My Opinions on EVERYTHING

Upward Bound, IUPUI

2006-07-25T16:20:00.000-07:00

Nobody reads blogs. Unless you'e already famous or popular, or you just like to go around telling everyone, "Read my blog! Read my blog!" Nevertheless, I'd like to share with you, my imaginary blogster friends who are sitting on the edges of their seats in anticipation, my most intimate thoughts and opinions.
I'll start with Upward Bound. As many of the millions of you know, Upward Bound is a college preparatory program for high school students who will be first-generation college students. It shouldn't be surprising that many of these kids are African American.

To make a long story short, the kids changed my life. I taught 12th grade English and had a total epiphany. Looks like I will be spending even more years in college for a PhD in education, so that I can start myown charter school for underrepresented minority students and change the worls-- one student at a time. See Geoffrey Canada's Fist Stick Knife Gun for the rest.
Holla, fans and friends!!!

2nd to Last Post on Romance

2006-03-27T20:33:00.000-08:00

My sermonette today is on love. If I had to give it a title, I would call it, "Barbie, pick up your bed and walk!" Well!! No, seriously, I am working out this poem based on a friend's poem about men leaving women "strewn like leggos." It was a tight line that made me think-- what is the difference between me and a toy some man has left scattered?

And that got me to thinking about the Velveteen Rabbit, how the most genuine and loving toy had to wait for the ADD boy to come cry to make him a real thing. And that made me think that, hell, I'm a real thing even if no one ever returns to claim me. Which led me to the conclusion that no matter who has despitefully used me, I am the real thing, not some toy waiting to be played with again.

Because the truth is that most men are boys and as such, completely incapable of cleaning up after themselves. They tend to make emotional messes of people and then have no clue how to clean the mess up. So they wait a while, then make the apologetic phone call months or years later, after they're sure you've healed: "Um, I just wanted to thank you for all you taught me about love. I really did the wrong thing. Thank you for showing me the light. I'm sorry if I ever hurt you. Oh, wait a minute, I gotta go change my baby's diaper. My wife is taking a nap. She thanks you, too. I never would have been able to love her this fully if you hadn't shown me how to treat a woman. Aight, holla."

Have you ever played the pretend-cry game with a toddler? The toddler won't play with you or share a toy or something, so you pretend to cry. Now a girl toddler will immediately run to you and do all the things her parents have done to stop her from crying. She might hug you, or give you the toy you wanted, or at least pat your hand. If none of this works, she might start crying too.

But a little boy-- he's stuck on stupid from jump. As soon as you start crying, he'll freeze. He'll stare at you, wondering what kind of beast breaks into tears when it hasn't even bumped its head on a table. Do you know when he'll react emotionally? When you pretend to leave.

Now I know what you're thinking... What kind of sick person are you to experiment with children's emotions in this way? Hold your horses. I have two little brothers and a host of cousins, so I've grown up doing human experiments on people. They're always humane. Now back to my point.

Unless we are superior in emotional intelligence, we are all pretty close to our child-selves emotionally. Women still accommodate a hurting person; men are still stuck on stupid when it comes to any emotional reaction besides anger. This deficiency on the man's part can be worked out with sensitivity training, but after about six years in the dating game, I'm fresh out of patience. My friend Jeremy said that love is about making your partner a better person, no matter the outcome, but I'm just tired of "training" little boys so that they can be men for other, less deserving women.

So I'm finished with the whole thing. That's why I'm eating a half of watermelon in my Superman tee-shirt and the panties my grandmother gives me every Christmas without fail-- the comfortable ones that come way up over my belly button. I just finished working out and I'm going to do some homework, then read Judy Chicago's autobiography. In short, I'm living.-- I'm not waiting for some knucklehead to come by and clean up his toys.

The Academy says, "Know your role, Darkie!"

2006-03-07T19:32:00.000-08:00

And the Oscar goes to... (drum roll, drum roll, Latifah laughing like she ain't know, dum dum dum) 3-6... What the?!?! Fu@# Sh%$ D*&^ Curses! Curses! Curses!
Let's get a couple things clear. First, I am the last person to make the argument that 3-6 wasn't good enough to get the Oscar. That argument is based on the fallacy that something has to be good to get an Oscar. That type of argument would privilege the whiteness of the Academy (capitalized only for clarity, not respect) as the most important judges of artistic merit. I would spit in my own face before I give them that type of power over my opinion. And that would really be hard to do, plus really nasty. As a matter of fact, I wish I hadn't wrote that. But the beauty of the blog is that you go to press pretty much unedited...

anyhow... though I typically don't give a darn about who the academy privileges, I am sick of the trend in the most recent awards. Why is the academy awarding us for staying in our stereotypical roles? I was too happy on black night a few years ago (when Halle, Denzel, and Sidney were all honored) to notice the trend, but I have since adopted a new attitude.

