Silent Tears

So this morning I am in the bathroom at work changing from workout Amaretto to I got bills to pay Amaretto when I hear a woman walk into the bathroom sniffling. Now I have to share that I was in the handicap stall because it’s larger and has a mirror and sink and as a whole handicap stalls make the public bathroom experience so much better. And so I wonder why all stalls can’t be handicap stalls? Why limit the disabled? Why punish the non-handicapped with a coffin-like bathroom experience? Sorry-I am just typing what randomly is coming into my head, but I do think I need to write someone and propose that all bathroom stalls be handicapped stalls!

Anyways, I also realized while typing that I didn’t really need to let ya’ll know that I was in the handicapped stall, but I wanted you two fine readers of the 5 spot to know why I was so a tuned to what was going on in the bathroom. A disabled person will cuss you out for using their stall. No bull-my grandma learned that the hard way when walking out of a handicapped stall there was a lady in a wheelchair waiting. What is the likelihood right? But if all the stalls had been able to accommodate a wheelchair my grandma would not have had to apologize so vehemently to a woman half her age. But we live and we learn!

Anyways I’m in the stall and I keep hearing the woman sniff. At first I was like she has a cold. But as it continued my mind flashed to movie scenes in which people are doing lines of cocaine in the bathroom, but most folks in my building are getting government wage to go with their good government job which means that they can’t afford the designer drugs. So then I hear the woman say “Oh God’ *sniffle* “Oh God” *whimper* *sniffle* and that is the moment where I was conflicted… should I ask the woman if she was okay?

I think most of us know what to do when a person needs help. A person’s bag of groceries breaks and food falls to the ground-we stop and we help-maybe take an apple for our troubles. When our bathroom neighbor needs some toilet tissue we spare the square © Elaine from Seinfeld. But when our bathroom neighbor enters the stall to have a personal breakdown should we ask them if they are okay?

Now I have to tell ya’ll that this thing called life has had me in the bathroom crying more than a river. I mean even though I might have tried as hard as I could to hold back the tears or to blame my reddening eyes on allergies, some times a girl (I don’t know if men feel the same) has to get up and go into the ladies room. But this morning, I didn’t know what my role should have been as a hearer of tears. I don’t think I would have appreciated someone trying to console me in the bathroom during my weak moments. A woman crying in a bathroom stall is there because she needs a private place to not be strong for a minute.

I think I did the right thing by walking out, but hours later I am wondering if maybe I should I have asked if she was okay or needed a tissue. What is the proper procedure for when a fellow woman feels disabled by life?

See You In Seven

I Believe the Children are Our Future

For some reason there has been some hubbub over the President’s speech to America’s children today. I don’t understand it. Is this how it’s going to be anytime anyone dares to do something new? Never in all my years of education can I recall a president addressing me or my peers…but how can it hurt? It’s not like he’s going to be talking about healthcare and shoving some type of AGENDA down the throats of America’s little ones. He’s basically telling them to get their stuff straight and make the best of the opportunity given them.

Here here Mr. President!

I mean have you talked to a young person lately? Lord, please help us! As much information available to them for their reading consumption, a lot of these kids are lacking! Well, as Rum Punch can attest, a lot of these kids can’t read to begin with. And so there is a lot wrong with education and parenting and our communities as a whole, which we all know and talk about. After all back in our day there was money for music and art programs in our schools, we did what our parents told us, and we wanted to help old ladies cross the streets with groceries. But alas… that was then.

During the election I chuckled in my soul as Mr. Obama spoke of hope and change because I wasn’t a believer. As a Christian I think hope and change are great and exist, but could one man change the World? Um, yes, but was it this man? Um, no. In my mind it was going to take more than hope to change the political system that runs the democratic republic government of the United States of America. But one of the most positive things about Obama’s election was the shift in the psyches’ of the children. There are children who are being born who will only know a multi-racial President and that means something in a nation that is no longer just Black and White. And it means something to tell a room of multi hue children that they can be anything they aspire to be and to finally mean it…because the Presidency is possible.

And I am a little excited by the President’s speech today! I like that addressing the youth of my country is important to him. I don’t think children will instantly straighten up and do right because he gave an “It’s Cool to stay in School” message. But so often the youth are cast aside and made to feel like they don’t matter…when in reality they are the ones who will take care of us when we are no longer able.

