hell. That said, I was prepared to tell the locals I was Canadian. It would be easier than being trampled with looks of damnation and having to say for the millionth time, “I did not vote for Bush!” But as we were all bonding as women, scrubbing each others backs as if we were family, I thought of that "wemon" back home.

I'd worn a shirt that I’d made at the local swap meet that proclaimed, "Barack don't stop" ™. It was my second day in Tunisia and I put it on without the notion it would evoke the plethora of conversations it did. But as the day passed, I was bombarded with attention and people reading aloud what was written on my shirt.

I was being embraced by Sweeds, Finlanders and folks from all over the world who made it clear if they could vote for Barack, they would. It was amazing to hear French, Arabic and Tunisian dialects with an abrupt and bold, "Barack Don't Stop™" accompanied by a peace sign or thumbs up aimed in my direction. I'm a black woman from the US in N. Africa where one minute I'm being called "Darky", yes that's right…"Darky", and the next minute, I'm being reminded that a black man is being rooted for by the world. I was on an emotional high with every tooth in my head beaming. Finally, I'm outside of the U.S. and there is something people are talking about other than how stupid Americans are and how Bush has single-handedly killed the crops we were counting on to sustain us. I became known as "The Barack Girl" in the local markets and all I could think was why didn't I bring t-shirts to sell, dang! I was really proud to be American. Me… the most unlikely patriot.

One late afternoon after being in those amazing markets for hours, we got back to my girlfriends mothers home who was hosting me. The sun was almost at the horizon and my friends’ twin and I decided to make a quick dash across the street for a few bottles of water. We needed to pass a café, exclusive to men where they drink espresso and smoke from hookahs. I felt a kind of way about going. You see, once the sun sets and a woman is unaccompanied by a man and her head is uncovered, she could be perceived as asking for trouble. The kind of trouble that would not afford her any sympathy from men nor women. I should have listened to that little voice in my head. I didn’t. My friends’ twin who is full on Tunisian walked out ahead of me looking more western than I did. So I thought, when in Tunis… follow the Tunisian. So we walked, admiring the sun in broken English and badgered Tunisian. The smell of spices and hookahs, mixed in with the landscape of Mosques was an amazing sensory cocktail. It really clicked that I was in Africa and it was off the hook! As we headed back, not five minutes later with our water and a baguette, it was dusk. We were passing that same café of men but now… instead of spices and hookahs I smelled distain and trouble. You don’t need to understand the language to know when you’re being discussed. And that wasn’t all that gave me pause. As we approached the entry to complex we were staying at, you could hear chairs scraping the concrete and a murmur amongst those men that wreaked of fury. My peripheral view was no longer of gold leaf mosques but instead of 3 men fixated on us and walking with such intensity that made my friend and I both look at each other as say, “RUN!” And we ran and ran and never dared look back. There was a steel gate that secured the complex that just the day before I learned to lock. That… was GOD. Because that same gate a day later saved us from being attacked and raped. There is no doubt that is what would have happened had those men caught us, as we were all kinds of whores as they banged and kicked in an attempt to get that gate open. I lost a shoe. Me. A shoe. So you know, I had my Flo Jo on.

When we got to my friends mothers home, exhausted and completely freaked, we could barely speak. Yet all I could think was how someone would have broken the news to my mom had they caught us. I was so grateful yet so upset. A day or two later, we went to get henna on our hands and feet by a local woman. As my friends’ mother explained to this woman what happened to me and her daughter, she gave me a once over. Then she said if they caught us, they would have beaten and raped us and that’s what we would have deserved. I’m not Muslim, I was divorced and my friend should known better for not being covered and unmarried. She said it as if she was giving directions to the local market while she was meticulously painting my hands. My mind went to that “wemon” in my neighborhood. I’d pitied her. Thought her to be simple. But in that moment, I realized she was no such thing. See… she would not have been chased. She would not have said she was Canadian. She would not have felt the need to lie about her relationships or lack thereof. As I thought of the woman selling her shoes, I no longer felt she was missing out on anything. She may not have the best education and may never have seen the world outside of her four block radius, but there was an inherent sense of pride as I looked more closely at her picture. She gave me the sense she'd seen it all and was quite content right where she was. I reckon she would not have flipped the script based on some when in Rome shenanigans. What I believe those men sensed that compelled them to target us was too many apologies. When you realize that you can never live up to someone’s expectations when there are so many cultural and religious differences, you don’t try. That doesn’t mean you don't respect their customs or try to be open to new experiences. But you must meet them somewhere in the middle without compromising your personal convictions. The woman on 60^th may be reduced to being ignorant or uneducated by some. But she wasn’t trying to be anything other than her authentic self.

