Sarah So Sincere

Not a book review of "32 Candles"

2011-09-29T15:49:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-09-16T06:04:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-09-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-28T14:17:00.001-07:00

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.

2011-08-26T01:12:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

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"

2011-07-19T19:48:00.000-07:00

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.

The Road Trip, Part 10: Get Out Of My Hair

2011-06-28T19:38:00.000-07:00

I looked in the mirror at the finished product and tried to remain optimistic. I’d watched enough natural hair videos on Youtube to salvage this, I thought. There was a battle raging inside me. One side was screaming, “I look like a fucking 10-year-old!” The other side was saying in a calm, soothing voice, “Don’t panic. You will find a way to make this work.”

I made a little face in the mirror as Mr. Pretentious fluffed my hair. “I kinda feel like I look like a 10-year-old,” I said.

“Yeah, the twists in the front are a little juvenile,” he said. “You have two different styles going on. I wish you had gotten one or the other.”

“Well, when I was describing the type of style I wanted, I would expect a stylist to have a look in mind before they do my hair...”

“... and work it,” he said.

“Exactly.” Then, there was silence.

I couldn’t tell Mr. Pretentious I wanted a new style. It had been an extremely long trip and I didn’t have it in me to argue with this stranger. I also didn’t trust his skills as a stylist. Even if he had done it over, what if whatever he did came out jacked up? I didn’t have the patience to risk it. I paid him and left. The coils themselves were neatly done, they just weren’t stylishly done.

When my dad first saw me, he didn’t say a word. He knew I hated my hair and was treading lightly. He’s not too keen on the natural hair thing, anyway, so I’m sure he thought this was what I get for refusing to press my hair.

My mood and confidence were both in the dumps. We got in the car and started to drive to the mall. I needed to buy a dress for my grandfather’s funeral. Clearly, when I packed for the trip, I hadn’t known I’d need to bring funeral attire. The mix of disappointment in my hairstyle and the stress of the week was too much. I sat in the passenger seat and cried. I felt silly and shamed for crying but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“I don’t know what you’re crying for,” my dad said. “Why’d you pay him if you didn’t like it?”

I was beyond annoyed. Why couldn’t he at least be quiet until I had gotten it out of my system? He tried talking about something else. My replies were curt and bitter.

“Don’t be mad at me! I didn’t do it!” he shouted.

All the while I had been texting my cousin, Jackie, to meet us at the mall. She’d know what to do. She was always good with hair and would be able to tell me how to fix it.
Once we got to Lenox Square mall, I quickly found a stylish black dress on sale at Bloomingdale’s. Jackie met us in the store and I wanted to immediately talk about how to fix my ‘do but it wasn’t the right time. I did, however, get her to agree to help me fix the mess before the wedding.

As we left Bloomingdale’s, I remembered, “Damnit. I don’t have any shoes to wear with this dress.” I had only brought sandals, club shoes and the shoes for the wedding. The wedding shoes were black and low enough for my funeral dress but they were satin. There was no way I could wear them in a muddy cemetery.

Once again, good fortune was on my side. I found some adorable black leather pumps with a cute bow in the front in Nine West. AND they were on sale! My shopping was done in record time.

The weight started ascend from my chest, as time went on. I still felt like people were staring at my head but I knew it was all in my mind. I turned my confidence up a notch and kept it moving.

With our shopping done, my dad and I headed out to the bride-to-be’s house way out in Fairburn, GA. When we walked in, my goddad fixed my dad a bowl of hog maws and my godmom sat at the dining room table, decorating a box for the wedding guests to put cards in.

After about a half hour, my godsister emerged from upstairs. “Sarah, why aren’t you dressed? Put some heels on. Let’s go!”

“Oh shit,” I thought. “I forgot about her bacherlorette party!”

The Road Trip, Part 9: Hair Horrors

2011-06-25T20:29:00.000-07:00

Passing out from exhaustion in our hotel beds at The Historic Tutwiler hotel in downtown Birmingham allowed our overwhelmed minds and bodies a night to recover. The next morning my dad and I enjoyed the continental breakfast and headed on our way to Atlanta. It was Thursday, April 28th and I had an 11:30 AM hair appointment to get my hair together for the wedding.

The plan was to leave early enough to make it to Atlanta about an hour or so before my appointment just in case we ran into traffic or got lost. As we travelled down the highway, my godsister (the soon-to-be bride) texts to make sure we were ok. She inquired about our whereabouts and what time my hair appointment was. After receiving my reply she texts, “Speed!” Her response puzzled me. I thought we were making good time and would make it to Atlanta well ahead of my appointment time. “Birmingham is in a different time zone, dummy!” she said.

I sank into the passenger seat and made the, “you’ve got to be shitting me” face. I refused to be worried about and hoped we’d get there just in time, which we did.

The idea to get my hair done in Atlanta was not my own. I have an amazing stylist here in DC and planned to have her hook me up for the wedding. My godsister preferred I get my hair done in Atlanta in hopes of my hair being “fresh” for the big day. The only issue is, I don’t wear my hair straight and she couldn’t suggest any natural stylists in the city. I am VERY particular about who puts their hands in my hair, so, I was extremely wary of going to an unknown stylist. After turning to twitter for help and still not being able to get any suggestions, I did my best to pick from a handful of stylists I found via google.

I walked into the shop exactly at 11:30. The shop was in a nice neighborhood somewhere near downtown Atlanta but there was no sign on the outside of the building. I walked up a flight of stairs and there were two doors. One was clearly marked as a dance studio and the other had no markings at all. I opened this mystery door to find a pretty nice, and clearly new, hair salon. I walked to the reception desk to find a balding man with what looked to be dry s-curl looking down at a laptop. He did not look up at me or even acknowledge my presence.

“Hi. I’m Sarah. I have an 11:30 appointment with [stylist’s name redacted].”

“Ok, have a seat.”

I chuckled to myself as I stood there. Rude, pretentious people crack me up. I have to laugh to keep myself from cracking their skulls.

I sat down in the waiting area and was soon met by a friendly young man who kind of reminded me of Disney’s Pocahontas with a lip piercing. We chatted about the products I use in my hair and the type of style I had in mind. I thought, “Ok. This might just work out.” I soon found that Pocahontas wasn’t my stylist, he was just going to wash my hair. “Oh lord, Mr. Pretentious with the S-Curl is going to be doing my hair,” I thought.

Pocahontas walked me to the shampoo bowl where we were met by Mr. Pretentious’ rude ass. “What’s she getting today?” he asked Pocahontas as if I couldn’t speak for myself. Mr. Pretentious stuck his hands into my hair and felt around, while Pocahontas told him what I wanted.

After Pocahontas washed my hair I asked Mr. Pretentious for his opinion on my style. “I want twists in the front and something curly in the back that I can pin up for the wedding. What do you suggest? A twist out or something else?”

He turned in his chair and suggests a coil out. I’d never had coils in my hair but thought they may turn out nice. I was mostly trusting that Mr. Pretentious had a look in mind, thus his suggestion, so I rolled with it.

Pocahontas started to flat twist my hair in the front. My stylist in DC does small, intricate flat twists. These were huge in contrast. He asked me how far back I wanted the twists to go before the coils started. I showed him with my hand and he made a face. “If you have them go back to here,” he said pointing near my ear, “then the coils could start from there.” He was the professional, so I trusted his judgement. One he got halfway done with the twists, I thought, “Maybe this will turn out cuter when it’s all done.”

After Pocahontas got done with the twists, I was still skeptical. Once Mr. Pretentious finally came over to do the coils, I asked him if he thought the style of the flat twists would look right with the coils or if they went too far back. “I think he did them a too big,” he said. Um... sir? You sat there and let your assistant do something to my head that you didn’t think you could work with and didn’t say a word? He then assured me it would come together once the coils were done and they had a chance to expand in the humidity. Again, I trusted him.

Mr. Pretentious globbed handfuls of Miss Jessie’s products into my hair. “Most people don’t use enough product,” he said in what I can only assume was his response to the look of horror on my face. He asked me about what types of products I used in my hair. I told him I used all natural products, to which he replied, “With all the technology we have now, people don’t need to use that stuff anymore.” At that point, I knew I had made a drastic mistake.

The Road Trip, Part 8: Tornadoes and GPS Woes

2011-06-18T15:29:00.000-07:00

Having dodged one twister sized bullet, it was time to figure out how to get out of this traffic and on to Atlanta. Traffic was at a stand still on Hwy 78 and our GPS would only reroute us to the same road.

My dad called the family friend we were going to stay with when we got to Atlanta that night to let her know we'd be coming in late. She quickly advised us to find a hotel in Birmingham for the night because there were multiple tornadoes making their way to the ATL. Even if we had missed the tornado in Alabama, had we not been stuck in traffic we would probably have run into a twister on the way to Georgia. I'd never been so grateful for a ingrown nail in all my days.

We pulled into a parking lot where a 18-wheeler was parked. The driver was also on his way to Atlanta. He said there was a back way to get around the traffic but he wasn't sure of the exact route. We called around to find a hotel with power and found a couple available in downtown Birmingham. Just how exactly were we supposed to get downtown without using the highway in a city we'd never been to before? The hotel attendants couldn't give us any directions over the phone so, we were on our own.

NIghtfall quickly came and so did the rain. We decided to follow some cars into a residential area and see if we could get far enough away from the highway to get the GPS to reroute us using the streets only. Dead end after dead end in a pitch-black city was not only frustrating but frightening. Somehow we came to a road with lots of cars being rerouted away from Hwy 78. The detour was treacherous. Maneuvering around fallen trees in the road and downed power lines in the rain was enough to make one weary.

I worried for my dad. He was already under immense stress from his father's passing, now he had to dodge tornadoes? Would this be too much? I looked for signs of breaking in his face but there were none. I saw only intense focus and determination to get us to safety.

After a close call with a hanging power line coming loose directly above our car, we were able to find our way to the hotel. We even made it just before room service closed. My dad had a Reuben and fries with strawberry cheesecake for dessert. I had a Caesar salad, scallops and spinach risotto. I ate most of my dad's cheesecake. It seemed it tasted better than any cheesecake I ever had. In the midst of a week of death and destruction, this sliver of sweetness was much appreciated.

