Not a book review of "32 Candles"

I tend to get violent when something is REALLY good. Like, the way I want to drop kick a toddler over the banana pudding ice cream at Dominion Ice Cream shop. Or how I claw at my chest when I hear an amazing song like Raphael Saadiq's "Just Don't". Or how I would thrash my body across the bed, almost as if I were having a seizure when I read Ernessa T. Carter's "32 Candles". I literally had to stop myself from throwing this book out of my bedroom window a few times, y'all. It is THAT serious.

This is hands down the best novel I've read this year and by far the best love story I've ever read. Period. "32 Candles" is smart, humorous, authentic, and just down right awesome.  I kept asking myself, "Who the hell is Ernessa Carter and where did she come up with this stuff?" Seriously, she's amazing. This book is so well written it's effortless. *sigh* Let me stop gushing. I implore you to read this book. I promise you won't be disappointed. If you don't like this book, I'm reporting you to the FBI as a possible terrorist. Seriously. There's no way you can't fall in love with "32 Candles".

Edit: One more thing.

Dear Hollywood,

PLEASE make 32 Candles into a movie and please don't fuck it up.

Sincerely,

Sarah

The Road Trip, Part 13: Southern Hospitality? What's That?

I’m not crazy. Seriously, I’m not. I know this is going to sound crazy but please hear me out, guys. The time between preparing my mother’s funeral arrangements and when we buried her were equal parts tortuous and fun. Yes, I said fun.The hardest I’ve ever laughed in my life came during those days. I would say that I cried the hardest then, too, but that would be a lie. The hardest I cried was once I got back to campus and was alone with my grief in my dorm room every night.

During that week prior to the burial, I was surrounded by loving and generous people. Most of all, those bamas were funny. Reminiscing on the old days is always a riot and with such a diverse group of family and friends filling our house to capacity, the stories were constant and hilarious. I would go from crying over the loss of my mother to crying laughing at the fact that my brother’s friend was STILL rocking a fanny pack in 2004. (I tell you no lies here, people. He showed up at the house with a LEATHER fanny pack on and I have never laughed so hard in my life!)

Even with what seemed like a million people in our house, there was an overwhelming amount of food. Neighbors and friends made sure we didn’t have to lift a finger. There was a definitive presence from a supportive community. They either loved us or respected my mother enough to make sure that even though our appetite waned from grief, we wouldn’t have to go looking for food when we were inclined to eat.

This was not the case in Newport, Arkansas. I thought surely that as soon as the news of my grandfather’s death hit that little town, people would be coming to The House with aluminum platters of spaghetti and baked chicken. I just knew someone was going to bring over a fruit or pasta salad. This is the South. That’s what they do, right? Apparently not.

Every day leading up to the funeral, we had to go out and find food. We visited one of the two Chinese restaurants in town and ordered take-out from a place famous for their pork chops. I couldn’t wrap my mind around why my grieving family was forced to order Chinese take-out, between picking out a casket and putting together an obituary. Call me presumptuous but I was disappointed in these Southerners. Even after the wake, we had to go out to Long John Silver’s for dinner.

I couldn’t figure it out. My family is well known and respected in that town. What was the deal? I still don’t know but honestly, it pissed me off. My dad and his siblings were incredibly stressed. They were frazzled beyond measure. They were all shells of themselves, walking around like zombies, fumbling through the tasks that come along with burying a loved one. I had to constantly prod them to eat. I couldn’t stop thinking of how there was such an abundant amount of food around after my mother’s passing. Foraging for meals was never a concern added to our already muddled minds.

But my disappointment was about more than food. Back in Minneapolis there was a constant stream of people in the house coming to support the family. In Arkansas, I felt deserted by the community. Where was every one? Then they had the nerve to show up in numbers for the wake and treat it like a party? Oh yeah, I was too through with Newport.

The Road Trip, Part 12: Is this a wake or a party?

After getting my godsister successfully married off, my dad and I drove back to Arkansas the next morning. The newlyweds were having a BBQ that day but we had a wake to attend. We stopped in Memphis along the way to pick up my brother, who had flown in from Minneapolis for the services.

The juxtaposition of emotions was nauseating. One day I was witnessing the happiest day of a loved one’s life and the very next day I was attending my grandfather’s wake. It seemed only right that tornadoes were chasing us. The whirlwind of emotions swirling inside both my father and I were manifesting themselves in the atmosphere, it seemed.

Arriving in Newport, AR in the pouring rain, we checked into a hotel. My grandfather’s house was filled with family pouring in from the Midwest for the services, so, staying there wasn’t an option. By the time we got checked in and dried off from the rain, we only had time to change clothes before heading off to meet with the rest of the family at the funeral home.

I’ve been to quite a few wakes in my lifetime but I’ve never seen anything like this one. It was like a mix between a class reunion and a funeral. The chapel was filled to capacity with family from Minneapolis, St. Louis and Arkansas. My father’s friends from Memphis also came. There were a lot of family and friends from Newport and they were very excited to see the visitors.