I returned home exhausted. Keeping track of when it's appropriate to cover or not to cover or when to make eye contact with men was taxing. Mixing French, Arabic and English had me talking crazy for weeks. I’ve always felt traveling made you better grounded and deepened your perspective on life and other cultures. And I still do. But it took a while to shake off what happened by that cafe. Everyone is dealing with the same issues while trying to sort through the residual muck of lies courtesy of the tables we’ve been forced to eat from. Broken people in a machine well oiled to keep us distracted for as long as possible. Women being treated like property had not been my experience as a free woman. Traveling was coupled with anticipated explanations of where you stand and praying the locals were getting accurate information that hadn’t been sensationalized. What black means to people varies. The price you pay by being a woman in some cultures is a question I still struggle with.

Time has softened the blow of that experience. My overall trip was amazing and I’d go back again. It was beautiful and the Ruins, food and architecture were breathtaking. I haven’t seen that woman on 60^th since that day. Ironically she was selling shoes. They were in pairs which leads me to believe she never lost one running from nobody in South Central. I judged her never having walked in hers.

Cool Like That!

2010-04-22T22:04:00.000-07:00

Central Ave was the West Harlem of Los Angeles from the 20's-60's. This area spawned hit records like Richard Berry's "Louie Louie", the Olympics "Good Lovin" and the Vibrations "My Girl Sloopy". All of which have been covered by white punk bands and were much more successful upon their subsequent releases. Black folks got dressed in their Sundays best and had a much deserved night out. There was no fighting or dissension, but instead fellowship and coded handshakes. Venues like the Basin Street West on Western and Jefferson which was co-owned by Wilt Chamberlain where you could find the likes of Redd Foxx or No War Toys Coffeehouse on Arlington and Washington, where even the Doors performed early on in their career, were landmarks for black entertainers.

Hollywood flocked to this area to use our musicians for studio gigs that were the envy of the industry because we were cool like that. It was no secret, this was where the flavor lived and thrived, because we were fly like that. Black people owned property, had good jobs and were taking care of their families, because we had it like that. Then the Regan Era gave the greatest gift to black neighborhoods across America, crack... and we became unrecognizable like that.
The Regan trickle effect is still resonating, like little after shocks from the 1994 Northridge. Our theme in America as black people have been devastation and re-invention. Once we get past the governments blueprint for destruction i.e. Katrina and begin to re-build, something else is sure to be brewing. You can't keep destroying what people have worked so hard to build and expect they won't crap where they eat. It’s all trash anyway if you’re reminded daily that you have no real investment or stake in what matters. Your votes will be tampered with and sabotage is as common as the local ice cream truck… you can hear it before you see it coming down your block. Things like the Watts riots, the Rodney King verdict and the riots that ensued, gang violence, liquor stores on every corner and police brutality were all pieces of coal being dumped into an already heated environment. If you go down Central Ave today, it's a war zone of dilapidated buildings and a competition for the last crack head standing. The new soundtrack is police sirens and outbursts from too many voices living inside one person. These are peoples’ mothers, fathers and children who are on these streets. Desperate. Their faces are vacant, robbed of the very moral compass that would keep them from doing the unthinkable for food or a fix.
All we want are for Trader Joes to replace liquor stores and have fruit stands instead of standing trash. Simple changes that just don’t seem to be coming anytime soon. I don’t want to go 10 miles to get something organic, but can go 2 feet to get drugs and pork rinds.
So I ask, can we afford to throw another brick through a storefront or can we afford not to? My neighborhood is full of black and latino homeowners who work hard and have been committed to taking back our community. But the ramifications of the Regan administration and those that followed look more like a sloppy dance of one foot forward, ten steps back.