The Road Trip, Part 7: Mysterious Ways

2011-05-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

The two sides of my family couldn’t be more different. My mom was from the city and my dad is from the backwoods. My dad’s family is generally pretty reserved while my mom’s side is rather rowdy. They both have their share of dysfunction but my mom’s side, the Lewis’, can be just plain hood with theirs. The Lewis side of my personality was ready to come out when I learned that someone had stolen my grandfather’s suits.

My dad and his siblings shook their heads at the discovery while I fought the urge to put up wanted posters throughout the town. I laid on the couch and thought of exactly what I’d say. “Wanted: whoever stole my granddaddy’s suits. I’m looking for you.” If I didn’t think it would embarrass my family, I would have at least taken an ad out in the local paper.

Who in the world steals from an 88-year-old man? My cousin is known to associate and procreate with felons, so, maybe some of her friends needed court clothes. Also, my grandpa had a friend known for “boosting.” If you’d steal from JC Penny’s and sell the stolen goods, maybe you’d steal from an old man and sell his suits? I don’t know. The whole situation was beyond logic.

To add to the insanity of it all, my father went looking for a pair of silk pajamas he and my mother had given my grandfather as a gift. They were also gone.

We didn’t have time to go pistol whipping the citizens of Newport, AR looking for these pajamas, we had a wedding to get to. My dad and I climbed into his white Lincoln MKS and started along our way. When we reached West Memphis, we stopped for gas and I reminded him to call his friend, Mary, about my foot. Mary said her pedicurist wouldn’t be available for an hour but her podiatrist could see me right away. We opted to see the podiatrist and headed into the city to get some professional help for this pain in my toe.

I was concerned about seeing a doctor because I didn’t have insurance. What if it was something serious and I needed a procedure? How much would this cost? Once I checked in at the doctor’s office, I found out it would cost $150 just to see the doctor. By this time, I’m praying it’s something simple that won’t require multiple visits.

Once the fee was paid and I waited a short while, a young lady with coke bottle glasses and microbraids escorted me to the back. My dad was torn between making sure his car was ok or going back to the room with me. I won this initial round versus the Lincoln.

The lazy eyed woman took me back up near the front of the office to weigh me but she couldn’t operate the machine. I don’t know if she couldn’t see if the bar was balanced in the middle of the beam or if she just didn’t understand the concept of the non-digital scale but I tried to pretend not to notice. Poor thing.

Mary stopped by the office to make sure we were taken care of. When Dr. Davis came into the room, they hugged like they were best friends and she told him to make sure he took good care of me.

The doctor was very friendly. He moved to Memphis from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. He took one look at my inflamed toe and said, “Yep. You have an ingrown toe nail.” THANK YOU JESUS! It wasn’t an infection and didn’t need to be amputated or whatever other dramatic outcome I had been bracing myself for.

Dr. Davis said he’d have to cut a portion of my toenail away and the nailbed would be exposed until it healed. “Um.... I have a wedding to be in on the 30th and I have to wear open toe heels,” I said. He said he could cut a little from the corner of my toe to relieve the pressure and the pain. You wouldn’t be able to tell he’d done anything, he assured me. I’d still be able to get a pedicure and wear heels but I’d have to come back to get the rest taken care of after the wedding. “Ok, that sounds great. When I come back, will I have to pay the $150 again?”

“Oh, no. I’ll make a note for the front desk that it’s free of charge,” he said. I beamed. Thank God for Mary and the homie hookup!

We soon got back on the road to make the six hour trip to Atlanta. It looked like everything would work out and my mind finally started to rest. We ran into a little rain just as we were leaving Memphis but it passed quickly.

As we approached Jasper, AL the clouds were eerily dark. The closer we got, we started hearing sirens and fire trucks rushed past. We kept on our way and noticed the highway signs were completely bent. Some bent over backwards, others twisted as if stretching before a workout. Then we started noticing large tree branches in the middle of the highway. Clearly, a serious windstorm had just come through this very highway.

Once we got to Birmingham, we were four miles from the exit to highway 20 heading toward Atlanta when the traffic made a complete stop. Nothing moved and the lights were out in the city.

We sat there for about 20 minutes when my dad told me to ask the person in the truck next to us what was going on. “A tornado just hit about four blocks ahead,” she said.

All I could think about was my toe and how if it hadn’t been such a pain, my dad and I probably would have met that tornado head on in Birmingham.

The Road Trip, Part 6: Decisions, Decisions

2011-05-26T04:43:00.000-07:00

My grandfather was known for being stylish. Ever the classy one, he kept an extensive wardrobe with all manner of suits, boots, and hats. He was particularly fond of Kangol hats.

I remember being shocked during a family reunion picnic in the early 2000’s, “Does my granddad have on Jordans?” Yes. Yes, he did. He had on the black and red Jordan XIV’s. I almost passed out right there in the park.

Due to my grandpa’s reputation, the pressure was on us to make sure his funeral fit his elegant image. Obituaries are keepsakes. People send them to relatives who were unable to attend the services. There was no way we could use a picture of my grandpa with a jheri curl on the cover.

Thankfully, I was able to crop my hand out of the picture from last year’s family reunion and the family was more than pleased with the result. I completed the rest of my writing duties and left the rest to my aunt and uncle, as my dad and I would be leaving for Atlanta in the morning.

The next morning, we were all supposed to go to Craft Funeral Home and choose my grandfather’s casket. After that, my dad and I would hit the road headed to Atlanta. As plans were being made for the next day’s activities, I thought it was a good time to consult my dad about my toe, which hadn’t gotten any better despite my faithful water pill routine.

“Dad, maybe I have an ingrown toenail or something. Can we stop in Memphis in the morning and have your pedicurist friend look at it? At least she’d be able to tell me if that’s the issue.”

My mom was from Memphis and after her passing, her friend Laurice made it a point to make sure my dad wasn’t lonely. She’d invite him to Memphis events and through her, he made a lot of friends in the city. One of these friends, Mary, has turned out to be more special than the others. At first, I was pissed at the thought of my father dating again but she ended up being an awesome woman. Plus, she buys me MAC makeup during the holidays. This is the quickest way to get in good with me.

My father always raved about Mary’s pedicurist so he agreed to give her a call once we got on the road in the morning.

Morning came and I got dressed in just enough time to make it to the funeral home on time. To my surprise, I was the only one ready. My dad was upstairs yakking on the phone and my Uncle Jerome wasn’t even dressed! The rest of my family was walking around looking dazed.

It had been stressed that we needed to be on time to the funeral home because the woman handling the business had other obligations for the day. She couldn’t sit around and wait for us. So, why was I the only one ready?

Eventually, I fussed enough at my dad that we ended up leaving everyone else. About half of us were there within 10 minutes of our appointment time and got started on the paperwork before my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome arrived. We got some of the questions answered but for most of them, my dad said, “You’d have to ask Lois.” And when she finally got there and the funeral home representative started asking her questions, she would look at my dad and there would be an awkward silence. These questions consisted of things like, “How many death certificates will you need? How many insurance policies were there? When would the services be held?”

In all things, my father takes the lead. I was both frustrated and alarmed that he would take a back seat on this. He is always the authority and always leads the charge. What in the world was going on?

I struggle with impatience so, all the blank stares and awkward silences were really bugging me. It only got worse when it was time to pick out the casket. As I looked around the room full of caskets, I immediately saw the one I thought would be best. It was two toned, black and silver. Black on the top and bottom with embossed silver along the sides. It looked elegant and manly, just like my granddad.

I stood next to my dad and pointed to the black and silver casket in the corner. We all agreed that this was the best fit but my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome wouldn’t bite the bullet. They just stood there, looking back and forth between us and the casket. No argument was being made for or against the thing, they just looked.

It came time to choose what type of vault we’d put my grandpa in. There are only two types: the kind that has a decorated top and the other kind that doesn’t. More standing and staring occurred. I don’t remember which one they chose because sometime along the way my brain shut off.

We went back into the woman’s office and she instructed us on the next steps: bring the clothes he’d be buried in by Friday and bring the insurance policy information by the day of the services. Ok, got it.

We got back to The House and my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome went to pick out a suit for my grandpa but only one could be found. I reached in my purse to text a friend, “Lord... someone done stole all my granddaddy’s suits!”

The Road Trip, Part 5: "We aint doing no jheri curls!"

2011-05-23T01:20:00.000-07:00

After his brief tour in WWII, my grandfather started a career as a sharecropper and would use his ten children as field hands. Life on the farm equipped the kids not only with agricultural skills but carpentry, auto-mechanic, plumbing and a host of other handy talents.

They raised cows, pigs and goats in a section of land called “Blacksville.” They made much of their money from their cotton and soybean crops, as well as corn, sorghum, wheat, okra and cucumbers.

As the eldest boy, my father started driving a tractor at 5-years-old when he was too small to see over the steering wheel. He’d have to start the tractor in gear, stand up to reach the pedals, and cut the gas to make it stop.

In 1966, the children helped to build their family home after my grandparent’s stopped renting from the farm owner’s land. The Lake clan could build whatever they put their minds to: deconstructing cars and tractors for fun, just to see whether they could put them back together again.

In 1982, the old house was moved to it’s current location on Highway 17 and totally remodeled. Most of the Lake siblings had moved to Minnesota by this time, leaving Jerome to do much of the work with the contractors. A second level was added to the house, as well as a den and attached garage. For 28 years, “The House” went untouched. The wallpaper, carpet and furniture remained the same.

After years of prodding from the Minnesota crew, my grandfather and Uncle Jerome agreed to allow the house to be remodeled again in 2010. My family put in new floors, bought new kitchen appliances and painted the first floor bedrooms. They hired a contractor to install new cabinets in the kitchen while they put in tile floors on their own. The bathroom was totally redone, with dual sinks added, a tile floor, new bathtub and toilet, and a sliding door separating the sinks from the interior of the bathroom.

On the morning after my grandfather passed, I limped to the bathroom to bathe and tame my fro for the day. The pain in my toe was so severe I couldn’t completely put on my left house shoe. I had to walk around with it only half on, making a shushing noise as I walked across the new floors.

I undressed, started the water and climbed into the shower. As the warm water hit my feet I felt a burn in my left big toe. At this point, I was blown away. “Really? WATER is hurting me?” So here I was, standing in the shower at an angle because I couldn’t take the burn but I couldn’t cut my shower short, as I needed to fully wash the previous day’s travel funk and grief away.

PMS and a long car ride equaled swollen feet. I thought whatever was wrong with my toe was being further irritated by water retention. I decided I’d go buy some water pills before I worried my dad about seeking medical attention.