I sat in the pew next to the casket in awe of the atmosphere. One of our distant cousins was literally taking pictures with folks! There was lots of laughing and smiling going on in the back of the room and you could tell the grieving family in the front were just as thrown off by it as I was.

Even in this atmosphere, a few of my family members were crying themselves into fits. All the shaking and chest heaving going on in the front row, I was sure someone was going to pass smooth out while their cousins laughed and chatted in the background. To add to the chaos, there was a gospel CD playing in the background that kept skipping. I kept side-eyeing the CD player and thinking, “Would I be wrong to go turn this thing off?”

I didn’t. I just sat there holding whatever family member’s hand that came to sit next to me and cry. While it felt good to have so much family in the same place, it hurt to see everyone in so much pain.

Newspaper Don't Lie

I couldn’t sleep in my own room. It was unusually cold upstairs and I was afraid to walk past her room. When I had to go upstairs, I’d rush past my parent’s bedroom with my eyes cast down so I wouldn’t look in. I didn’t want to see that bed. My mind kept imagining her lying there.

August 29, 2004 was the beginning of a lifetime of pain for me and the end of my mother’s. The woman who knew me so intimately even before I was born, was dead. She died in her own bed with my father at her side while I was starting my junior year of college.

Upon arriving home after receiving the news of my mother’s death, I chose to sleep on the floor of our den rather than my own bed. My cousins slept down there with me so I wouldn’t be alone.

The morning the Star Tribune published her obituary, my male cousins went out to raid the newspaper dispensers for extra copies for the family. They came in the house at dawn to drop off the papers and I pretended to sleep. Lying there on the floor, my mind raced. “The newspaper don’t lie.” How could I continue to deny this loss when it was in the paper?

After they finished their delivery and went home, I hopped from my pallet on the floor and rushed to the bathroom. Locking myself inside, I released the intense sobs aching to burst forth from my broken heart. I desperately tried to muffle my cries. I didn’t want to wake the others, my father in particular.

My cousins Kim’El and Jackie began frantically knocking on the door, trying to get me to come out. When I finally composed myself, they told me not to lock myself in anymore, in case I passed out so they’d be able to get to me.

Seven years later, I still feel like I’m locked in that bathroom, the reality hitting me suddenly and I’m desperately fighting not to grieve too loud.

This morning I dreamed I was at a funeral. I was sitting in a middle pew, not extremely close to the front. I was sitting behind one of my younger cousins and I was holding a child’s hand next to me. Someone was singing my mother’s favorite gospel song, “Precious Lord” and I silently sat staring at the edge of the pew in front of me. Suddenly, I let out a shrill and resounding cry that seems to be alive within me, fighting to escape. Without letting go of the child’s hand, I burst into grief filled sobs.

This is what I'm feeling as the anniversary of my mother’s death approaches by the hour. I feel like this pain is living inside me and I keep it bottled up to keep from waking or disturbing others. But it won’t be contained. It always bursts forth in uncontrollable ways.

It's holding me back. There's something I want to do but can't get through it without a visit from my grief. I'm tired of it. Tired of that pressure on my chest and in my head. Tired of hot tears in my eyes and on my face. Tired to dream crippling exhaustion of being tired of grieving.

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Bey Day and the fool who almost ruined it.

Here's a video of me describing my first Beyoncé concert! She's amazing but some of her fans? Not so much. Let me know what you think.

The Road Trip, Part 11: Rest For The Weary

Thank God I had forgotten about her bacherlorette party! I didn’t have time to get dressed to go out and I didn’t want to go out with a 12-year-old’s hairstyle, anyway. I shooed my godsister and her friend out the door, ignoring her questions about why I wasn’t going. Once they were gone, I convinced my dad to take me to Sonic to get one of their soul healing slushies and some tater tots.

The next day was Friday and the agenda was packed with wedding activities. A bridal lucheon, rehearsal and dinner, along with miscellaneous wedding tasks assigned by the bride-to-be. Why my godsister would have us eating so much the day before we prayed ourselves into bridesmaids dresses is beyond me but we sure did eat! I was still a bit self conscious about my hair so, I kept a low profile at the rehearsal and dinner while simultaneously praying I could fix my ‘do back at the hotel.

The busyness kept the grief of my grandpa’s passing at bay. I found myself thinking of that stormy night at the VA less and less. I gasped for air at the shock of it all less often, feeling the prickly pain of sadness deep in my lungs subside. Although I knew the relief was temporary, I pleaded with God that my father felt it, too.

Several times a day I checked with him to see if he had spoken to his siblings. “Some letter from the VA came to The House, today,” he said.

“What did it say?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They all broke down crying when they read it and couldn’t tell me what it said.”

Hair not perfect but a hell of a lot better than before!

Selfishly, I was glad we weren’t there to share in the collective grief with my family. The hurt in that house was all encompassing. There was no escaping it. But we had. We dodged tornadoes to not only see my godsister down the aisle but to find some relief from the pain.