What my dog Champa used to do was pretty genius. He wouldn't mess up his own yard. He'd go down the street, handle his business and come home and lay on clean grass. And if some other dog tried to make his way to his turf, he would flash. Well, as much as a 14 lb. Lhasa Apso can get away with in a neighborhood of stray dogs, but you get my point. That's what the powers that be have always known. Never make a mess on your own soil. That's why there are no wars in the U.S. and crack never devastated Beverly Hills. Certainly the rich do all kinds of drugs and pretty up their names… but their landscape would never be the dead giveaway. But you can best believe when you cross Pico Blvd and you start seeing trash lined corners and make shift homes out of boxes, you ain’t in Kansas no mo’!

So for now, I'll still pick up behind myself and remain the Cosby kid of my nook known as Hyde Park, along with my other neighbors. I’ll still make the drive with sky high gas in order to grocery shop and stay healthy. I'll blast jazz records from our unsung heroes in my garage on wax and throw in some vintage Ice Cube. But if change don’t come soon to our neighborhoods, I might do like rich folks do. I might have to jump in my truck and drop off a crack head onto their well manicured lawn in Beverly Hills and see if we can get change that way. Who knows... maybe we'll get a Whole Foods on Crenshaw cuz it's overdue like that, da da da.... da da da!

WAKE UP, WAKE THE FUCK UP!

2010-04-13T18:11:00.000-07:00

It was 1989 and I was going into my sophomore year of college. There wasn't a whole lot you could tell me. I was a dance major studying under the masters in the field and I was unveiling a host of new experiences that made me feel quite worldly. I'd seen Spike lee's, "She's Gotta Have It" after seeing a tiny add in my local newspaper when I was 16. My sister and I were excited at the notion of a young black director from NY debuting a film. We were very at odds back then, my sister and I. She is 7 years my senior, beautiful, feminine and an Ivy league grad. I was always into her things like her sweaters from London or her lipstick, but mostly her 7 pack of Dentine gum she always had stashed in her secret hiding place. I was the worst of all little sisters. I stole from her, lied about doing it and got away with everything she was punished for. My bother, Brian would steal on her whenever I complained, and you know I always put extras on it. But on that day, we were going to see Spike's film. Together. That was a proud day for my mother who usually had to pull us off of each other in a death grip. I don't need to tell most of you what that film did for our generation, as it was beyond pivotal. So when "Do the Right Thing" was debuting, we already knew what to expect from Spike. While "School Daze" made every black kid wish they had gone to a black college, "Do The Right Thing" gave you the platform to revolt.
There were so many issues that Spike tackled in that film while Public enemy raised the bar for soundtracks and how they could set the tone for a generation. Being pigeon toed was the new bow legged thanks to Spikes' character and the “Mookies” around the world felt the best of themselves. And as if that wasn't enough, the then unknown DJ Samuel Jackson delivered lines that would be heard around the world. "WAKE UP, WAKE THE FUCK UP!" Spike was a ripe 32 and this was only his third release, yet this film captured the essence of the racial tension in America most directors wouldn't touch in their glory years. How many of you demanded more parmesan on your pizza and scoped your neighborhood praying to find the 3 cats on the corner talkin' all kinds of realness? I was too young to truly comprehend the gravity, layers and context of much of what I saw that day. Much like a recipe book passed down from your grandmother, which was passed down from her Mudear, this film became one of our cultural heirlooms.

Speaking of Mudear, mine would wonder how we went from Spike to Tyler Perry? She would be so puzzled, challenge his cultural references and uproot that family tree immediately. Why? Because it’s a short cut at the expense of very precious history and women who have lived long enough to know better. His range or lack there of is exactly what we don’t need more of. It’s hard enough to constantly dispel the stereotypes that follow us like shadows, he could at least soften the blow by giving his actresses decent wigs. Is this how he sees black woman? Mothers? Matriarchs? Clearly. Which is why I have to say Spike was way ahead of his time on so many levels. I can say the same for my late Mudear would was far too dignified to go anywhere without a long-line bra or girdle.