Of all the high schools in the DC Metropolitan area, I am glad the President is speaking at Wakefield High School. I don’t know why that high school was chosen but I do know that from outward appearances it’s not the best school compared to the schools found on the North side of Arlington County. The children of immigrant and low income families attend Wakefield, and though it’s not a Lean On Me type of place, it would be just as easy to write the students who attend there off. But I know that good things can come from any place, even places that need a new coat of paint and better landscaping. And so today I sit in my cubicle swelling with pride because the first multi-racial President will be addressing America’s children from Wakefield High School…the school I graduated from! I couldn’t hope for anything better! Go Warriors!

See You In Seven

Ready for Harvest?

Over the weekend I saw Seven Pounds. Wow. It became both clear and apparent why people were unable to explain what this movie was about. It had love, guilt, retribution, a jellyfish and organ donation. And it seems here lately that organ donation is the topic de jour…especially when you have folks suing their exes over kidneys and whatnot.

So yesterday, my coworker came over to my cubicle to share his beliefs regarding organ donation. Yes, it is as random as it sounds…but we work for the government and it was a slow work day. At any rate we shared our respective organ donation statuses and then he stood up on his soapbox and proclaimed that he thought we should take the organs of people who have been found guilty of murder or homicide to help folks on the transplant list.

An eye for an eye if you will.

But I had to look at him sideways...because that's just crazy! He went on the spout about the millions of people who are waiting for transplants, the lack of people who are willing to be organ donors-or their families not respecting their wishes and the readily harvestable organs available in our local penitentiaries. So I asked coworker how long would we wait after a person was convicted that we would kill them and distribute their organs. He said something about a few weeks. Lawd, I hoped he was joking. At this point I had to ask what about the people who are death row for years and are later found to be innocent. To this he had no direct response, but continued spouting off about the greater good and how death row folks are going to die anyway-so why not. Little Sally Henson who needs a heart transplant could have a great chance of living if we took matters into our own hands like the big evil guilty person had.

At this I stroked my beard and thought that what he said was good in theory but the execution of it all makes me a little leery. I guess because in general I don’t trust the nature of humans, nor am I a supporter of the death penalty, so establishing a process of organ donation leaves too much room for people to err, and throw morality out the window. Will people accused of murder receive a fair trial knowing that Uncle Joe has been waiting on dialysis and praying for a kidney for 5 years?

Too much has been done for the sake of the greater good that has resulted in an unintended situation. For example, slavery-they were supposedly saving the souls of a heathen race, resulting in 400 year institution that we are still recovering from. The War on Drugs-education and law enforcement were suppose to keep people off the stuff-yet it seems school Dare programs increased the curiosity of suburbanite kids thus allowing gangs to financially flourish. And who can forget the War on Terror-ha ha ha- I don’t think I even need to go there.

But what do ya’ll think will happen if we started taking organs from the guilty, would we all benefit? Is this equitable punishment for a crime? Is justice being serve for the greater good?

See You In Seven

ps: Happy Birthday Courvoisier!

Some Thoughts Towards Tomorrow

My coworker, a white gay man, visits his grandmother who is 100 years old every other weekend. Now he’s from west bubble Florida where mosquitoes and ‘gators run swamps, and people drink from mayonnaise jars…so its not a stretch for me to assume that when Ms. Granny was less wrinkled racism was alive and well. Okay, let me edit that, I know racism still is alive and well, but back then I can assume a Negro couldn’t walk down the street without rocks being thrown at them or even being spat upon. Coworker has never stated that Granny rode with the knights of the klan or lobed rocks at anyone, but he has said that she has a problem with black people so I need to get images of a sweet old lady out my mind…this chick is ornery at best. She currently has a room by herself because she’s made countless roommates cry. At her old nursing home it was common place that the N word would slip as her often black (or even worse Haitian and Jamaican) nurses would come to wipe her butt. And as coworker tells me these tales I can’t help but chuckle at the fact that the very people that Granny hated and despised are now the ones who are helping to keep her in the land of the living. Ha. Ha. Ha. I guess karma is a b*tch!

But his stories about his beloved granny often get me thinking about that future that looms ahead. I wonder who is going to take care of me when I’m old and wrinkled? I’m going to be sharp, or will my family gather around a woman who hardly remembers? Am I putting out good things in the universe so I don’t end up abused in a home some place? Does it even matter if I put good things out there? These things I ask as I contribute to my 401K plan and try to live my life young and carefree.

