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

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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 Obama was able to end the year with at least one monkey off of his back by getting the policy repealed; making it possible for people to serve our country as they are, no matter their sexual orientation.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?” 

the HILLS have EYES

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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. 

Zapp, jail and bean pies.

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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.

The Unlikely Patriot.

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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.

Cool Like That!

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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.

WAKE UP, WAKE THE FUCK UP!

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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.

We’re waiting for our African American fathers…

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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.