After I’d gotten dressed and thrown my hair into an afro puff, I went to find my dad. To my surprise, he was still planning to drive to Atlanta the next day for the wedding. I was ready to call the bride and apologize for causing her to be a bridesmaid short, but my dad didn’t seem to have even thought about not going on. The plan was to head down to Atlanta on Wednesday and come back on Sunday, the morning after the wedding. This way, I wouldn’t miss my Thursday hair appointment or any of the pre-wedding festivities.

The rain finally stopped as the family started to get up and move around. My dad and I went to Fred’s Dollar Store to get my water pills. We left there to find food and ended up at the Hickory Hut, a restaurant in town known for their fried catfish. We walked in and it felt like I had walked into a Ku Klux Klan meeting. We were the only black people in sight and everyone turned to look when we entered the room. Swamp boots, overalls and hairstyles pumped full of hairspray reigned in this place. Not only were we the only non-melanin deficient folks, we were clearly Yankees. Can you say awkward?

I thought the food was pretty good, although the sweet tea was watered down and barely sweet, but the fish wasn’t fried hard enough for my dad’s liking. Neither of us finished our meals and took the leftovers back to The House for the family. It felt good to be out with my dad, just me and him. We didn’t talk about anything in particular but it was nice to get away from the black cloud covering the plot of land out on Highway 17.

When we got back to The House, I had work to do. My Auntie Lois charged me with helping her write the obituary. I’m the niece with the journalism degree, so, I guess it was only right. My Uncle Robert brought a bag full of obituaries from his house for us to use as templates. It was fascinating going through them all. I didn’t know the vast majority of the people whose obituaries were found in the bag but there was one for my favorite aunt, Claudette, my cousins Tangie and Justin, my grandma Sarah, my great-uncle Joe and my own mother, Joyce.

Looking at my mom’s obituary hit me square in chest. My eyes watered as I looked at the brilliant photos on each page. I remembered how stressful it had been for our family to write her obituary. I ran my fingers over the cover photo, longing for her presence.

As I continued to view the obituaries, I read my Aunt Claudette’s. “Who wrote this?” I asked. “Joyce helped to write that,” my Auntie Lois responded. I smiled. I could hear my mother’s voice clear as day as I read her writing.

My Uncle Kenny made the layout for my granddad’s obituary on his lap top and I sat down to fill in the missing pieces. The first issue was we had to find a picture to put on the front. My aunt went looking in my grandpa’s bedroom for some pictures. “All the pictures I can find, he has a jheri curl.”

“Aw naw! We aint doing no jheri curls!” my dad said. I thought I was going to lose my life laughing. “Surely somebody has a recent picture of him,” he said.

We called other family members to see if anyone had a picture we could use. Each one said they would look but we never got a satisfactory answer, which was odd because we have regular family reunions and we take a LOT of pictures.

I went to my computer bag, pulled out my digital camera and looked through the photos. I found one from the last family reunion in 2010. My brother and I flanked my grandpa on both sides. My hand was placed on my grandpa’s shoulder. It was a damn good picture of him but my freaking hand was in the way! If we couldn’t get around my freshly manicured hand, we’d have to use a picture from the 80s. This would never ever do.

The Road Trip, Part 4: Seeing Is Believing

2011-05-19T00:24:00.000-07:00

Every single funeral or wake I’ve attended someone says, “They look just like they’re sleeping.” Every time I hear this, I think, “Um... no they don’t. They definitely look dead” I get that it’s supposed to be a comforting thing to say but most times I find it to be untrue.

When it was time to view my grandfather’s recently deceased body at the VA in Little Rock, AR, my Uncle Jerome refused to go. He was the closest to my grandpa in life and simply couldn’t bare it. They had a symbiotic relationship. My grandpa relied on him to maintain the house, drive him to his doctors appointments and care for him when he just didn’t feel like caring for himself. My uncle relied on my grandpa’s company and his income, as his disability kept him out of the workforce. The stress of grief and worry over what would now become of his life visibly wrought my uncle’s face as we left him sitting on a bench in the hallway outside ICU.

We had missed my grandfather’s last breath by a mere 20 minutes. His body was still warm to the touch. Despite my disagreement with the cliche, he really did appear to be simply sleeping. He was freshly washed and groomed by the nurses and looked quite dapper lying in the hospital bed. They had shaved his mustache away but it didn’t look odd. He still looked very much like himself.

There was a calmness about his face. He looked at peace. It may have been a delusion but I swear I saw a faint smile on his lips. He looked amazing.

This awe at how well he looked soon gave way to grief. I walked to a corner of the room, turning my back to his body and cried. My mind didn’t want to accept what I was seeing. A nurse came in, passing around kleenex. I took some from her hands and again found my way back to my father’s side. His once stoic face finally gave way to tears.

My Uncle Robert clasped my grandpa’s shoulder and shook him forcefully. I can’t recall what he was saying but it seemed to be an attempt to wake my grandfather. The hospital’s chaplain soon came in and prayed with the family. It was an awkward prayer but we took what we could get.

The chaplain advised us on where to make arrangements for the body to be picked up and other administrative tasks, then shuffled out of the room leaving us with to grieve. The nurse with the tissues remained in the room with us. She commented repeatedly on how much we looked like my grandfather. She told us how hard they had tried to save him. Then she began to cry.

I was mildly alarmed by this stranger’s tears but appreciated her empathy. She even looked shocked at her own tears. I can only imagine the toll it takes on one’s spirit to work in the ICU, watching people die daily and routinely witnessing a family’s heartbreak. She walked around the room, holding anyone who would accept her embrace. I gratefully accepted.

After the administrative business was taken care of, we left Little Rock for my grandfather’s house. Once we got there, it was time to figure out who was sleeping where. My Uncle Robert went home to his wife and daughter. My aunt and her husband were sleeping in my grandmother’s old room. My Uncle Jerome had his room on the second floor and my other two uncles occupied the double beds my father and I generally sleep in on visits. Where were me and my dad going to sleep?

“I can change the linen on Diddy’s bed and you can sleep in there,” my aunt said to me. “Diddy” is what my aunts call my grandfather (long before Puffy changed his name) and there was no way in hell I was sleeping in his bed that night! No, sir! No, ma’am! Not me! I politely shook my head and made the “No, ma’am” face.

My dad spoke up, “You’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll sleep on the lay-z-boy in the den.” Now, THAT I could do! He could have abandoned me to sleep on the couch and went upstairs to sleep with one of his brothers but he knew I was too scary to sleep anywhere by myself. This was perfect. Just as long as I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom... I’d rather pee on myself than walk down that hallway at night by myself.

Pillows and blankets were gathered and we settled in to attempt rest. As I pulled the blanket over my feet, I felt a sharp pain. If I know nothing else, I know this for a fact: a blanket shouldn’t hurt you. Now, not only was I sad about my grandpa’s passing, I was worried about my health. My eyes widened as I thought, “What the HELL is wrong with my toe?”

The Road Trip, Part 3: It's Gonna Be Alright

2011-05-18T00:28:00.000-07:00

He had a pulse. It was faint but there. The doctors had revived my grandfather from cardiac arrest and urged us to get to Little Rock as quickly as possible.

He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.

Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.

Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.

The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.

Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.

Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”

My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.

My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: “It’s gonna be alright.” I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.

He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.

Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.

Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.

The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.

Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.

Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”

My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.

My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: "It’s gonna be alright." I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.

The Road Trip, Part 2: Toe Jam and Tragedy

2011-05-15T23:53:00.001-07:00

I never sleep much before a trip. That’s what the plane ride is for. The night before a trip is usually spent doing the packing and cleaning I’d put off all week. It’s Easter Sunday and I’ve only gotten about two hours of sleep and the Supershuttle driver is outside waiting. I threw on my flat black combat boots that I’d worn all winter and literally dragged my bag out to the curb to meet the driver. I couldn’t roll the dang thing because Delta airlines had broken the handle on a previous trip and it was far too heavy to carry. I wouldn’t be returning to DC until May 10th and I’m pretty sure I packed half my closet, plus a couple dresser drawers.

Despite the shuttle driver getting lost on the way to the airport (with the GPS sitting pretty on the dash) and questioning me as to why I was traveling on this holy day, I made it on my Sun Country flight with no trouble. I sat in my aisle seat, closed my eyes and prepared myself for the pre-takeoff slumber I’d experienced numerous times before. It didn’t come. I just KNEW I’d be sleeping on the second leg of the flight from Lansing, MI to Minneapolis. Nope. Not a single wink for the entire flight. It was almost as if my spirit was on edge. Something inside me just refused to let me rest.

After an uneventful, and sleepless, flight, we landed safely at the Humphrey terminal of the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. When I got up from my seat to disembark the plane, I felt a pain in my left big toe. It felt like I’d stubbed it. As I made my way to the baggage claim, I found myself limping. I didn’t remember hitting my foot on anything so, I was mildly alarmed but blamed it on the shoes. I thought maybe I’d worn them out over the winter and needed to retire them.

I forced myself to stop limping and met my dad and big brother out at the passenger pickup area. Hugs, kisses and much laughter were shared on the short ride to the Northside of Minneapolis to my childhood home. We ordered take out from Red Lobster (Yes. On Easter.), watched some basketball and prepared for our trip the next morning. But even that night, as I lay in my room surrounded by Allen Iverson posters and stuffed animals, my body refused to rest.

When I woke up in the morning, I found my dad’s youngest brother, my Uncle Grozzel, sleeping on the couch. My 88-year-old grandfather had a stroke the previous week and was in the VA in Little Rock, AR. My dad and I didn’t have to be in Atlanta until the 27th, so, we had plenty of time to stop in Arkansas to visit with my recovering grandfather and my uncle decided to hitch a ride. Despite the chill in the Minnesota spring air, I put on a pair of open toe sandals and left my traitorous boots in the house.

We were met with rain almost as soon as we crossed the Minnesota state line. By the time we reached Arkansas it was a full out storm. On the 14 plus hour trip, I slept for about two hours. My father drove the entire way, with me keeping close watch from the backseat. The rain wasn’t the reason I didn’t sleep much, I just couldn’t. I tried to force it because, honestly, what else is there to do when it’s too dark to read and you’re tired of listening to your dad’s eclectic mix of Luther Vandross, Lyfe Jennings and random Kappa Alpha Psi songs?