But the cares are growing.

I hear my coworker share that nurses dropped her father again and now his arm is broken. Another coworker told me about how his mother’s clothes were taken from her room. And just yesterday my mom tells me that one of my grandmother’s sisters has gone blind. The other has just had a stroke. And still another can hardly get out of bed in the morning due to her arthritis is acting up. All three live in one house with only my grandmother coming to check on them and telling them they need to turn on the air conditioning because it’s 83 degrees in the house, but they sat not noticing the heat.

I guess I just worry about what’s going to happen to me. And before then I wonder how I am going to care for my parents? I’m an only child, they are divorced and there is no longer a community of caring people who I could trust to check in on them, take them a dinner plate or even drive them to the doctor while I’m at work or living hundreds of miles away. Something has failed. What happened to that village that strengthened the weak spots in our lives?

Today I can laugh at a racist old lady horrified of being touched by black folks day in and day out… but tomorrow? Yeah, I just don’t know what’s gonna happen then.

See You in Seven

Round 'em up. NOW, part ii

I told you, we would revisit this topic and the time is now. To the ire of some, they were not feeling my opinion on the matter. But in the nation’s capital the Metropolitan Police Department (MPD) chose to do as my post is titled – Round ‘em up NOW.

“It was a warm afternoon in the District's Trinidad neighborhood, and a group of boys was walking shirtless in the streets, some with pants hanging down below their behinds.”

This is part of the problem – I didn’t say the origins of the problem, but problematic nonetheless.

“One of the boys had thrown a plastic soda bottle at a youth passing by on a moped, nearly causing a crash. "Unsupervised teenagers -- that's part of the problem,"... "Now, how they're getting a hold of all these guns and drugs, that's the other part."”

Just a neighborly observation as told to a columnist for the Washington Post.

Now, remember these quotes as I make my point ….

In a neighborhood that is in the backyard of the US Capitol, during the past two weeks there was a spike in homicides. So, the chief of police and the mayor’s chief legal counsel devised a plan Neighborhood Safety Zone to contain the number of homicides in this neighborhood. Over a 6-day period, they imposed a military-style ID checkpoint on a street in that neighborhood. In effect, stopping all motorists (however pedestrians could walk on by). The efficacy of the plan was criticized, considering that pedestrians were not stopped and if a motorist was denied entry at the checkpoint – they could enter the neighborhood via other streets, alleys, etc. Now some residents were peeved and others were relieved. During MPD presence, no homicides occurred.

I must admit the mayor and chief of police strong-armed residents of the embattled district. The mayor’s office didn’t inform the city council of his intentions let alone residents of that district. But then again, the mayor of café au lait has operated in this manner since the inception of his mayoral term. His claim would be: In the name of efficiency – I gots to do what I gots to do—and for the most part—his newly minted citizens (circa ‘90s +) don’t mind his style. They like when the job is done.

Lest I forget to mention, that the neighborhood is slowly being gentrified. A new train stop was added a few years ago. Residents built a new charter school – so a change is comin’

Remember the quotes above

The issue of civil rights vs. civil liberties is not new in this country. It is a crude idea for the government to intrude in your neighborhood while you pay taxes and such, however you better devise a plan of your own and become proactive 'cuz if not the government will adopt their own plan to the ire of many.

Now critics to my original post can twiddle their thumbs all they want, but the government ain’t waiting for ya to figure things out. So, either we round ‘em up NOW and salvage what’s left of our neighborhoods and rebuild or they will round ‘em up NOW.
It’s your call to make.

cheers,

Bellini

P.S. Congratulations to the Boston Celtics, stone-cold crushing LA!

Puedes oir me ahora?

Hola! Que pasa ya’ll?

Okay, so my title is supposed to say Can you hear me now. I apologize to all the Spanish speakers of the world if I used the wrong word or I didn’t conjugate correctly. I was trying not to use that ghetto Spangish that comes out after a few Mojitos where I just add an "o" to everythingo. Plus, it has been a minute since my introduction to Spanish in the seventh grade. Though I really should be a fluent speaker by now considering that I live in the Virginia part of the DC metro area. Everything in my barrio is in Spanish and then English. No seriously, it is. The ATM at 7-11 asks me if I want to complete my transaction in Spanish and underneath that English is offered. Say what now? Now you know just by following the rules of the alphabet something is wrong with that one.

