Happy Fricken Mother's Day!

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I'm pretty disturbed by the photo of  Jamie Lynne Grumet on the cover of Time Magazine. Can you blame me? I mean...What the Fergie? Here we go again with another baby with teeth attached to a woman's breast. He's on a stool as if he actually needs to be; as it's clear he could reach her breasts by simply standing on his toes. And she, this Jamie woman, she's actually attractive. No mother with a child that age looks that put together, unless... you're pretty much every amazing fricken' mother I know.

Yes America, here it is. The not so new face of motherhood. Fly, refreshed, perky breasts, clothes without spit up and a child with teeth attached to our breasts. Run for your lives... because we are here to ruin it. Yes I said it. A mother nursing her child is coming to a city near you to freak you out, give you the willies, over-sexualize her breasts all in an effort to make your life hell. Simply because all of the responsibilities she faces in one day i.e. her own personal challenges, work, providing, ovulating (we should get a life time supply of Haagen Dazs for that alone) spraying stain removers in places there should NEVER be stains... isn't enough. Uh huh. Nope, we make it our business to dine out and strategically nurse because we want to make you feel disgusted while lunching at Houston's. 

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 Obama was able to end the year with at least one monkey off of his back by getting the policy repealed; making it possible for people to serve our country as they are, no matter their sexual orientation.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

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

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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.

only in the white neighborhoods...

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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.