We made it to my grandfather’s house in Newport, AR at about 9:30 PM. The three of us run from the rain into my grandpa’s garage and into the house. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I’m met by my 10-year-old cousin, J.T., whose arms are outstretched to hug me. He’s an adorable, well-mannered little brown boy with the mannerisms of a senior citizen. When he’s not at school, he spends most of his time at my grandfather’s house. J.T.’s grandfather is my dad’s brother and my Uncle Jerome, who lives in my grandfather’s house and has taken care of him in his elderly years. All this time around his elders shows up in J.T.’s gait and even in his conversation.

My Uncle Jerome had a stroke of his own over 10 years ago and hasn’t been able to work since. He is fully capable physically but his speech is mildly delayed and it takes him a little while to understand some things. He mixes up words and numbers sometimes, saying things like, “What your dad?” rather than “Where’s your dad?”, but we all understand him just fine. Because of this slight impairment he’s a bit shy in front of non-family members.

As soon as I loosen my embrace on J.T., Uncle Jerome hastily requests his grandson to put his coat on and get his homework. I give my favorite uncle, Uncle Robert, a hug as Uncle Jerome rushes past me out the door, muttering something that sounded like “Old man gone.” I didn’t quite hear him but I notice a frenzied confusion on my uncles faces. My dad, the eldest son of 10 children, had gone upstairs where my Aunt Lois and Uncle Kenny were. When I got upstairs to the room, I saw my dad on the phone and my aunt kneeling on the floor in a prayer position. I froze. My Uncle Kenny just sat there, staring at the wall.

I walked back downstairs to the kitchen where my Uncle Grozzel and Uncle Robert are assembled, sitting in silence. “Ok... what’s going on?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” my Uncle Robert said. “All I know is Jerome said something about the Old Man being gone.” The “Old Man” is what they call my grandfather.

The Road Trip, Part 1: Freedom Papers

2011-05-14T21:45:00.000-07:00

My father decided he wanted to DRIVE from Minneapolis to Atlanta for my godsister’s wedding. I couldn’t let him make that drive alone, so, I flew from DC to Minneapolis to take the road trip with him. While many of the events that followed were unexpected and heartbreaking, there were many blessings in disguise along the way. In this blog series I’ll recount these events and the lessons I learned from them. I hope you’ll stick around for the ride.

I got fired from my job in February. I sat in the HR director’s office along with my manager who said, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I really wanted to work things out with you but unfortunately you’re position is being terminated immediately.” I have never smiled so hard in my life.

This woman had made my life hell for months and I was finally free. This was cause for celebration and a trip to the unemployment office. After having worked as an Editorial Assistant for three years, I was beyond ready to move on. I was able to pay my bills but I’d become complacent and my dreams were starting to fade. I looked at this termination as an opportunity to reboot and force myself to stop coasting.

Now, my time at that job hadn’t always been hellish. My previous manager was awesome and my coworkers were the best. We worked well together, had fun and were an efficient bunch. But it all changed when the best boss I’d ever had took another job with another company. The woman hired to replace her was horrible. That’s really the best way I can say it. I’m not going to blast the woman on here but to say she was a horrid manager is nothing short of the truth. I hated every second of our interactions and so did everyone else forced to work with her, everyone except upper management.

It was so far beyond “my boss is an idiot and I hate her.” It was to the point where the thought of going to work the next day gave me panic attacks. I once cried ON THE BUS during my commute to work because I was so miserable. I’ve worked for a lot of different types of people in a variety of industries. Never have I had such an intense experience as this.

Every single day I was tempted to write my resignation letter and p-pop on a handstand on that hussy’s desk. EVERY SINGLE DAY! And every day I’d call my dad and tell him how horrible my day was. He told me, repeatedly, not to let “that woman” make me quit. If she wanted me gone, so be it. Apply for jobs in the interim, he said, and if I got fired, collect my unemployment like a boss.

When I got my freedom papers (during Black History Month, I might add) I was truly overjoyed. This feeling soon turned to my being overwhelmed: overwhelmed with possibility and overwhelmed with uncertainty. I’m still in that place, randomly applying for jobs with no real plan but at least I don’t have to deal with Medusa everyday. I’ve gotten a chance to recharge but I still haven’t gotten it all figured out quite yet. I’m working on it, though, y’all.

The day I got fired turned out to be a blessing for a very different reason. Without it, I’d more than likely wouldn’t have been able to take enough time off to make the drive from Minneapolis to Atlanta with my dad. We didn’t know we were embarking on an epoch-making journey but we were and there’s no other place I’d rather have been than right there with my dad. Please stay tuned for part two as we travel together on The Road Trip.

I Cried!

2010-07-28T19:29:00.000-07:00

This is hands down one of my favorite scenes from Martin. Angry Man FTW!

Head over to my fellow Bison's spot for another classic moment with ol' Marty Mar.

A Tithing Tangent

2010-07-04T20:35:00.000-07:00

In churches all across America today, the pastor undoubtedly stood in the pulpit and encouraged the people in the pews to give a tenth of their income to the church. Some folks sat and thought to themselves, “Why should I give 10 percent to the church? Why should the pastor drive a Benz while the parishioners are on the bus?” These folks either reached in their wallets and gave anyway, or they passed the bucket without contributing and continued to participate in the service. This seems to be a popular sentiment among non-believers and believers, alike. People who give their hard earned money to the church are looked at as gullible fools, paying for some robed crook’s lavish lifestyle. So, what’s the deal here? Is tithing a gimmick? Are preachers pimping their congregations?

Tithing is specifically mandated in the Old Testament (Leviticus 27:30; Numbers 18:26; Deuteronomy 14:24; 2 Chronicles 31:5; Malachi 3:8-11) but is not mentioned in the New Testament. It is made clear throughout the New Testament that giving is important and that the needs of the Body of Christ should be met by believers. (2 Corinthians 9:6-12; 1 Corinthians 16:1-2; Acts 4:34-37) If we aren’t bound by the Old Testament law as Christians, specifically giving 10 percent isn’t necessary, right? Doesn’t it count if I volunteer or give money to my brother? Why should we give anything to the church at all?

Paul said to give “in keeping with your income” to benefit the Body of Christ. (1 Corinthians 16:1-2;) This says to me that you are to be consistent in your giving and a percentage of your weekly earnings should be given to the community of believers to which you belong (i.e. YOUR CHURCH). If you can’t give 10 percent without taking food from your children, use the common sense God gave you and give less, but give what you can. If 10 percent is just a drop in the bucket to you, it is your duty to give more.

Ok, so I know some of y’all clenched your booties at that last sentence, so, let’s get away from the bible verses and look at practical reasons why you should give generously to your church AND your pastor.

1) It’s not your money anyway - We get really uptight about material things that aren’t even ours to begin with. God has provided you with the skills and the favor to earn a living. Whatever you make on your job belongs to Him. Who are we to complain about giving a portion back to Him?

Some would say, “But you’re not giving your money to God, you’re giving it to the church.” The church was established to fulfill God’s purpose, therefore, when you provide for the church you are giving back to God.

Others would say, “But you’re giving money to the Pastor and he’s not doing anything with it but buying fancy suits.” This leads me to my next point.

2) Don’t worry about what the pastor is doing with the money - Does the person in charge of payroll at your job ask you what you do with your paycheck on the 1st and 15th? Your pastor is doing a job and deserves to be compensated. If you don’t think your pastor is doing a good job, find another church. You are not obligated to support a pastor that is not sowing into your life but it is unfair for you to sit in the pews every Sunday and be blessed by their labor without giving back to the pastor and the church.

Have you ever noticed how the heat is turned up on your life when you decide to seriously commit yourself to Christ? Can you imagine how much hotter it gets in the spiritual kitchen when you’re responsible for bringing souls to Christ and being a shepherd to God’s own flock? That’s no small task. Ministers of the Gospel go through untold turmoil on our behalf. Can a monetary value be put on the work they do? Souls are at stake when they get up to do their jobs. If anyone deserves to be paid well, wouldn’t it be them?

Once again, if you are not being fed spiritually at your church, find someplace where you can grow in God. You are doing yourself a disservice by staying in a stagnant place. Move! When you find the right church, you should want to give generously to your pastor because you will see the value they have added to your spiritual life.

3) The church has needs - The physical church is a building like any other, with a light bill, gas bill, etc. You sit under the lights and central air every Sunday but don’t think it’s your responsibility to financially contribute to the church? How do you think they pay the bills every month? You complain about them not doing enough for the community but how can they do so without any money? It takes money to run HIV/AID prevention and support programs. It takes money to run food banks and job training centers.

If you can honestly say your church isn’t even trying to positively impact the community outside it’s four walls, you need to find a church that is. It really is that simple.

Lastly, don’t complain about what a church is or isn’t doing in the community if you don’t know. Especially, if it’s not your church. It’s easy to throw stones at mega churches but you may be surprised at the good they’re doing in the community if you took the time to go inside and find out.

Leave me a comment and let me know your viewpoint. I'd love to hear from you!

Erykah Badu: Married to this Rap Sh*t

2010-03-31T21:56:00.000-07:00

Erykah Badu has done what many of her "neo-soul" peers of the 1990s haven't been able to. She reincarnates herself on each new musical offering, never duplicating the sound of her previous work but still managing to be Badu. Her identity is not lost with each new sonic experiment. The opposite is actually true. With each album, Badu peels back another layer of herself, consistently revealing more of why we love her so.

Being a musical chemist is oftentimes risky business, particularly with the urban music listener. Very few artists can constantly reinvent themselves and maintain their core fan base like Badu has. A few come to mind (Outkast, Kelis, Kanye, Bilal, Mos Def) but in the "neo-soul" category of the 90s, she really stands alone. India Arie, Jill Scott, and Musiq Soulchild have all pretty much stayed in their lanes while Badu continues to push her fans' musical envelopes.

Even with her venturing from sound to sound with each release, there is a consistent thread woven throughout her work: Hip-Hop. Whether the references are subtle or forthright, each Badu album is an ode to the genre that took the world by the collar and gave voices to millions of black kids stateside and abroad. On "Appletree" you can almost see her at an open mic getting all the Hip-Hop heads open with her smooth delivery and witty lines. "... & On" from Mama's Gun was the moment when I had to press pause and ask myself, "Is Badu SPITTING?" "Love of My Life" with Common put her love for Hip-Hop front and center. I remember wondering, "How is Hip-Hop the love of her life and she's a SINGER?" but she reiterated her stance on the female emcee laden remix and then again on her Hip-Hop hymn "The Healer" on New Amerykah Part One: 4th World War.