And speaking of my previous miseducation, I remember learning about the adventures of Lewis and Clark, and the Louisiana Purchase with a little Manifest Destiny peppered in for flavor. I also remember my teacher stating that if it weren’t for the English coming over and doing the darn thing we’d all be speaking Spanish right now. Ha! Clearly I am a child of the 80s and my teacher would never have a job as a psychic friend. Times they are a changing mi amigos.

This past weekend I was wandering around my town when I realized I was thirsty. I went into a little restaurant called Chicken Granjero. Please picture with me families (this includes parents, an elderly member-possibly a grandparent, and a boatload of kids at least 3) dining on seasoned chicken, ensalada and Inca Cola. There was joy, balloons and chicken skin in the air. So I’m standing in line and all the transactions ahead of me are being conducted in Spanish. This really is common place where I’m from so I wasn’t stressing because usually when I approach the clerk gets their bilingual skills on and addresses me in English. But on this fair day in April things weren’t going down like that. “Hola” she said. This was cool because there are Spanish speakers of African lineage, so she could have thought I was one of those. But then I said, “Hi, I would like a lemonade” And then there was silence, followed by the scrunching of her face, the tilting of her head and her uttering the word “Que?”

What. Da. Hell?

Now this is not about how I feel about immigration, illegal or otherwise. I’ll have ya’ll know that some of my best friends are native Spanish speakers…okay that’s a lie. But I do enjoy the people and their many different cultures (read: unlike my Granny, I know they aren’t all Mexicans). I love salsa music, dance, and sauce. I feel a childhood isn’t complete without the memory of blindly swinging at a giant donkey piñata full of candy. I do enjoy watching Telemundo (I’m also part of the REC). And I know for a fact that “I Love Lucy” would have sucked if it weren’t for Ricky Ricardo and his rendition of “Babalu”.

Yet, I feel some type of way about happened to me on Saturday, and really what’s been happening a lot lately. Like I’m the one who’s wrong for daring to communicate in English. Are things shifting to the point that I need to look for “Yes, we speak English signs”? Maybe. I mean, for some reason America doesn’t have an official language, I guess for the sake of the melting pot. So can I really be mad? But it’s just interesting that many different people have come to these shores and opted to subscribe to culture Americana (read: mainstream) and adopt English as their tongue…yet with these hermanos y hermanas I’m the one being asked to change.

Hello? Or better yet, Hola?

Well in case ya’ll care, I got my lemonade. Thank goodness I know enough Spanish to function, find the nearest bathroom and say the cat wears brown hats. But can I just mention that when a White couple walked in, heard everyone speaking Spanish, they gave me, the Black girl, a knowing and annoyed look before they turned around and walked out. I guess they hadn’t heard that there’s a new language in town…

See You In Seven

memories of a former band geek

This past weekend a friend and I attended the Big Apple Classic. Hampton and Howard’s mens basketball teams squared off in Madison Square Garden, giving New Yorkers a taste of Black college festivities including a college fair, Greek step show and battle of the bands. I’m personally not a fan of either Hampton or Howard but having spent many a Saturday growing up glued to BET (remember when they showed Black college football games?) or huddled in the cold bleachers watching games live, I was jammin’ right along with Hampton’s pep band. And with every new song they played, my face lit up with recognition.

Hampton made Weezy’s confession bout never having ran from nan’nigga and that today was not the day to start sound like a passionate love song, using the brass horns to pick up on the tune’s melodic undertones. It really did! And dammit if they didn’t pull out the classic…

Heeeeey……heyyy……heyyyy……you talking out the sida ya neck… (ok, that sounded betta live but my real band heads feel me!)

My friend looked over at me and asked how I was able to pick up which songs the band was playing so fast. I gave her that girl-don’t-you-know-who-I-am look and said “I am THE band song decipherologist!”

I had to break it down for her. It’s a well-known fact that Black college bands choose their musical selections from a few specific categories:

1) your local dj’s top 8 at 8, what you hear on the radio 20 times a day, both ballads and hip hop joints alike; or
2) a three song melody comprised of hits from The Elements (Earth Wind & Fire for the uninitiated) or Michael Jackson or Stevie Wonder

Now you will occasionally get the adventurous band that strays from these two categories but 9 times outta 10, this is what they go with. And then I asked her, have you never been to a Black college football game, caught the Bayou Classic on Thanksgiving Saturday, the homecoming parade, something?!?