The next morning, I met my godmom to get manicures and pedicures. The wedding day had come and it was time to get fresh! After my nails were mostly dry, I hurried back to the hotel to tackle my hair. Jackie pinned up the coils in the back into a cute french roll then she stepped back to let me handle the mess in the front of my head. After dilly dallying in the mirror for a while, I decided to unravel each twist half way down and coil the ends for more fullness in the crown. Then I would pin the coils over to the left side to create a focal point.

Me and Daddy Dearest. :-)

Here’s the kicker, I can’t flat twist very well, so if unraveled too far I was screwed. I got to work. I would have kept my fingers crossed the whole while if I could have done so and completed the style. I didn’t have to apply any styling products because Mr. Pretentious hair stylist had globbed so much product into my hair. Once I got the first twist halfway unraveled, I tried to coil my hair as I had seen him do. No success. Undeterred I added a bit of water to the failed coil to make it curl and two strand twisted it. Success! I did this for the rest of the way across the front of my hair, pinned the twists where I wanted them, looked in the mirror and beamed. I looked like myself again!

A Few Gripes with "Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest"

I was 7-years-old when A Tribe Called Quest’s first album People’s Instinctive Travels and Paths of Rhythms was released but my brother was 17. Thanks to him, I quickly learned that ATCQ was the pinnacle of Hip Hop groups. While I heard plenty of NWA and Public Enemy in our house, nothing compared to his love for Tribe. I followed after my brother like a hungry puppy. If he liked it, it HAD to be the best and Tribe was his absolute favorite Hip Hop group (and still is).

The love for Tribe, and all the artists represented in the Native Tongues, grew feverishly in our house with each release. I was too young to fully understand the lyrics but I wasn’t too young to recognize the feeling. This music made me feel damn good. It induced feverish dancing (Buddy), coy coolness (Bonita Applebum), pure uncut hype (Scenario) and quiet contemplation (Stressed Out).

Years passed and Tribe broke up. I’ve since fallen madly in love with the groups ATCQ paved the way for: Outkast and The Roots being the most notable. When I heard that Michael Rappaport was directing “Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest,” I thought surely the documentary would focus on Tribes impact and legacy. Sadly, this was not the case.

Rappaport’s story was almost elementarily linear. He seemed to be rushing through the history of Tribe to get to the recent beef between Q-Tip and Phife. Tribe’s foundation and first albums were succinctly detailed in the beginning of the film to make room for the more salacious footage of strife within the group.

Rappaport is a self professed Tribe fan, so, I was surprised at the film’s lack of focus on the music. Q-Tip explained where he came up with some of the samples for some of the beats and where in the hell “I Left My Wallet in El Segundo” came from. It would have been nice to have more of these insights into how one of Hip Hop’s greatest groups actually created the classics we still rock to today.

Ali Shaheed Muhammad agrees with me. In an interview with Exclaim.ca he said:

"I think it's decent," Muhammad says. "What I would like to have seen from it, and this is one of the issues that Q-Tip and I have had with the director, is that we felt that -- we're perfectionists in everything we do and we understand the culture and we understand the art form, we understood ourselves and we felt the music was not -- he didn't spend enough time on the composition, on the music. Periods of music that we were pulling from was as important as the way we compiled it, what we pulled away and sampled. He would say 'I've only got 90 minutes to get it done, I gotta shorten it up.' I felt there was too much time on the bickering and not enough time on the musicality of it. But other than that it's pretty fair."

The interviews chosen for the documentary were entertaining and informative. Pharrell, Black Thought and Questlove all provided comical quips and insights from a fan’s perspective. What was missing from this footage was any real discussion of Tribe’s legacy. The very short clips from these artists don’t do ATCQ’s oeuvre justice. No where in the film was their almost religious connection and significance to their fanbase explained.

Another disappointment in “Beats, Rhymes & Life” was that Rappaport chose to use the perspective of a Tribe fan, taking for granted that his audience was already familiar with the group. Anyone watching this film without a working knowledge of ATCQ’s work and impact would walk away not understanding that Tribe was (and is) a big fucking deal. They created a movement within Hip Hop that is still alive today but this film didn’t reflect the immensity of the task.

I will say that I think Q-Tip was in a huff about nothing prior to the release of the documentary. He wasn’t necessarily portrayed as the big bad wolf in “Beats, Rhymes & Life.” If you must choose sides, Tip clearly comes out as the villain in the film but I should hope that fans are able to be a bit more mature with their judgements. I don’t think it was an issue of ego but a lack of sensitivity and understanding. We’ve probably all been guilty of the same thing. Phife isn’t at all guilt free in my view. His hyper sensitivity and lack of communication exacerbated the tensions between the two.

Despite the many flaws in the film, I still thought it was pretty good. The insights that were uncovered in the hour and a half were well worth the price of admission and the trip down memory lane is priceless.