On her latest offering, New Amerykah Pt. 2: Return of the Ankh, Badu continues paying homage to the art form that has influenced so much of her work. With production from 9th Wonder and the late J. Dilla, she has two of Hip-Hop's greatest producers on deck even without a single rapper featured on the album. "Turn Me Away (Get Munny)" samples "You Can't Turn Me Away" by Sylvia Striplin, the same song Junior M.A.F.I.A's "Get Money" is derived from. B.I.G. makes another appearance through Badu on "Fall In Love" as she sings, "Slow singing, flower bringing, if my burglar alarm starts ringing." When I heard this song for the first time, my mind was blown, "Is she singing the lyrics to Big's 'Warning'?" Yes, yes she is. Who else but Badu could pull this off in a love song?

Her ties to Hip-Hop go deeper than references in her lyrics or gritty beats beneath her sweet vocals. All of Badu's children are by rappers and all of her public relationships have been with some of Hip-Hop's finest. Could it be that Badu's love for the culture is so deep that it personifies itself in the physical? One can only speculate but I don't think it's a coincidence that she is drawn to rappers and they to her.

After the birth of her youngest child, Mars, with Jay Electronica, people started wondering loudly about Badu having three children by three different rappers. "Y'all would be calling her a hoe if she didn't burn incense and wear a head wrap," they said. I'm sure she is getting the benefit of the doubt because she's an artist and is in a stable position to raise her children. Pookie down at the welfare would surely get the side-eye for having three kids by three guys but, Badu isn't out here waiting on a check. She's out here fusing funk, soul and Hip-Hop, challenging her fans to expand the boundaries of their musical taste buds. Her music is a challenge to the authority of genres, belief systems and traditions.

In addition to the three children she has birthed with rappers, she has created her own musical offspring as a testament to her marriage to Hip-Hop in both her personal and musical lives.

In Defense of Jilly from Philly: Why we can't have an honest discussion about Interracial Relationships

2010-03-29T20:59:00.000-07:00

Two of my favorite soul singers are ruffling all types of feathers this week. Ms. Badu shocked us all by streaking the Grassy Knoll in her ingenious video for "Window Seat" and Jill Scott has hit a sensitive spot with an Essence.com article about interracial marriage. While people have their panties in a bunch over Erykah going panty-less, Jill Scott is being called a racist by some for her description of how it pains her to see a successful black man with his white wife.

Nowhere in the article does Jill say that interracial marriage is wrong, she simply expresses how it makes her feel. She got a chance to clarify her thoughts on CNN, saying, "I could never be against love. Never. Never. It's ridiculous." What I took from Jill's article is not that black men shouldn't marry whom they choose, but that there is so much more behind that choosing than we'd care to admit. And now she has been deemed a racist for pointing out what is obvious to so many black women.

This is what bothers me about our discussions of interracial relationships. I don't know if it's our culture of political correctness but I suspect a decent segment of our population would rather not do the hard work of exposing the underbelly of this issue. They would rather sweep it under the rug and chastise those who dare to point out that oftentimes there is more to it than "I like who I like."

To deny that centuries of assaults on black womanhood, the exaltation of whiteness and European beauty standards play a role in black men choosing to date interracially is naive at best. I tend to believe that people hide behind a mask of naivete on this issue and in reality are dishonest cowards, lying even to themselves about their motives. Black men are not taking responsibility for their role in the matter. They don't want to examine their preferences. This is the reason why we still suffer from colorism in 2010, the "good hair" concept is still alive and we maintain unhealthy weight standards. We have uncovered and identified all these things as evil but they persist because we won't search our hearts and look at our motives. I don't care who you date, but I do care about the motives behind your dating choices a great deal.

Black women are hip to the cop-outs. We're hip to the dodging of the real issue. So, I shouldn't have been shocked when my favorite blogger, Ta-Nehisi Coates, basically told Jill, 'You don't know their life' and it's really none of our business who marries who. "Relationships are not (anymore, at least) a collectivist act. They really come down to two individuals doing business in ways that we will never be privy to," he wrote. While he may be right, that's not the point. Jill isn't trying to police your marriage. Jill is trying to tell you, and I thought quite clearly, that it hurts when we see our brothers covet those who don't look like us while throwign us to the hounds to fend for ourselves. Rightly or wrongly, it is seen as another way black men tell us we're not good enough.

A commenter on TNC's blog asked, "We're still talking about this in 2010?" Yes, we are and we will continue to have this one-sided conversation until we all do some soul searching. We can't move on until both black men and women come to the table, as naked as 7, Puma and Mars' mama, and be honest with each other. Black men, please leave the cop-outs at home. Black women, please leave the extra emotion in the car. There is room for growth and understanding but we must be willing to do the work.

Someday

2010-01-30T20:35:00.000-08:00

Scarface's "The Fix" was a borderline classic. With production from Kanye West and The Neptunes and the incredible single "Guess Who's Back" featuring Jay-Z and Beanie Siegel, I don't understand how it could be slept on as hard as it has been.

I prefer "The Fix" Scarface to his other incarnations. This may be blasphemy to die hard Scarface fans but it is my opinion. He's more mature and introspective on this album. Of course, he gives you classic gangster material but he also lays bare his soul on love, loss and God.

I just discovered that he had a video for "Someday"; probably my favorite track on "The Fix." Faith Evans is one of my favorite R&B singers, so her addition to the song sealed the deal for me. How she sings, "I just want to be your soldier, I just want to be your vessel, Oooh Lord" at the end makes me tear up every time! I love this song!

Jesus, Be Some Common Sense

2010-01-30T18:32:00.000-08:00

Recently there have been lots of rumors floating around about some of today's hottest Black celebrities and devil worship. First Rihanna, then Oprah, and more recently, the power couple Jay-Z & Beyonce. According to some people, who spread these tales via e-mail forwards and Youtube videos, Rih Rih is a satantist, Oprah denounced Christianity on her show, Jay-Z is a Mason and member of the Illuminati, and Beyonce has publicly credited Lucifer for her success.

Yes, my thoughts exactly, Katt.

America is more tolerant of differing views on faith than, let's say, Iran, but if Oprah or Beyonce were to publicly denounce Christianity or shout out the Devil, please believe, they would be boycotted immediately. I don't know who, if anyone, Rihanna worships, therefore I can't really comment on that but singing a song about Russian roulette doesn't make you a satanist. Is her inexplicable success despite her incredible lack of talent the reason people think she's bun buddies with Satan? As far as Jay-Z is concerned, my grandpa is a Mason. Moving on...

Why are people so willing to cast off common sense and embrace gullibility? Why are we so willing to believe this mess? Could it be that people are making up these stories to explain away these public figures' extreme success and their lack thereof? 

It's kind of like Pat Robertson and his insistence that the Haitian revolutionaries made a pact with the devil in order to free themselves from the French. There's no way they could have done it of their own power, right? There's no way God was on their side. Only a pact with the devil would allow a black country to free itself from European tyrants, right? The same lack of logic applies in the cases stated above. There's NO way Jay-Z or Beyonce could have made it where they are based on hard work and constantly cultivating their talents. No way! There's no way God is on the side of a chick like Rihanna! Right, because y'all haven't worn a mini-skirt in your lives, huh? And if you were age, with her body and bank account, you wouldn't show off your shape every chance you got... Right... 

Isaiah 64:6 says, "But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags;" ALL, not just Rihanna and Oprah, ALL OF US. Dear Christians, please don't be so self-righteous that you forget where you came from, what you did, how you lived before you knew Him. He showed his mercy to you, why would you deny grace to non-believers?

Spreading these tales without any evidence is irresponsible and it makes you look incredibly gullible and ignorant. This particularly does nothing to further the cause of Christ. We are His representatives in the earth, let's not squander the opportunity to glorify His name by slandering the name of others.

Grab Your Peace!

2010-01-28T20:28:00.000-08:00

Andre 3000 is the best rapper out, in my opinion. He's creative, innovative, courageous, content-rich, and his skills are simply undeniable. Give me 3 Thou over Lil' Wayne any day! I love Jay-Z and his catalog cannot be denied but there's something about 3 Stacks that moves me.

"Aquemini" is one of my favorite Outkast albums. There was something so dark and hypnotic about that album. There is no cohesive theme. To listen from beginning to end is to risk getting lost in the crevices of your mind. As much as I have listened to that album, I can't recite the lyrics to one song. My mind wanders with each rhyme, each insanely delicious melody, each gut wrenching story told so naturally... This album was like a hallucinogen. You see colors and creatures your mind had never imagined when you close your eyes, bob your head and smile when "SpottieOttieDopaliscious" comes on. (Come on yall, SOMEBODY was high when they came up with that title!)

What has me up tonight jonesing on "Aquemini"? The Bible. Yep, you read it right. The Bible. I was reading Exodus 14:14, which says, "The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace." That one little verse gave me so much. I read that line over and over, in about five different translations but I kept coming back to the King James version, "... and ye shall hold your peace." And then I thought about Andre 3000's opening monologue on "Return of the Gangsta."

Its like niggas always be hollerin peace
Peace my brotha, peace this, peace that You know what im sayin but... Every time I try to get a peace of mind A nigga try to get a piece of mine So i gotta grab my piece

In this song 3000 is letting it be known, you come for my peace, I'm going for my gun! But the Lord has a different course of action, one that will never fail. "The Lord shall fight FOR you and ye shall HOLD your peace." You have to HOLD your peace. You can't let it go! While God is fighting for you, the enemy will try to take your peace from you but you have to tighten your grip and keep holding on!

This sounds easier than it is, right? Of course it does but most times we make it harder for ourselves because we're trying to do the fighting. God has freed your hands to hold on to your peace with because He's FIGHTING FOR YOU. God is invincible, he doesn't need your help to win the fight. Take your hands off the fight, put them on your peace and don't let go!

No Sympathy for You!

2010-01-22T09:22:00.000-08:00

Gotcha, suckers!

Dwight Howard is suing his baby mama for $9.2 million and custody of their son. Being that NBA cheerleaders get paid $15 - $50 per game, if that, he clearly isn't expecting to get $9.2 mil out of her. But Dwight's legal battles isn't the reason for this post but it did bring to mind something that I thought about a while ago. If you are a professional athlete, WHY WOULD YOU DATE A CHEERLEADER?