First, I don't need anybody to give me anything. Nobody has to tell me that Denzel is a great actor for me to believe it. I saw Mo' Betta Blues. Hell, I saw Mississippi Masala and knew that. So why should I be happy when the academy hands him a naked gold man for one of his least complex roles? Why should I have screamed like I did and attempted a cartwheel? If I'm going to wait for this capitalist, white supremacist patriarchy to validate me and mine, I might as well go around calling people Mr. Charlie and Boss.

Second, if we're going to be recognized in mainstream award ceremonies, if America is going to pretend that Hollywood is not segregated, then we should be judged by the same standards as white actors and actresses. These actors supposedly receive their awards for pulling off complex characters, for having the depth of spirit to connect to a foreign, complicated character on a human level.

Tell me, was Denzel's character in Training Day complex? Did we ever learn about the demons in his past that led him to be the evil man he was? Did he ever talk about his mother, how as a little boy he was told he would never be good enough? Did his heart warm toward his son, or his son's mother for that matter? Did he ever have a confessional scene with Ethan Hawke, in which the "bad guy" reveals things that make you wonder if he's so bad? Absolutely not! So what made this character, or Denzel's portrayal of him, Oscar-worthy? Was this character more complex than Malcolm Little turned Malcolm X turned El Haaj Malik El Shabazz? Hell, no. Malcolm was man who changed himself over twice or more! And Denzel is a man who was able to believably portray all of those changes. That's complexity for you!

Was Halle Berry's "make me feel good," child abusing, tattooed booty character more complex than battered woman-turned-Buddhist super-power Tina Turner? Absolutely not. In both cases, the academy awarded two actors for playing caricatures, characters without explanation. Everyone is going to hate me for this, but Hattie McDaniel played a caricature, too. Granted, the role was the only one available for a woman of her color and stature in those times, but the mammy in Gone With the Wind was far from a fleshed-out character. That marked the beginning of our being rewarded for staying in our place. A maid, a "footloose handyman" (Sidney), a dirty cop, a ghetto queen, a heroin-addicted whoremonger (said with respect), and now, some Bammas who think it's hard out there for a pimp.

Obviously, pimping is easy, because Hollywood has been pimping us for years. Since integration pretty much shut down the quality African American movie houses, Hollywood has been "placing" us in roles they want to see, and we eat it up in droves, right along with the popcorn and Raisinets and Goobers. Then, we tune our televisions to this disgusting display of opulence and elitism, pretending that the academy is the sole judge of artistic merit.

Did Eve's Bayou ever get nominated for best film or best screenplay? Did the Color Purple soundtrack get nominated for best score? Was Sankofa nominated for best cinematography? Then F--- the academy!

As long as we wait for bread from the master's tables we'll be left with crumbs, as scattered and pitiful as 3-6 Mafia on the academy stage, screaming their sorry-ass song.

Do I Make Any Sense?

2006-03-05T20:05:00.000-08:00

Definitions are important when you call yourself a critic of pop culture. It's important to specifically name the evils you notice. But there are some words I use so often that they have lost meaning: misogyny, sexism, racism, patriarchal, and exploitation (just to name a few). I'm particularly concerned with the last word. What does it mean to exploit someone or something? To make use of selfishly or unethically... To employ to the greatest possible advantage... To manipulate to one's advantage...

My mother's wrinkled brow comes to mind now, "Tell me exactly what it is that's hurting you. Point to where it hurts," she'd say, defying the recent "Robitussin cures everything" jokes. How could she help it if I couldn't even identify it? I learned, even then, that there was power in the naming. That when I named a pain, it was that much easier to fix it.

Well, let me point to it. This crap, in which a young white girl uses Keyshia Cole's "Love" to make a low-budget video that plays up on white America's fascination with teenage sexuality, embodies the many definitions of exploitation. Keisha Coles is set to make a fortune marketing the same kind of pain that made Mary J. Blige the "queen of R&B" when she can barely hold a note in a bucket. America likes hurting black women! Balled up, cringing, crying, brown-skinned women. White America has elevated Mary J. Blige in a way that black sales alone never could have. It is the same way that "gangsta rap," sold under the misnomer of hip-hop, has been elevated by mainstream America's bloodthirst. When they taste our blood, i.e. "feel" the lyrics, memorize them, and compare them to their own trials, they alleviate white guilt for creating the circumstances that predicate our pain.