So... if ever I meet Mr. Perry, I'll be sure to get really close to him and whisper, "WAKE UP, WAKE THE FUCK UP!" But not too close, I wouldn't want to get hit with one of his prosthetic breasts.

We’re waiting for our African American fathers…

2010-04-01T11:15:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER! This post is not intended to single out black men and portray them in a negative light. It's sole purpose is to explore how a random phrase can resonate so strongly as a means to prepare you for life's boomerangs.

“We’re waiting for our African American fathers” rang down a hallway of anxious actors awaiting an audition for a cold medicine commercial. The production assistant needed to make that clear as there were a number of black boys without adult black males to audition with them as the father figure. When I responded, “Aren’t we all?”, the room fell silent like Mos Def for what felt like an hour before uncomfortable laughter filled the room like an elephant in a powder room. I jokingly said it to my friend under my breath, but was instead heard by a room that looked like a Benetton ad who found the whole moment odd and uncomfortable, yet… true. Like something they know black woman feel but would never want to be heard saying around the water cooler. Oddly, I was about two months pregnant and my response even surprised me. The father of my child to be was excited about our little bundle of joy and was stockpiling documentaries on childbirth and parenting. So what compelled me to say such a thing. Black folks don’t let something like that slip out in mixed company and even though I tried to come back with something witty, the word was out. Sistas are still in the trenches… alone. When the assistant blushed and insisted she didn’t mean it like that, I said either did I… but I was lying.
My son is 6 weeks old. Healthy. Gorgeous. And sleeps through the night! I look at him, examine him and I’m so humbled GOD chose me for this assignment. After 10 months of baby books, interviewing mid wives and birthing centers, insurance companies and a set of amazing boobs, he’s here! Reality sinks in along with other people’s horror stories and my own demons, of which are trying to sit at my table for tea and tell me how inadequate I am for the job. For many dad’s, the excitement turns to anxiety, the passion turns to passive and the “I’ll step up to do what I need to do”, turns to, “Women have been doing this for centuries, why you trippin’?”
Waiting for anything can bring on a slight panic. Waiting for a bus has you looking down the street as if doing so will make the bus come sooner. Waiting on a check only gives you more time to be reminded it still won’t quite cover your bills. But waiting for our fathers is like anticipating the after shocks post a 5.2 earthquake. You know you can grab a hold of something, but you’re not sure it’s strong enough for the blow. My late father, was a great, funny and witty man. But those layers are for another blog, actually a book would better suit our journey. I waited for him for as long as I knew what waiting was. He would always make an appearance filled with expensive clothes and promises that held as much weight as Mary-Kate Olsen. I thought I was done waiting once I became an adult, but I’m still waiting and you know how I know? I’m certain I’m at the right bus stop in life, but I’m steady looking down the street. There’s money, but something ain’t adding up. And my son’s birth has had the impact of a beautiful LIFE quake and yet I feel like the aftershocks could be devastating.
So the phrase, We’re waiting for our African American fathers feels like a foreshadowing of sorts. Like that assistant took the red pill in the matrix and I had to bear witness. Because I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, but I’m certain, without a doubt... I’m waiting!