I'm tired of these men railing against women for being gold diggers but do everything in their power to ensure they get with the most blatantly out to get your money honeys they can find. Hello??? Cheerleading is the perfect gold digger occupation. You're half naked all the time, close to the athletes and you're being paid peanuts making you more likely to be looking for a come-up. These guys should not be surprised when they get with these chicks and catch a bad one. Her goal is to either get knocked up quick or get that ring on her fourth finger, left hand.

Dwight isn't the only star athlete to end up in legal trouble with his cheerleading baby moms. Arizona Cardinals' all-world Wide Receiver, Larry Fitzgerald, found himself in some talk show ish a couple of years ago. Think Maury meets Chrihanna meets ESPN.

Hey fellas, why don't you do us a favor? Quit your bloodclot crying about chicks being in it for the loot if you're not going to be more conscious of who you impregnate. And with that, good day!

A Random Word

2010-01-16T16:09:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if I can get more random than this but this blessed me so I thought I would share.

John 17:4 (KJV) "I have glorified thee on the earth: I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do."

How do we glorify God? Finish the work He gave you to do! If He gave you a task, complete it and give Him the glory!

This kind of ties into my last post about my goals for the new year. He gave me some things to do this year and I've got to get them done so He will get the glory in my life.

If He gave you something to do, there's no need to fear or procrastinate because God has equipped you with everything you need to complete the task. So what are we waiting on? Phillipians 1:6 says, "Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ" The last time I checked, Jesus hasn't come knocking on my door so, there is still time for God to show how faithful He is to finish what He started when He put that vision in your heart!

Do you trust God to help you fulfill your dream? If you say you do, what are you doing to show God how much you trust Him? Are you actively working toward completing the task He set before you?

Let's make 2010 the year we truly give God glory by being productive in the areas he has called us to work. 1 Corinthians 15:57-58 "But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord."

Making It Happen in the New Year

2010-01-02T18:48:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, everybody! I hope everyone had a good time this weekend and no one got any DUIs or STDs. That is NOT the way to kick off 2010!

I got the new decade popping the right way: in the house of God! Greater Mount Calvary Holy Church was packed and hundreds of people gave their lives to Christ before the clock had even hit midnight! Now THAT'S how you end a decade!

I feel like 2010 is going to be an amazing year. Maybe I feel like this because 2009 was so terrible. I can't hate on '09 that much, though, because I survived it and a lot of people can't say that.

2009 was a year of stagnation, for me. I feel like I wasted an insane amount of time and accomplished nothing other than keeping my job. But, again, I am grateful for that because a lot of people didn't get to keep their jobs. (I'm on my glass half full ish right now! YES!)

I am determined this year to get everything that God has for me. EVERYTHING! In order for me to do that I have to get it right and get it tight. Here are a few areas that I am determined to improve in the new year:

My Home - I moved over a month ago and still haven't completely unpacked. What kind of trifling mess is this? I want my home to be my sanctuary; a place of peace and productivity. My current situation is not conducive to this at all. So, one of my first projects for the year is to create a space that is uniquely my own. My design skills are nil so, if anyone has any tips, HOLLA AT ME! I'm going for a really warm and comfy feel. Wish me luck, guys!

The Obligatory Weight Loss Resolution - My mother died from complications of diabetes in 2004. My grandma on my dad's side died from complications of diabetes in 1996. I have an aunt that has been on dialysis for years and many more family members on both sides dealing with diabetes. I can not afford to play around with my life like this. I just can't. I haven't been working out regularly and my eating habits have been a disaster, lately. My jeans are fitting way too snug and I refuse to buy a bigger size. I just gotta lose the weight I've gained and then some. More important than the weight loss for me is building a lifestyle that promotes good health. I don't want this to be a fad, I want this to be a lifestyle I can model for my kids one day. (That's assuming I ever get around to having any. Ha!)

I went home to Minneapolis for Christmas and I am not the only one in my family that needs to hit Bally's on the regular. I started a family fitness challenge where I basically call and harass my kinfolk about whether or not they have worked out that day. Accountability is key. I know I can be a slacker so, encouragement to stick to it is huge for me.

My church does a fast in the beginning of the year; No fried foods, red meat, sweets, dairy or grains. We can only eat fruits, veggies, nuts and baked/broiled chicken or fish. I thought this was a good way to kick off my new healthy lifestyle. Coupling the healthy eating from the fast with a new dedication to exercise, I should meet my weight loss goal and be a healthier me in 2010.

My Writing - [Puts on her Solange voice] My book could have been done by now, if it wasn't for Twitter! Man, I have spent so much time doing nothing instead of focusing on what I'm supposed to be doing... WRITING! I've neglected my blog and my book. This can not go down in 2010. I've got to make this thing happen ASAP. I've rededicated myself to spend more time reading, writing and doing research. I can't let another year pass me by without making a earnest effort to make my dreams come true.

Anybody have any tips for me on how to complete these goals? Wanna share your New Year's Goals? Don't be a stranger. Hit the comment button!

We Can All Learn from Tiger Tiger Woods Yall!

2009-12-10T21:14:00.000-08:00

Well well well. Mr. Eldrick Woods has got the internet going nuts (c) Paul Wall. Seems like everyday since Elin Woods took a putter to Tiger's forehead, a new skeezer has popped out of the woodwork to publicly proclaim that Tiger has been serving them that good Cablanasian penile. Most of us are shocked at just how strong Tiger's pimp hand is. We're finding out all types of ~~awkward~~ salacious tidbits about the golfer's sex life but I think we're finding out so much more about ourselves. Here are some things I've learned while watching the Tiger Woods debacle unfold.

1) Hoe-shit is aye-ok, just don't get caught.

"Leave Tiger alone. Everybody cheats, he just got caught." Oh, how many times have I heard this over the last couple of weeks? As a society we have sanctioned infidelity. It is nothing to be shocked about or even ashamed of anymore. Don't worry about knocking up another chick or bringing home some deadly disease to your family, just don't get caught. And getting caught probably wouldn't even be a big deal if these fools weren't worried about having to pay Nas-Kelis type money after the divorce. Marriage is such a joke in this country. (see: I Pity The Fool)

2) We make excuses for celebs.

"Oh, you don't understand what it's like to be the world's most recognizable athlete. Think about all the pressure he's under." Ok, Tiger's under a lot of pressure, so what's your cheating ass excuse? PEOPLE cheat on their significant others EVERYDAY and it has nothing to do with a Nike contract. Tiger Woods is a man and should be held accountable as one. Stop making excuses for that fool.

3) Domestic violence is ok when a woman is doing the beating.

If Tiger had gone after Elin with a GOLF CLUB, he'd get the OJ treatment, straight up. She goes after him with a golf club and we make jokes. Resorting to violence to settle a dispute is not ok, ever, no matter what you're packing in your pants. Why don't we understand this???

4) We don't expect much from our men.

Self control is beyond them in our eyes. It is simply too much to ask a man to not sleep around. I don't think this is true. These are MEN, not children. They have a choice in what they stick their dicks in. How about y'all choose to stick it in YOUR WIFE instead of any ol' blonde working at Starbucks?

I was listening to the 2 Live Stews one day and a caller says, "Lebron, do NOT marry that girl until your career is over!" Riiiiiiiiiight... because Lebron James doesn't have control of his body while he's playing in the NBA? So, you want him sleeping around now and then going back to Cleveland to lay-up with his live-in girlfriend and mother of his two children? (She's gorgeous, by the way. I just adore them as a couple!) We should be encouraging family building and discouraging dangerous and destructive activities like sleeping with random broads on the road. Am I missing something?

5) Sleeping with another woman's husband isn't worthy of disdain and should be flaunted.

*cough* Alicia Keys *cough* All of these women couldn't WAIT to get on TV and tell the tale of how they slept with the very married Tiger Woods. I think something has to be awry in your life to sleep with another woman's husband in the first place but you REALLY need help if you are proud enough to go public with it. When did home wrecking become cute? Why aren't we calling these whores what they are? Nooooooo... yall want to interview them and give them their 15 minutes... We encourage this mess when we stop calling a spade a spade or in this case, a tramp a tramp.

I hope Tiger and his family get it together. I gave up on him after the whole Cablanasian thing, so I'm not hopeful. The outlook is especially bleak since he paid Elin $80 MILLION to stay with him... Paying someone to be with you? [sigh] Oh, Tiger... That's another discussion for another day. For now, how about we all focus on being faithful to our partners and saving ourselves all the unnecessary drama (and money in some cases). If you can't do that, just stay single, folks!

A Favorite Verse from the Great Cee-Lo Green

2009-10-23T18:12:00.000-07:00

The entire song is worth quoting but Cee-lo's part on Outkast's "In Due Time" gives me life:

Struggling is just a part of my day
Many obstacles been placed in my way
I know the only reason that I make it through
Is because I never stop believing in you
Some people wonder why we're here in the 1st place
They can't believe because they ain't never seen your face
But even when you pray, the next day you gotta try
Can it wait for nobody to come down out the sky
You've got to realize that the world's a test
You can only do your best and let him do the rest
You've got your life, you've got your health
So quit procrastinating and push it yourself
You've got to realize that the world's a test
You can only do your best and let him do the rest
You've got your life, you've got your health
So quit procrastinating

Don't Save 'Em! S. Lake's Guide to Spotting a Gold Digger

2009-10-01T13:45:00.001-07:00

Fresh off the joining in "holy" matrimony of NBA player Lamar Odom and Khloe Kardashian (what is her title exactly?) it is becoming more and more apparent that high profile guys and girls either don't care about getting with a gold digger or don't know how to spot one. It's awfully hard to believe that after being in the game for more than a day you wouldn't be able to spot the money hungry, but we continue to see millionaires hooking up with people that are clearly in it for the loot. Some of these fools are clearly making a choice to turn a blind eye while their mate digs in them pockets but some of these cats are just gullible. I borderline feel sorry for the naive men and women who suddenly come into fame and money and are then forced to decipher the real from the fake with no experience, so I came up with S. Lake's Guide to Spotting a Gold Digger to help them out. It's pretty common sense but hey, common sense aint common. Here we go! (FYI: I'm addressing men for the most part in this post but it applies to women as well. Gold digging knows no gender! Also, even if you don't have gold digger issues now, you might hit the lotto tomorrow, so read it anyway!)