And her response…That just wasn't my experience!

Note: said friend once confessed to me that she used to be afraid of Black people and large gatherings of Black people. Despite being African-American and growing up in a major northeastern city she somehow got it into her head that she should avoid places where lots of black people congregated, you know that extra hood shopping mall across town, high school basketball games, rap concerts, etc. because of the inherent dangers in such gatherings.

Damn Gina!

I looked at her with sorrowful eyes and wished at that moment that the De Lorean would pull up and take us both back to the fall of 1998 and my most memorable Black college band moment. I can remember it like it was yesterday (cue the music).

We had traveled all night on that charter bus from our little high school in our little city with hearts full of excitement and anticipation. We were on our way to the mecca of Black college bandum…Florida A & M University’s Homecoming.

In my teenage mind, we had made it to the big time. For this was where all things band sprung. Where our drum majors came for band camp every summer, where we got our drum cadences from (duckmouth, papa was a rolling stone, P-Sec, you know!), every formation, every drill, every arrangement was certified gold from FAMU. Even our band leader had gotten his chops on the trumpet section there and came back to the hometown to groom us up in the way that we should go.

We all hoped that one day, we too would be lucky enough to get a band scholarship upon graduation and join the ranks of the Marching 100, riding off into the sunset with our oh-so-sexy boyfriend who just happened to be on the trombone line or if we were especially lucky, a drum major! A girl could dream.

We marched our little hearts out up and down the country streets of Tallahassee and tried to act all grown walking through the yard, imagining ourselves as one of those girls, wearing one of those jackets, having the times of our lives, free from parents and restrictions enjoying homecoming weekend with our gaggle of girlfriends.

And when we finally made it to the stadium, spent from the cheers of the parade onlookers, we couldn’t contain ourselves. Black people as far as the eye could see were taking up every seat in the house, waving orange and green pom poms. Yelling, cheering, and laughing with delight. Just having the time of their lives, eagerly anticipating the halftime show.

And then the signal…

beeeeeeeeeeeeeep beep, beep beep beep beep.

The figures appeared. Tall and proud, the Presidential Nine, busting those 90’s slowly, precisely without dropping a knee. Swinging their batons in hand, tall white hats, sparkling clean uniforms with orange and green tassels swaying with every movement, shiny black boots, and that deadly rattler snaring at you from across their chests.

They death marched, clicking off time with short whistle beeps, reaching the middle of the field, and in a flash of caps, they spin, leap and fall into elaborate splits.

Let the show begin…

Man, somewhere in my friend’s fear of Black folks she missed all this…

In loving memory of my cuzo, a proud Rattler!

Public Enemy Number One

"The world won’t get no better if we just let it be.
The world won’t get no better we gotta change it yeah, just you and me."
- Wake Up Everybody, Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes

It’s all over the local news today. Front page of the Washington Post, DC Examiner, local radio news tidbits…. They’re all saying the same thing: DC's HIV/AIDS infection rate is 10 times the national average. Recent studies show the District's AIDS rate is the worst of any city in the countyr, nearly twice the rate in New York, and more than four times the incidence in Detroit. The Chocolate of the city, what’s left of it, is quickly crumbling away.


Warning: The Chocolate is tainted. Consumption of this substance can lead to death!

Why us? Why D.C.? What is it specifically about our residents and our city that has created this dynamic breeding ground for one of the top deadly diseases of the world? Our Nation’s Capital. Home of the U.S. Senate & House of Representatives, the Washington Monument, Smithsonian Institution and the Rock House (© dead prez). BET, Radio One, and NPR are based in the D.C. area. A gazillion federal government agencies are headquartered here. All this power floating around the city and none of it is being used to protect the home front. All this $$$ floating around and can't nobody stop, or at least slow down, the spread of HIV & AIDS with the city limits?

Now you know this PSA wouldn’t be dark & stormy certified without me breaking it down into numbers. Let’s take a closer look at the picture. The D.C. HIV/AIDS administration says that 80% of the cases involved in this study are black. And 9 out of 10 women who tested positive [within the study] were black women. Hmmm… Black. Woman. In D.C.

That’s me.

I don’t think you heard me. That's me. Me and your mama and your sister and your wife and your daughter. Grandmas too. We are the face of HIV/AIDS.