rat-a-tat-tatted and all the cops scattered

2009-03-10T14:32:00.000-07:00

The helicopters fly overhead like termites, swarming at the sight of spring. Then the light show begins, casting wide white highlights over lawns and rooftops. Reminiscent of flashlights in a tent or the fort my cousin and I would make by putting a sleeping bag over my twin beds and hiding out underneath. But this is not make believe, this is my soundtrack. Daily. You can count on the Avenue dance, where we wait to see if the hardest dude on the block casually goes inside his house to answer the phone that never rang or if he'll stay posted on his porch with his boys. See it's all about the atmosphere here. Movement. Subtlety. Mouths close because eyes and ears are the senses of choice. You listen for sirens, screams, dogs, cussin', screeches from cars, even people on foot. God forbid you hear them all, and more often than not, you do. The key is to be as inconspicuous as possible with no sharp movements. I had someone use my ladder to climb onto the roof of my garage to cut through my neighbors yard running from the cops. I even looked up at 3 in the afternoon to see four young men face down, hand cuffed on my lawn. It was actually the 3 backup cars that made the raucous that got my attention. Had I not happened to look outside, I would have been none the wiser. But when I recall that day, the foreshadowing music was playing with a free download, I just didn't have my ears tweaked to "sensitive" mode. So you're probably thinking why not move. And I guess that is a valid question but we all know there is no such thing as security in a world of free will. This beautiful gift is our birth right and a part of our spiritual path. Free will... the ability to choose. So I prefer to assess risk opposed to relying on the notion of security.

Growing up in the suburbs of Upstate NY, that same free will was exercised regularly, but never made the news. By the mid 80's at the height of the skin head movement, we would get their literature in our mailbox on the regular. I remember my mother's face when she studied a small pamphlet with threats and how to prepare mercy killings on "NIGGERS". She just kinda went blank and tried to get rid of it by throwing it away. It took a lot for my mother to unravel and I can only imagine how she reconciled staying put when her children's lives were in jeopardy. But you get tired of running when you understand fear is an endless cycle of restlessness. The same consciousness that created the problem, can't solve it according to Einstein. But from the outside looking in, there was no safer place. The burbs lined with strip malls and golf courses. When she left I dug that garbage out of the trash and I was incensed. Who could differentiate my friends who dressed like punks from American History X extras? She later told the police after it happened a few times, but nothing was ever done about it. Clearly our security was not in the hands of the police and coming from her generation, that was nothing new.

My mother has such a strong faith that truly surpasses all understanding and that prevented her from taking that craziness on. She understood the ignorance and fear that drove that person to put that in our mailbox was beyond her comprehension. So she chose to keep quiet and rely on sound and sight to evaluate her surroundings. She tuned in and let people bait themselves. Now I understand why there were suddenly homes I couldn't go to after school and people I could no longer associate with. She observed how certain parents spoke about politics, race and religion. How older siblings of my friends acted in the mall or in other social settings at the sight of black people. They may not have been the culprit, but she understood the power of their thoughts and words and was taking no chances on them manifesting while I was playing hop scotch on their property. But they weren't astute enough to understand her intuition nor motivation because she wasn't obvious. She was like mother wolf with blood on her teeth and they were too stupid to understand they were even on her radar. She grew up with confederate flags, crosses burning and lynch parties. This... was silly season to her.

You're probably hoping I have learned the art of shutting up and tuning in. I've gotten better but must warn you, I'm not that evolved yet. Today I only hear the ice cream truck and lawn mowers and see kids racing on their skateboards past the school. Jay is blasting "Children's Story" across the street while he's washing his boys Impala. But trust, if the next song on this soundtrack is a ghetto bird, I will become a symphony of silence. And I will gracefully do a curtain call with no encore because this ain't funny so don't you dare laugh. Goodnight.

only in the white neighborhoods...

2008-10-09T01:21:00.000-07:00

Champa is my dog. Not my homie or my ace, but literally my dog. He's a 14 year old male Lhaso Apso with the trademark under bite. Interestingly, men that have those exact characteristics seem to have the most confidence and are quite attracted to me. Champa has toured with me all over the states and is one of the most well mannered dogs I've ever been around. Yet, he is still a dog and is treated as such: He does not have a Louis Vuitton doggie bag to accompany me to the trendy LA hot spots for lunch. He eats regular dog food and does not sleep in the bed with me. Ever. He is not allowed on the furniture and will not stare down house guests while they are trying to eat. That said you would think I'm within the black dog owners guidelines. But according to the "neighborhood standard", I'm out of pocket just a bit. The mere fact that he's inside my home is a violation, as most dogs stay outdoors and are lucky to have a dog house.