1) No job/career = No can do!

THE SYMPTOMS: The goal is to identify the person who is most likely to date you solely for your income or celebrity. Let's be honest about this. "Aspiring" models, singers, actors, etc. have the most to gain from dating a celebrity. Be wary of anyone trying to break into your field or a field related to yours. There is probably an ulterior motive there! If you're dating the unemployed or someone in a dead end job, you clearly have "Captain Save-A-Hoe" written on your forehead. The motive is clear in this case and you might need to take some time away from dating to read a book. This point may seem elementary but look at Kanye West and Amber Rose... Yeah, no further explanation needed.

THE REMEDY: Date women with REGULAR JOBS. (I'm biased but it's true). Even chicks established in the industry can be diggers... they will date you, not for money, but for publicity. A teacher doesn't care about that mess, she's trying to get lil' Ray Ray to stop saying "polices." "Police" is already plural, Ray Ray!!

2) Are her actions screaming at you?

THE SYMPTOMS: It is imperative that you assess the circumstances under which you met your potential mate. Where did you meet them and what were they doing? Bumming drinks in VIP? Hmmm... Oh, so you met her through a friend? How is it that she knows the man next to THE man? Ok, so you met her at the gym. Is she steady dropping names and telling you about who she knows? Is she obsessed with designer labels and "the finer things"? How much of her time is spent dreaming about "the good life"? These are things you have to pay attention to while you're rapping a chick up for the first time.

THE REMEDY: Clearly not every chick in the club is a gold digger. Many women just want to drop down low and sweep the flo wit it sometimes. But if the broad is all in VIP in your face rather than doing her own thing, she might be a digger. Check for the chicks that are having a good time rather than sweating you. Check for the chicks who have something to talk about OTHER than what money and celebrity can bring. Ladies don't want no Shallow Hal, so fellas, stay away from the Shallow Sistas.

3) Birds of a feather...

THE SYMPTOMS: We all know the saying, "Birds of a feather flock together." Generally, this is true so it would behoove you to take a look at her homegirls before deciding to wife a chick. If your boy has run up in all of her friends... RUN! If her crew knows the bouncers at the club on a first name basis... WATCH OUT! If her friends are dating athletes or entertainers... ACTIVATE THAT SIDE EYE!

THE REMEDY: Every girl has at least one rat friend but if ALL of her friends fail the gold digger test, keep your eyes open. Take a look at her crew. If they're not sweating you like your ish don't stink, she might have a well grounded circle and is more likely NOT to be a jersey chaser.

4) Is she a Ride or Die Chick or just a Digger?

THE SYMPTOMS: I'm not really one for shacking up but if that's your thing, go for it, but BE CAREFUL. If she's extra eager to drop everything to become totally dependent on you... that's not cute, that's a digger! Don't be fooled thinking she wants to be closer to you... that broad just don't wanna work! Does she have her own identity? Does she want you to create one for her? Open your eyes, sir! This goes hand in hand with point #1. A chick with no job and/or real career goals will be more willing to leave it all to mooch. A woman with goals outside of getting wifed by a millionaire may have some reservations about abandoning her dreams to sit front row at Fashion Week.

THE REMEDY: Nothing is more important than finding a mate who has goals and is actively chasing them rather than chasing another person's pockets. If you can find a chick who is focused on completing a task, whether it's grad school, writing a book (not the Super Head kind, though), or getting that promotion, she's less likely to dig for your gold and dig for her own.

THE BOTTOM LINE: Stop tricking on sight! Get to know a chick before you wife her, spend your cheese, or raw dog! (Who does that anyway??? *cough* Lil Wayne *cough*) And if you'd stop rationing the D out like government cheese (© Alexyss K. Tylor) you'd be less likely to get whipped by a digger. Here's an idea, get to know a chick before you bed her. So if your going to be sprung you can at least be sprung off a real woman and not a gold digger.

Ok, that's all I got. If you know of any other ways to spot a gold digger, post in the comments and help these fools out!

I Pity The Fool

2009-09-29T14:26:00.001-07:00

Ok, so the news of the weekend was Los Angeles Laker Lamar Odom won the Championship this year and then went on to lose his mind, apparently. He went and married Khloe Kardashian (yes, the not-cute one) after dating her for a whopping 30 days. [Insert WTF side eye here]. And word on the street is no prenup was signed. Lawda'mercy! I didn't know they made this level of stupid in 2009.

Not only is it dumb (as hell) to wife up ANY chick after 30 days but Khloe's track record is EXTRA shady. Odom is her THIRD professional athlete this year. She dated the Minnesota Timberwolve's guard, Rashad McCants, and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' running back, Derrick Ward. [Someone queue up track #4 on Kanye's "Late Registration," please!] Oh, and we can't forget 106 & Park's Terrence J! She locked lips with him recently on her reality show "Kourtney & Khloe Take Miami." Now, somehow Lamar thought homegirl was wifey material.

This clearly goes to show that New Yorkers aren't as street smart as they claim. I wonder what the boys back in Queens are saying about L. Odom these days? I'd assume the term "dumbass" has passed through their lips over the past week.

The last I heard, Odom was with the his long-term girlfriend, Liza Morales. The woman who bore his three children. The woman who suffered with him after the death of their infant son, Jayden, in 2006. So, Lamar, you'd rather marry an attention whoring skeezer than the mother of your children? [sigh] Let me stop judging. I have no clue how long Lamar and Liza have been separated and for what reasons they split. I admit though, I don't understand how people have multiple children by someone and won't commit, then get with the next bird to fly by and suddenly can't wait to walk down the aisle! The logic in this evades me.

I think this is the part that gets me most about this whole Odom-Kardashian thing. I identify with the "hold you down chick" who gets overlooked for the skeezer. These athletes and entertainers talk so much about avoiding golddiggers and then they go and pull this foolishness. They do this willingly and knowingly. I'm at a loss. Someone help me understand what is going on here. Do they even know?

Sucks to be Me

2009-09-28T21:22:00.000-07:00

You hate me, don't you? Just admit it. Say it! You won't say it. Well, I know the truth. You hate me.

How do I know you hate me? You tried to stuff me in a box the other day. You know I can't breathe in there! Don't deny it... yes, yes you did try to stuff me in a box! What box? The beauty box. Don't roll your eyes, you know what I'm talking about! Yes you do... Remember when you tried to make me feel like I was unworthy? When you held up her beauty as the standard while mine was sub par? You don't know what I'm talking about, now? Well I remember. I remember when you weren't shit if you weren't "exotic" or "long haired, thick, redbone."

You know how else I know you hate me? You don't love me. You don't want to love me. You shun love like the plague. I'm a bitch or hoe rather than a lady or a woman. To be a "pimp" is to be triumphant in your world. You don't need me and you're not afraid to let me know. You'd rather "fuck every girl in the world" than build a life with me. If that's not hate...

You don't leave what you love... but you always leave me here... to try to raise the future all by my lonesome. What a hateful soul you are! So now, not only do you hate me, but you hate your children and cause them to hate me too. They say they love me but they slaughter each other like hogs... I guess maybe to hate your own is hereditary...

That shit must be contagious cuz guess what? I hate me too...

A Generation is Drowning

2009-09-28T20:49:00.000-07:00

The story of the tragic demise of Derrion Albert, the 16 year old honor student killed by a vicious mob while gawking onlookers stood idly by, has my stomach in knots. I didn't watch the video of his death. My heart can't take it. I'm barely able to handle reading about it without spiraling into a state of hopelessness. I don't understand how we can do this to each other. How could you beat someone to death over nothing? How could you videotape a child being killed? I'm fighting tears at the thought. I pray that young Derrion is now without pain and is at peace but my tears are not only for the loss of his life and for the pain his family is being forced to bear. My tears are for these children who have become un-feeling drones. It is not natural to live this way but a disregard for life has become second nature to generations.

Killing each other for the smallest affront to our egos is not new. I remember the 80's when you'd get killed for stepping on someone's Nikes. Gang violence isn't new either and certainly isn't unique to the streets of Chicago where Derrion Albert was murdered. No, this insanity is not new but it's still not ok. This happens everyday but somehow I have not become numb. And for that I'm thankful. I pray I never end up like these kids. I pray my soul is never drowned in a state of hopelessness and anger. These babies are drowning and taking their peers down with them.

No Tears Today

2009-09-06T07:42:00.001-07:00

I'm back in Minneapolis throwing a surprise retirement party for my dad today. For 35 years, he worked for Honeywell, Inc, and last week he worked officially at Honeywell for the last time. He has already received his first retirement check and plans to have a copy of the check framed. Excited isn't a strong enough adjective to describe my dad's mood, lately.

Family and friends have traveled from miles around to come celebrate this next chapter in my dad's life. You can't help but get excited at the possibilities that retirement will bring for him. He plans to build a house near my grandfather's in Arkansas. No, I don't mean have builders come and do it... I mean, he and his band of brothers will build a house with their own hands. They're an unusually handy bunch of men, so I have no doubt the goal will be accomplished and we'll throw another party. This time, a house warming.

The house is full of guests, with more to come, so much so that I haven't slept in my own room. My uncle from Arkansas is sleeping in the bedroom with the 2Pac and Allen Iverson posters everywhere, while I sleep on a cot in the living room. I don't mind at all but it reminds me of this very day five years ago, a day sometimes I wish I could forget.

June 6, 2004 is the day we buried my mother in Glen Alan, MS. We had two funeral services for her. One in Minneapolis and one in Mississippi. Much of our family came to stay with us during the time of the funeral in Minneapolis. I gladly offered up my bedroom to my aunt and uncle. I found some comfort in sleeping on a pallet in the living room with my cousins. I barely wanted to go upstairs and walk past the bedroom where the death angel came to claim my mom.

I couldn't avoid it long as I was given the task of pickng out her undergarments to send to Estes Funeral Home. I tried to make it quick but soon found myself sobbing on the floor in a ball of grief. It seemed like the strangest things set me off.

My cousins went around to newspaper dispensers in the city to collect the day's paper with my mother's obituary in it. I was lying on my little pallet of comfort when I heard someone come in and place the papers on the table. My heart started racing and my breathing got eratic. All I heard in my mind was, "The newspaper don't lie. The newspaper don't lie." I shot up off the floor and ran to the bathroom. I tried to muffle my cries but soon my cousins were at the door, knocking, and begging for me to open it. They were afraid I would faint and hit my head but I was just concerned with my dad not waking up to my tears.