It gets deeper. While black folks make up a mere 12% of nation’s population (circa year 2000) , we are 60% in the nation's capital. In other words 343,000+ of Chocolate at risk. INCREDIBLE. How in the hell is possible? Shit don't add up to me. But I shall save the discussion of the origins of said epidemic for another day.

I do wish to point out that we cannot blame vanillafication for all of our problems. We must take responsibility for allowing our communities to deteriorate. It's easy to say "I didn't do it." Or "it's not my problem." I am bothered by our communal complacency and lack of urgency. Black women, the source of human life, are dying. Dying from a preventable illness. And I feel helpless in the struggle. To hell with the war on terrorism, the war on drugs, and the rest of these dumb ass “wars” waged on words. We must fight the war on genocide. This is some real ish. I am asking you what can we do? What can I do? I’ve done the workshops with teenagers. I’ve done the condom distribution at nightclubs with the National Urban League. I’ve donated money (and still do) to organizations such as the Whitman-Walker Clinic. It’s not enough.

So here is my challenge to you:

1- Spread the message, wherever you are. You may not be in D.C. but as long as you live on Earth, this message is relevant. Stop being scared to speak up and start saving your people.

2- Get involved. Period. Can't be preachin to the choir using binoculars from your second story bay window.

3- Get tested. Yes it's scary. Even when you know you get saran wrapped from head to toe at just the thought of sumthin freaky. It's still scary. What's scarier is your willingness to pass it on to a spouse or child in the name of ignorance-by-choice.

The Revolution Starts With You.

Tumultuously Yours,

Dark & Stormy

don't believe everything you read (or don't read), ya dig

so i haven't commented here about t.i.'s legal troubles and i'm sure y'all have been anxiously anticipating my response in light of my love for him...

or not...

but i'm not going to talk about how stupid he was or how he deserves 50 years for having a gun fetish, more than he'd get for pistol-whipping someone with those same guns. stop. think about it. (c) Martin. cause i don't believe the hype and cause many other folks have done it and exhausted the subject so thoroughly, including fellow bloggers panama jackson and leon.

but being defense-minded and fascinated by our fine adversarial legal system, i am really interested in what his lawyers will argue to get him out of this seemingly impossible situation.

note: to all you fools who think he shoulda took a plea the minute he was arrested i say boooooo! this is what gets folks hemmed up for 10 to 20 years on some bullshit charge cause they rush to take the scraps the state is throwing at them. or because they can't afford competent legal representation to fight the charges. i say if you got the paper, make them bitches work for your conviction. half the time the prosecution can't make their case against you. they must prove that you did what they say you did beyond a reasonable doubt....a very high standard as far as legal standards go.

so surprise surprise when i went over to sandrarose and read about the first of t.i.'s "get ya shit together's" to the feds.

According to the associated press, t.i. is seeking to suppress the evidence seized from his range rover on the day of his arrest and also to throw out the statements he made to the police at the time of his arrest. t.i.'s lawyers allege that the range was searched without a warrant, consent or probable cause; that the arresting officers violated his rights; and that his statement might not have been voluntary.

heavy stuff right? but very interesting *stroking her chin* very interesting indeed.

now we all know (or should know) that the police can't just bust in your house or your car whenever they feel like it (although they do all the damn time). and of course the search of a house is very different from the search of a car cause you have more of an expectation of privacy in your house. and there's greater urgency with cars because you can more easily move a car quickly and destroy evidence in the meantime. despite this, the police still couldn't search the range without probable cause that it contained evidence or weapons that would endanger the officer if he has pulling over the vehicle in a traffic stop but this wasn't a traffic stop, it was a bust and once they'd removed t.i. and co. from the car, they were assured that the vehicle was secure and no longer in danger of being moved. no rush at that point, which means the vehicle could have been impounded and searched later once a warrant was secured. yet they searched it on the spot

enter the suppression argument...the feds really GOT ta be more careful!

i won't speculate as to how successful this suppression motion will be but given the caliber of the legal minds working on this case, (remember ray lewis and that super bowl murder charge, this guy got him off; or jim williams of midnight in the garden of good and evil fame, tried 4 times for the murder of his alleged lover, this guy got him acquitted) the arguments have to be well-founded at the very least.

now here's my thanksgiving tie-in....