Another violation was brought to my attention when he went into my neighbor Renny's yard and decided to relieve himself. I greeted Renny with a plastic bag in hand and without hesitation I curbed my dog, which is a fancy term for picking up dog crap. Renny laughed and said, "I only see that done in the white neighborhoods". He was so tickled he had to tell his wife and they just came undone. I officially became Kim "Cosby Kid" Hill.

As I walked home with laughter in the background, I wondered why that was such a big deal. Wouldn't you want your neighbors to respect your yard and clean up behind their pet? Oddly enough, this man has the best and most envied yard on the block. In fact, all the lawns on the my street are right out of a Better Home and Gardens magazine spread, (well the black version at least) perfectly manicured and beyond well kept. There is an unofficial lawn watering party that takes place between 5pm and 8pm on any given day. That's when we all pull out our hoses or sprinklers and catch up, bonding as neighbors. This is just as much a part of S. Central as screeching cars and hydraulics, but you won't see that on the news.

But then I remembered there's a strange relationship with neighborhoods like mine and littering. You'll see people, old and young, who are two feet from a trash can, throw an entire McDonalds bag of trash on the ground. My first Easter in my house, my aunt and cousin were visiting and were in my front room where you can clearly see my street. We watched a car of twenty somethings pull in front of my house and take a bag from KFC, empty its contents consisting of gnawed ears of corn, chicken bones and flattened ketchup packets onto my lawn. They then proceeded to pass a bag from the back seat, crumble it into a ball and do a Michael Jordan follow-through into the center of my lawn. We watched in awe. Before I knew it, I was on my way outside against my aunt's better judgement. But before I could say anythings, Jay the neighborhood watch, was already crossing the street and handled it. He is represented in every nook of the hood. The mid 30 year old who occupies his parents back house. Young enough to be able to approach younger cats who are still huslin', but old enough to understand

consequences therefore having more to lose. By the time I got to the car, they were apologizing, picking up the trash and calling me ma'am. I grabbed a trash bag and helped them pick up the mess, cracked a few jokes and we wished each other happy Easter. When I went back inside, all my aunt could say is how surprised she was by both sides of the coin. That those kids went to a neighborhood other than their own and boldly threw trash on someone else's lawn, yet showed the utmost respect when called on it. What resonated with me is how the streets that are subjected to this dumping are the same streets someone will die over, protecting a block that more often than not, they own no part of. Are people as disposable as trash? Are we that disconnected, that disfranchised? The notion that someone gets paid to pick the trash justified the act of littering. This is their logic I've come to know.

With gas at an all time high, I'm walking a lot these days. That's right, I live in LA and I'm walking. There's so much flavor and texture in my neighborhood and I thrive on that. But it's disheartening when I turn the corner and collection of cans, broken glass, food and debris from GOD knows where is gathered where kids are playing. What happens to a child's psyche when a used condom gets stuck to the bottom of their shoe or they step out of a car into a pile of cigarette butts from the ashtray of a car? I blame the city as well, don't my taxes pay the street cleaning? If the weekly trucks can't get all the debris, can't they get people on foot?

You know why you don't see trash on the streets in Beverly Hills and Brentwood? Not because the locals don't have an inclination to litter, but rather that there is an understanding that what is clean, should stay clean. People are less inclined to litter if everything around them is pristine. This is the toxic conditioning we all can turn around. But it will only happen when we start to feel connected with our communities again. When Jay stepped to those kids, they listened. He showed respect as did I, and I'm certain they will think twice before they use someone else's lawn for a trash site. When children see me picking up trash, 8 time out of 10, they stop what they're doing to help. That behavior is just as contagious as its polar opposite. We can use those opportunities to connect with the kids and share our stories while being an example. Let's face it, our mama's raised us to keep a clean house and a kitchen you could eat off the floor of. This is not who we are, but who we have allowed ourselves to believe we are. So for now, I will still pick up behind my dog and remain the Cosby kid of my nook... plastic bag in tow.