I don't see any irony in celebrating my dad's retirement on the 5-year anniversary of my mother's internment but it has suddenly swept in a wave of emotions that I'd rather suppress. I don't want to feel like this today. I don't want to miss her this much today. Sarah, no tears today.

ABDC & Femininity, Word to Eric Benet

2009-08-17T09:42:00.000-07:00

Since when is switching your hips and twirling your weave the essence of femininity? Well, if any of you saw last night's installment of America's Best Dance Crew, that's exactly the message you got.

I must admit, the only reason I'm paying attention to this show is because I'm rooting for the Beat Ya Feet Kingz. Having lived in the area for 7 years, I've grown fond of DC culture and want to see it get as much shine as possible. Aside from that, ABDC bores me. Shane Sparks is ridiculously corny and everything about Lil' Mama puzzles me. The talent isn't what I would expect for a national show, either. I saw better dance crews in high school. Aside form BYFK, I'm checking for Vogue Evolution, a dance squad of all gay men. The consistently bring it with the creativity and bring more to the table than the usual popping, locking and gymnastics.

Last night, each dance crew had to perform to a Beyonce song. After Vogue Evolution performed, Lil' Mama commented that one of their members, Leyomi Mizrahi, was more feminine than the females that had performed earlier. So, a man acting as a caricature of a woman is now the epitome of femininity? At this point, I'm frowning. Lil' Mama, don't you understand that how Queens act is an EXAGGERATION of their perceptions of feminine mannerisms?

The fact that women don't know the difference and put down other women for not being as feminine as a transgender man is a problem. I think some of this comes from women not being able to compliment each other. A young lady on Twitter said the girl from the "Southern Movement" dance crew looked like a "southern tranny" but then went on to tweet about how "gorgeous" Leyomi was. Don't get it twisted, Leyomi is pretty, but I'm worried about our eagerness to put each other down while celebrating others. Leyomi can be both pretty and feminine without you having to assault my femininity. We clearly don't value our womanhood, we'd prefer the imitation.

Did I JUST Hit Puberty???

2009-07-26T22:17:00.000-07:00

The last post about sexism in Hip Hop has been on my heart for a few weeks now and I'm just getting around to putting it down on Internet paper. My thoughts since then have made me think about my femaleness in a way I haven't ever had to. I'm feeling my womanhood like never before. I've always been a female. No, I'm not a transsexual post-op just getting the swing of things. I was born with a vagina and have always been recognized as a female but suddenly something has changed. At 25-years-old I woke up and realized I'm a girl!

That's one of the good things about Hip Hop. One rhyme can pull you out of your naivety. One line can change your entire perspective. Why didn't I have this realization when I was introduced to the great Too $hort as a child? I don't know. Maybe because I can't take him seriously. I know he's dead serious but Freaky Tales still makes me laugh. The ridiculousness of it all makes it hard to internalize. I guess that's how I managed to float through life oblivious to the fact that some men really feel this way about women, it's just too ridiculous to take seriously. I've been a Hip Hop fan for as long as I can remember and I guess I've always thought, "all this 'bitches aint shit' mess... They CAN'T really BELIEVE that. It's just posturing. They're saying that for play play. No one REALLY feels like that about women."

I know what you're thinking. How could you not feel the sting of sexism with all the hardship women must face daily? Well, I'm still trying to work that out. What I do know is that I've always focused more on being Black than on being a woman. I've always thought of myself as Black first and a woman second. That may sound crazy to some of you but it's the truth. I don't recall talking about sexism in my house when I was growing up but race was a pretty common topic.

My mother was a woman who came out of Memphis, TN in the 60s to go on to receive her Ph.D. and become a very well-respected and accomplished educator. She ended up making more money than my father (and all the men in my family, for that matter) but never did I hear her complain about sexism. Never. I'd hear her tell stories about the racism she encountered in grad school, but never did I hear her say a word about being discriminated against because of her gender. We never talked about limitations being placed on me based on my gender so I simply never thought about it. Maybe this was purposeful on her part or maybe not. That we'll never know. But I do know that I never felt any type of way about being a girl. Until now. Now I'm walking around giving everyone the side-eye, bracing myself for a demeaning blow that may never come. Thanks Hip Hop... Love you lots! *rolls eyes*

I've felt this way before. Becoming suddenly self aware of something I should have noticed years before. I remember one time in high school I was walking down the hallway with my boyfriend when one of our classmates yelled out to him, "Dang Dre! You always get the girls with the big booties!" Dre's ex-girlfriend was notorious for her big butt so I was shocked that he would put me in the same big butt boat with her. I couldn't wait to get home and look in the mirror. After school, I did just that and sure enough I saw my donk sitting right there on my back! How had this escaped me? It took a fool literally yelling something ignorant in the hallway for me to see it. But even ignorant abrasiveness wasn't enough for me to see what has been right in front of me for years about my favorite musical genre's relationship with women.

Of course I've heard other women protest against misogyny in Hip Hop, but I always thought, "These rappers aren't talking about ME, so what's the big deal?" I thought these feminist hip hopper types were just being up tight and were taking it too seriously. Damn, have I become one of them?? I've noticed that the words hoe, bitch, slut, etc. have taken the place of girl, woman, lady in much of Hip Hop. If every time you reference a female you say hoe or bitch, you ARE talking about me. If I walk up to one of these random rappers on the street just to say what up, they don't see a young lady, they see a bitch. Young ladies obviously don't exist in the rap world because they never rap about them. I might be stating the obvious here but it's all new to me. Just like my big butt was in 11th grade.

Kid Cudi and Wale Beat Me Up!!! (Not really but read anyway)

2009-07-26T17:23:00.000-07:00

So, clearly I didn't get the Ike Turner treatment from Cudder and Mr. Folarin but being a female hip hop fan feels like being in a relationship with Chris Brown at times. I recently felt like I'd been punched, kicked and bitten by two of my favorite up and comers when they questioned whether females understood their music. On the introduction to Wale's "Let's Ride" from his 100 Miles and Running Mixtape he advises the listener to "Tell your girl don't talk to you for about two minutes, thirty seconds. Three minutes, however long we about to do it." Then he addresses the girlfriend, "Yeah you. Don't say nothing. Ok? Just bob your head like you get it." Uhhhhh... ok, we'll get back to this...

Last month, Kid Cudi took to his blog to get some things off his chest in his post "science to my shyness." His blog is frequently an outlet for him to release his frustrations regarding his transition from an unknown to that dude that random folks run up on and tell how awesome he is. I'd imagine the transition from obscurity to notoriety would be a tough adjustment for anyone so his candidness on the matter has made him all the more endearing as a pubic figure, in my eyes. So that warm and fuzzy place where I keep my thoughts of Cudi was shocked at this little passage, "i never got love from chicks like dat, i mean i did but it was mostly cuz of my personality and every so often my looks. so the attention and love from gurls is of course awesome but it makes me wonder, do they like scott, or kid cudi? hell, do they even understand wut i talk about in my songs? thats wut runs thru my brain with every gurl i meet now and its a question ill never b able to answer off the top." Uhhhh... why wouldn't we understand what you're talking about in your songs, Cudi? Ok, I totally understand why someone with new found fame would be skeptical of the slew of people who suddenly find themselves interested... but what does my gender have to do with understanding your art? The fact that I have a vagina makes you question whether I can comprehend your lyrics?

Now, hearing this same pattern of thought from two of my favorite new artists really pissed me off. Like REALLY. Maybe I was so shocked because for some reason I expected more from these guys. If Gucci Mane makes sexist comments, I shake my head and move on. But Wale and Cudi? I had to sit and ponder this thing. I mean, hell, they talk and rap like they read books, so they CAN'T be that ignorant, right? Apparently I was wrong. And apparently it's not a matter of intelligence at all.

I don't think Wale and Cudi are stupid, per se, for belieiving these things, but I do think they're sexist. Some people think Hip Hop is just for boys. Forget the fact that females actually purchase more music than males do. Forget that. Men are clearly the only ones who understand what Hip Hop is REALLY all about. Women just like the beats and imagining themselves as some rapper's baby mama. Hip Hop metaphors clearly go over our heads. Kid Cudi and Wale are WAY too deep for the female brain. [insert blank stare here]

Now, I'm sure some of you will argue that anyone who believes men innately understand "complex" issues better than women are morons and I'm not so sure I'd argue with you on that. But I will suggest that they don't MEAN to be sexist and they probably don't even realize what they're saying. This line of thinking is so ingrained in our culture that we don't even question it. But it's a new day boys! We've got a Black President (Ok, that's not really relevant but whatev!) and it's time for us to step our game up. We can no longer fall back on sexism as the law of the land as an excuse. Why? Because we KNOW better. I don't fault Cudi and Wale for the sexism and misogyny that run rampant in Hip Hop culture but I DO blame them for not thinking about what they're saying before they say it.

So, let's go back to Wale and the "Just bob your head like you get it" foolishness. If he had simply thought this through he would have seen the ridiculousness of the whole mess. First of all, he's talking to the listener ASSUMING they're male, which is in itself problematic. Second, let's break down what it is that we, as females, don't get about Wale's rhymes. If you listen to Wale for any length of time you'll see a few recurring themes: DC, sports, and fashion. Now, I've been living in DC for seven years now so I (even with my ovaries) get the DC references. Now, my male friends back home in Minneapolis surely have no idea what Wale means on one of my favorite of his mixtape joints "Work" from 100 miles and Running when he says, "I been getting busy since Back was hitting Skillet." Hell, there's a bunch of folks born and raised in DC that don't get that line. Lots of MEN don't know that Back is short for the legendary GoGo band, the Backyard Band, and Skillet is one of their ever evolving songs from the '90s. As for the many sports references, Kid Cudi probably doesn't get those. NEXT! And it should go without saying that not all men are up on their sneaker game to get all of Wale's fashion references. I'm quite sure it was news to the rest of the country that Nike even MADE boots. I sure as hell had never seen them prior to coming to DC to go to Howard.

The bottom line is unless you're rapping about how it feels when your doctor tells you to turn you head and cough, females are capable of understanding your rhymes. Period. If I don't get it, it's not because I wear a bra, it's just that I'm unfamiliar with the reference. Newsflash: Lots of men don't get your rhymes fellas, so stop selling your female fans short.