Hosea Feed the Hungry and Homeless...what is this you ask? well, it's an Atlanta organization founded by Hosea Williams, a contemporary of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. who also championed civil rights around the state of Georgia. like marching on Forsyth County, an all-white enclave near Atlanta to face the KKK. very gangsta indeed. HFH is now run by his daughter Elizabeth Omilami and basically feeds tens of thousands of people on Thanksgiving and countless more every other day of the year.

now who stepped up and raised $166,000 in three hours after Ms. Omilami lost the support of $150K worth of sponsorship....

my boy. T.I. pimpin!

and crazy-eye Ryan Cameron (ha ha)

i love it...there's really no reason i should but i do so don't judge me.

thus, that many more folks are enjoying thanksgiving (and everyday) dinner because of t.i., right? (despite the thinly-veiled pr scheme to curry favor with the judge, it's still a good thing)

this got me to thinking about a question that's been rolling around in my head for a couple of weeks now....does an individual's philanthropy outweigh all the "bad" he had to do to get the money to give away? what's more effective for the community? black folks on the ground, in the grassroots so to speak, helping out each day as public defenders, social workers, teachers but being piss poor themselves in the process. or black folks infiltrating the corporate world making boocoo money that they can then share with more folks and maintain the black middle class in the process? no easy answer but trying to pick a lane in my own life.

more on that next week...

Invention, Please Go Get Your Momma

Rum Punch was right! “I’m So Hood” is a catchy little song…and the video, well that was just classic! I haven’t really listened to hip-hop since Lil’ Jon and ‘em helped usher in the reign of all things diiiirty and southern. Sure I heard "Shoulder Lean" in passing to the classic soul station, but it’s amazing to me that this was the next step in the evolution of hip-hop music. Folks are so creative! Who would have ever thought there’d be a song about the tender delicacy of chicken flavored Ramen noodles and soda? And now I’ve learned that brown paper bags are used for more than carrying lunches and malt liquor.

But this isn’t about how I feel about the music that’s being played on corporate radio playlists. This is about me trying to understand the Hood. And not in the Dr. Bill Cosby-I’m going to beat you over the head Black people with my dogma and love-way. But in the how did a place of extreme lack invent a mentality that is both coveted and celebrated.

Historically Black folks have always been able to make the best of a bad situation (cue Ms. Gladys and the Pips) . Just give us a twig, a bucket with a hole in it and some dirt and we are going to figure out a way to make a house. Oh, how Masta probably thought it was funny to just give us the left over parts of the pig while he dined on cured ham. But didn’t we invent a way to make those feet, snouts and intestines tasty? Ha! Our resourcefulness in need has served us and this country well.

But maybe we are getting to a point where we need to stop making up some of this s--t!

My mom, a property manager in public housing, told me that a fairly new neighborhood grocery store has decided to close. This store serves a lot of people living under the poverty line and its closure would result in people who rely heavily on public transportation to travel nearly 15 miles to purchase food. Now this is in the Tidewater, VA area folks, not at all like the DC metro…sure they’ve got buses but those aren’t going to take you everywhere you need or want to go. But the reason that this store is shutting down is so ridiculous and so upsetting. The store (and I don’t want to say “of course”-but of course) has experienced high volumes of theft. Shoplifting included bags of steamed shrimp. Someone thought up a way to eat bags and bags of shrimp without having to pay…and of course they told their friends about it. Folks had figured-order a bag of shrimp and then go into the bathroom to peel and eat! Dinning in a stall? Leaving the shells on the bathroom floor. WTF? Who thought up that?! And why? Just to get over?

I just don’t understand it ya’ll. I would have never thought of that. And sometimes I want shrimp and can’t afford to get it. So I’ve been there. I understand the “struggle”. But because of this Hood mentality many people are going to be disserved. There is now an even greater need in an already struggling community. And I hate that we have to keep coming up with stuff to make living with lack bearable. We should be curing the causes of our needs, not putting a band-aid over it. No one should have to figure out a way to get groceries from the other side of town, there should be a convenient place nearby-period! But I’m sure someone is going to come up with something…we always do.

See You In Seven

Singing A Different Tune

You know how the radio can beat a song into your head so that eventually you know the words? You’re not even sure how it happened. That’s how I feel about Alicia Keys’ song No One. Before I realized it, I knew all the words to that song and I don’t even like that song! Anyway. Because the radio plays the same 10 songs over and over, I caught myself singing I’m So Hood, not whilst it was playing in my car but whilst I was sitting at my desk. Goodness it’s a catchy little ditty.

