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.