Have I gone too far? What the hell does Keisha Coles' heartbreak have to do with white guilt? Doesn't everyone experience heartbreak? Doesn't sadness sell across racial and gender lines? Of course it does. But with all of Christina Aguilara's experiments in tortured soul, there is no way her experiments would have sold without her hypersexualized "Genie in a Bottle"-esque videos. America wants white girls naked, black girls crying.

I wouldn't take anything away from Fantasia's talent, but what made her more appealing than the other contestants that year? I'd venture to say it was her story, a story that explained the way her singing voice is somewhere between a sob and a scream. The same for Mary and the addictions that explain the purging quality of her raspy voice. And the same for Keyshia Cole, her heartbroken tattoo big, tacky and screaming for the world to see. For these women, every song is an exorcism, and they are airing their (our) demons for the rest of the world to not only see, but purchase!

So what bothers me about the video? Maybe it's just that these lyrics in the mouth of a young, white teenage girl just make them absurd. But why are they absurd on this random girl's lips and not on Keyshia's? Am I victim to Amerithink? Have I grown to expect black girls (like myself) to hurt in a way that seems absurd in the context of whiteness? Who knows? I'm just pointing to the pain. Somebody else has got to fix it.

Note to Self

2006-03-04T06:01:00.000-08:00

When you go to a party and you see three of your students in one night, you are too old to be there.

When you go to a party and a dude comes jumping up to you with his pelvis tilted in for a quick grind, sees your face, and says, "Oh, I'm sorry, Miss," you're too old to be there.

For that matter, when you see four people who call you Miss ________, you're too old to be there.

When you go to a party and your analysis of the lyrics prohibits your dancing, you're too old to be there.

When you, as fine as you are, go to a party and get no play, you might just be too old to be there.

Being a Loser in '06

2006-03-04T05:52:00.000-08:00

Am I a loser because I have a profile on www.BlackPeopleMeet.com? I am starting to feel some kind of way about it. I mean. what does that say about my social skills? I'd like to believe that I'm doing it because I live in Bloomington, and have already dated and hated all of the eligible black men, who I can count on my hand (one hand). But is there really something else behind this? It seems that the more technological advancements we make, the more we reach out to and pull away from each other. For instance, I have almost 100 Indiana friends on facebook and no one to go to dinner with if my two good friends happen to be booed up. What does that mean? If it weren't for facebook, would I actually make more of an effort to speak to the black people I see on campus? The world is a sad and lonely place. I come in the apartment each day, drop my bags, turn around, and double lock the door. Am I locking some media-inspired notion of an intruder out, or am I locking myself in?

I'm In Love With a Stripper (Not me, the song)

2006-03-02T09:20:00.000-08:00

Ok. I woke up this morning with one of Cash Money's videos on MTV. It seems to have set the tone for my entire effing day. The video seemed to dramatize the life of a stripper, but there was a strange mesh between the video's storyline, the lyrics, and the chorus of the song (I believe it was Juve). The lyrics seemed to empathise with the stripper, who was just a working woman trying to make it. The video showed various pictures of strippers away from the stage, including one of a lady in a thong studying a chemistry book. Okay, so this song is trying to humanise the "stripper ho" that so many rappers disrespect, right? No. The chorus: something like, shake that ass for me, momma. bounce that work that." What? Is Juve schizzo now?
Three videos later, "I'm in love with a stripper" comes on. Okay, there's so much to say about this BS song and not enough time. But I hardly call "trying to do the night thang" being in love. And if you were in love with a person, would you classify said person by(one of) her occupation(s)? I don't know. I'm not the moral right-- just a woman, fed up.
The straw that broke the stripper's back-- a boy that grew up with me and my little brothers has a new photo album on facebook. Title? "The Freak Show." I love this boy, I really do. So it was hurtful to see this brother from another mother with pictures of black women in various stages of undress. Mingled in those pictures were photos of celebrities that we are programmed to find beautiful. What gives? Are they freaks too? Here's what I wrote him: Dre,

I really didn't expect your picture book. I am very, very disturbed. First, some of the women in the book aren't really freaks-- so it's pretty degrading that all the women you consider attractive have to be called "freaks." Also, some of the nudes were really tastefully done, a classy celebration of the wonders of the black female form. However, in the context of your picture book, the images are sexualized and these ladies are reduced to sex parts, for your consumption and for the consumption of your friends. I know you're going to be like-- it's not that serious, but let me explain where I'm coming from. I grew up with only brothers, so I've learned to love and respect men as brothers first. I love you as a brother. I just wish that black men felt the same way about black women. There's nothing wrong with nudity, but are you celebrating the beauty of your sisters or are you exploiting "freaks" and using their naked bodies to get off? Ok... just had to tell you what I thought. I still love you, Dre!
Asha

Ok. I know this is too serious for a facebook message, but I'm a warrior. We are always prepared to battle.