So I’m sitting at my desk and then I randomly start singing, “I’m soooo hood…” and then kind of hum the next few lines cause I don’t know what he says after that, something about wearing your pants below your waist and walking it out and you ain’t hood if you don’t know what he’s talking bout. Hmm…so I do know the rest…ok…So then I stopped myself and was like “Rum Punch, (yes I call myself Rum Punch even in my everyday life) you aren’t hood, you are middle class”-and we know this because I used the correct subject verb agreement. Hmmm…but for some reason I’m sooo middle classs just doesn’t have the same ring to it, in a song or in life.

As a young woman who grew up Black middle class, not to be confused with growing up Black bourgeoisie and yes there is a difference. Don’t you just love how we as Black people put each other into categories? So, while I didn’t want for anything growing up (a true blessing), my mama maintained her Revolutionary, Black Power ideologies, so there was no Jack & Jill, no Links, no Boulé, no trips to the Vineyard, no attendance at my mother’s sorority or father’s fraternity conference-mainly because they didn’t pledge, no cotillion (although me being the diva that I am, I begged my mama to let me be in a cotillion but I was met with staunch resistance as my mom reminisced on the discrimination that she and her family faced by her own people-damn Black folk and our brown paper bag tests!). And if you didn’t experience 80% of those references, you didn’t grow up Black bourgeoisie either. But it’s ok. Like the King of Pop sang, you are not alone.

Unfortunately, I have seen many of my fellow middle class brethren fall prey to the ‘I’m sooo hood mentality…’ You know the ones who grew up in a two parent home, went to church on Sunday, did well in school (until maybe about high school) and then suddenly they became ‘hood.’ This led to them actually having to hang in the hood for authenticity and eventually getting tangled into things their parents would have never fathomed. Aaaah yes, the fallen ones. Because growing up Black middle class is some heavy stuff, and I mean literally heavy…I mean it’s like we are carrying the race on our backs with our successes and achievements, stumbles and pitfalls.

For me growing up Black and middle class was about more than my parents’ combined income, it was about exposure and opportunity. My parents wanted my brother and I to have every chance that they didn’t have. This meant that we learned foreign languages at an early age, were taught to love reading, saw plays about our people, were taken to museums just because it was Saturday and had countless other experiences that helped us see the world from a different perspective. We were raised and nurtured around people of a similar mindset, as we attended Kwanzaa celebrations (and other fun family gatherings), church on a regular basis and after school activities like our all Black Scouting troops. In every setting we were surrounded by people who cheered us on, encouraged us at every step and complimented our every success. And because we had received so much, certain things were expected of us. Attending college was a given, getting married before birthing a child was a commandment, joining somebody’s church was an expectation and giving back to the community was something you embodied…

There are many Black folk who have grown up quote on quote middle class and have seemingly strayed away from the values and expectations of their parents, families, community and apparently society as a whole. This Washington Post article really makes you go hmmm, or wtf, or a combination of both… Sometimes it seems that if you are Black and you grew up “regular”: in a two parent household (or just a supportive household for goodness sake), in a house (not a project building), took modest vacations, were pushed to succeed and be the best and were loved by your family, then seemingly, you are in a small minority. I once had a guy who after years of hustling finally got his first 9-5 job say to me, "I'm trying to be square like your father." Is that what going to work everyday, owning a home and raising a family is nowadays, being a square? I'll be that. But I understand how it doesn't make for a catchy song...


Because while you may know all song lyrics related to the hood, you probably can’t really relate to that lifestyle. But there is no song for you and how you grew up. We are not privy to see Black performers, entertainers or athletes recount their middle class lifestyle to the masses, not because they don’t exist but because it just doesn’t sell the b.s. ‘woe is me, I was Black and po’ but I ain’t no mo…’ one dimensional portrayal of Black life. I mean let hip hop and the media tell it (Mr. Bill O’Reilly included), the way I lived is just not real. Even August Wilson said the Cosby Show did not accurately reflect African American life. But I’m sorry, that’s how I grew up. That was African American life for me. That was my world. And I know that for millions of Black kids who are now Black adults, that too was their world. So I say that we Black middle class folk ban together and write our own song for the world to hear…I’m sooo middle class and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!