Samuel Jackson is a Coon

2006-03-01T20:50:00.000-08:00

Do not see Freedom Land! If you are a brother, if you are a sister, if you are in any way empathetic to the struggles of black men (and women) harassed by police officers every day, YOU DO NOT WANT TO SEE THIS SYMPATHETIC-TO-WHITE-WOMEN-CHILD-KILLERS BULLSHIT. I promise you.
Remember Susan Smith? The white woman who killed both of her baby boys and blamed it on a black man, a figment of America's racist imagination? Well, this movie "explores" that phenomenon. At least that's what the previews lead you to believe. Instead, what you get is a poorly written film that, yet again, finds an excuse for the evil of the white woman. And yes, I do mean THE white woman, not specific to this film. The same white woman who beat and tortured the women who her husband raped. I'm talking about the evil of the same white woman who packed sandwiches and brought her children to see a lynching. The white woman whose lies brought on said lynching. The white woman for whom America continues to make excuses.
The movie begins when the white mother (WM) tells Samuel Jackson (Sambo) that a black man from the projects has carjacked her and run off with her son. This bit of news sends Sambo into an asthma attack (because, of course, all black men have asthma). You see, these are the projects that Sambo loves and protects. Besides, WM is so pretty and fair, and she is obviously distressed about her precious white son. So Sambo has an asthma attack, then begins to plan how he will protect his neighborhood from the vicious police raid that he knows will occur.
From jump, Sambo knows that WM is lying. Everyone remembers the Susan Smith trial without talking about it. The American racism that would lend a woman the audacity to falsely accuse just any old black man is actually never discussed. It's just an uncriticized given, which is really reflective of our society.
This is the part that had me bawling out loud in my seat-- I mean loud, hiccups and snot bawling. WM has a crazy cop brother who is hellbent on solving this case before Sambo has a chance to protect his peeps. So he goes into the projects and takes in this young brother (no more than 18) on a trumped up marijuana charge. The young brother reminds me of my little brother, who the racist cops in Lexington keep pulling over. That's another story, but it's probably the reason for my melodramatic reaction.
Anyway, young brother gets beat up in prison. I mean beat up. He is bloody, he looks wild-eyed and scared, there is absolutely no one to protect him, crazy white bastard cop keeps beating him in the face (WITH SOUND EFFECTS) when his hands are cuffed behind his back... Gruesome. Do you think this cruelty sends Sambo into an asthma attack? Of course not. OK. I don't feel like going through the rest of the movie scene by scene, but let me tell you why I'm mad.
I was a film major at Howard. I'm a writer by nature, practice, and training. I know what to do with a villain in a movie. You kill the villain! You punish the villain! You never let the villain get away with the crime (unless the story is being told by the villain). Not one of the cops who beat on this young brother ever got punished. The craziest white cop just disappears from the movie, even after his sister confesses. The young brother who they thought took this white boy never gets retribution. He is just scarred, looking wounded and angry for the rest of the movie.
Does the white woman get punished? Not for the crime of killing a child. Instead, she seems to be punished (just 3-5 yrs) for the crime of sleeping with the black man who helped her bury her son. I didn't even get into the Mammy archetype that revisits America through this movie. Said black man is actually married to a scarf-wearing black woman, who he beats! He beats her in the daytime, accuses her of emasculation (another archetype-- the ball-busting black woman) in the evening, then spends his nights with this white woman. Does any of this sound familiar? So the Mammy figure has the job of taking care of this weak, grieving woman for the whole movie, only to find out thatshe had been sleeping with her husband the whole time!
Finally, the whole movie becomes the white woman's platform. She left her son alone because she had a rough childhood. No one ever believed in her. Her brothers and sisters were overachievers. Her parents were always disappointed. She never had a man of her own. White girl BS, white girl BS, blah blah blah. The kicker? There is this romantic tension between Sambo and WM throughout the movie, and at the end, the liar gets to kiss Sambo on the mouth! What?!! Is that the way you punish a villain? She gets to kiss the movie's savior on the lips!! Are you kidding me? No one in the movie is ever even angry with her. Her brother magically disappears. The judge is merciful. The Mammy character says she can't be mad at her ("I just need to know," she said, "if my husband hurt that little boy."). The neighborhood isn't even mad at her, as they erect a shrine for her son. Finally, Sambo is the furthest from anger. Throughout the movie, he just kept treating her like the little girl that America imagines the white woman to be.
In short, this movie is a disgusting, racist perversion of a '93 crime that said a lot about America's feelings toward the black man and the white woman. According to Hollywood, those feelings haven't changed.

Inventory: Being 24 for Seven Days

2006-03-01T07:57:00.000-08:00

What I Have:
1. A growing relationship with God. 2. An awesome connection to my family. 3. A degree from Howard University. 4. Style. 5. Grace. 6. Swagger. 7. A nice apartment with at least two full walls of books. 8. A dancer's body (well, one who's been out of practice for a few months). 9. Motivation. 10. Intelligence. 11. Wit. 12. Peace. 13. One close friend in Bloomington, a few pretty cool acquaintances. 14. A car that will take me to Chicago every now and then, the nearest H.U. alumni spot. 15. Friends who care from afar. 16. Talent. 17. Virtue.

What I Need:
1. More faith that everything will work out in the end. 2. Peace after a four-months-ago dogged and dumped bad relationship. 3. A plan for the next five years. 4. Financial savvy. 5. Motivation to use my talent for good. 6. Joy.

What I Want, but Don't Necessarily Need:
1. A Beyonce booty (I have been lunging, to no avail) 2. More money to shop. 3. A new, 24-yr-old's wardrobe. 4. A man, preferably tall, dark, funny, intelligent, spiritual, masculine and sensitive at the same time. 5. More parties. 6. Money to fly to DC at least once every three months.

With the list in front of me, I actually think I'm doing well.

Tope, my friend

2006-02-16T21:05:00.000-08:00

Honestly, Tope is one of my favorite people in the world. We are sitting in the library, studying, and I'm having more fun than I've had all week. She is a person who makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. She is my linesister, my friend. She makes me feel like there is a sunrise in my heart. That has to mean something in this place full of gray.

Something a Nice Girl Told Me

2006-02-15T08:52:00.000-08:00

"There is no enemy to love; there are only perversions and diseases." -- Kate Terrell

Random Thought

2006-02-14T09:20:00.000-08:00

I was four years old the first time my parents were called to school to talk about my behavior (Every year that followed, they would be called at least twice a school year). I remember that a little white girl and I were playing monster, and we were roaring and chasing each other. She drug her fingernails across my face and, though it hurt, I laughed it off. She was the monster. Then it was my turn and I did the same thing to her. The only problem was that I have my great-grandmother Lucy's long nail beds, beautiful nails that grow long and bend like a black woman's back, shaped to hold the pressure of the world. When I clawed her, the little girl began to cry and red lines sprang up on her face. Not blood--, but fifteen minute-long marks nonetheless.
When Ms. Pat (the teacher) came running toward us, who was the monster she saw? And at four, where are the words to explain the difference between intention and action? It was an accident. We were just playing. It won't happen again. She did it first. I didn't mean to hurt her. She is my friend. The only word I knew was sorry. And I said it until my parents took me home, crying in the back seat.
There are things I cannot change. I can't change the toughness of my skin, can't wear my pain on my face like red welts. I can't change my hands, can't force them to be anything other than what they are, can't make them hurt less when I touch you. But I know words now, and I can explain anything you'd like me to. If you give me the chance. I'm no monster. Really.

2006-02-13T18:26:00.000-08:00

These are some notes I wrote to myself while in MFA workshop tonight. I'm the only person of color in the workshop. This is 2006, right? Just checking. Don't expect coherency:
I would rather jam #2 pencils in my eardrums than process the condescension that stumbles from your mouth as if your over-bite were an unlatched gate and the words were bad-ass kids, running away from the garbage in your house. And what is that garbage? The volumes of poetry by dead white men that you read at home, an afghan of isolation spread across your lap? Every day, I change slowly into my grandmother, praying for a bridle on my tongue. And what would she say to you today, if she knew that you had told me not to write about her grandfather, her great-uncles? What if I told her you said that lynching was "hackneyed," that everything that could be written about it was already written in the Harlem Renaissance. Surely, she would loose her own bridle, forget about the other cheek, and slap your buck teeth straight. Alas, I am not her. I'm just me. Black. Beautiful. Enviable. Maybe that's really what has your mouth open.