After a recent heartbreak, I had to send an explicit e-mail to a couple of my friends. It basically went something like, “Such and such and I are no longer dating. Don’t ask me about it, don’t ask me about him and don’t mention him to me. If you see him out somewhere, don’t call or text me to tell me.”
I said all of this not because I’m mad at him (because I’m not) but because some of my friends do too damn much in the name of friendship. While I am absolutely the ride or die friend, I have never been a “Fuck him! He ain’t shit! I hope he dies!” type.
Honestly, I might think your partner is trash, but I won’t say it. Here’s why:
1.The “fuck that guy” response doesn’t make your friend feel better. It doesn’t. Your friend genuinely cares for this person. How do you think trashing them makes your friend feel? It makes them feel like crap when they were already hurting. Breakups are exhausting. Don’t make your friend exert more energy by having to defend an ex-partner.
2.People have skewed impressions of their friends’ significant others. A lot of people call their friends to vent about what their partner did wrong but fail to call about what is going right. As a friend, you don’t know the ins and outs of their relationship. You may think you know everything but you don’t, so chill.
3.They breakup, you flip out, and then they get back together. Awkward… So, now what happens after you’ve made it clear that you hate their partner? Your friend isn’t going to feel like they can be honest with you about their relationship. Pride is a powerful thing, especially when you don’t want to look like the fool in front of your friends. Your flipping out may also deter someone from getting back with the person they really want to be with. Someone could be denying themselves happiness because of your judgment.
4.We’re all grown here. Unless someone is being abused, let grown folk handle their own business. There’s no need for you to jump in the fight when I can handle my own. When people jump in, they’re implying I can’t handle this by myself. I can. Trust.
Don’t get it twisted. I appreciate my friends for having my back. I know they sincerely love me and are trying to look out for my best interest. It’s just that sometimes we do more harm than good with our love. Be careful, lovies!
There are a handful of artists that I absolutely stan for. I will buy anything they release without having heard a single note and attend every show that comes my way no matter how many times I’ve seen them live. I will also side-eye you to death for speaking negatively of them in my presence. Yes, I stan hard and you should know better.
Just in case you didn’t know, here is my stan list (in no particular order):
1.Erykah Badu
2.Radiohead
3.Beyoncé
4.Raphael Saadiq
5.Outkast
6.Bilal
7.Kelis
Damn, am I a hippie? O_o Moving right along…
Today, we’re going to talk about my main man #6, the great weirdo extraordinaire, Bilal Oliver.
I saw him perform Saturday at my new favorite concert venue, the legendary Howard Theatre. http://thehowardtheatre.com/ I have seen this man perform more times than I can remember and Saturday’s show ranks at the top. It was incredible. I literally had to refrain from hitting a good ol’ church two step shout many a time during the show. (I hope y’all don’t think I’m playing because I’m SO sincere.)
They were kicking people out for taking pictures and recording, so I don’t have any footage for y’all. Just take my word for it. It was seriously on another level. The first time I saw Bilal perform, I felt like my whole soul had opened up. It was an eerie but delightful feeling that I couldn’t shake for the rest of the night. Until Saturday, I hadn’t been able to achieve the same high of my first Bilal experience. (I sound like a crackhead, don’t I? That’s fine. Stop judging me!)
Why do I love him so? First of all, that voice! My goodness, Bilal’s voice is getting better with time! That pitch perfect falsetto was surely sent from on high. There’s not another voice like his in the game, now or ever. It’s amazing.
Also, he’s freaking FEARLESS. He’s not afraid to take risks with his music or his voice and I love him for it. His sound is ever evolving and always a breath of fresh air for me.
Lastly, you don’t get much realer than Bilal. Songs like “Sometimes” and “All For Love” hit you straight in the gut. There’s an authenticity in every note that is as rare as a white truffle. Bilal’s music truly reaches inside and grabs my entire soul and this is why I stan.
Highlights of the show:
1. A bad ass impromptu tribute to Chuck Brown. Bilal sang “Love It” while his percussionists hit a Go-go beat. It was awesome.
2. Bilal scatting his life away segueing into “Sometimes.”
3. Bilal saying, “I usually don’t do shows when I’m trying to make up shit. They had to come get me out the dungeon!” NEW MUSIC ON THE WAY! *ecstatically jigs*
If you’re unfamiliar or unsure, take a listen. The man is undeniable.
Think It Over (Acoustic):
My all-time fave, All For Love:
Is This Love (Bob Marley cover) - Yes, he is conducting and singing at the same damn time!
I was just starting my junior year of college when my mom suddenly passed away. Instead of taking the semester off, I returned to school a week after her funeral. As could be expected, I struggled mightily with school after her death. I was severely depressed. There were many days when I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t eat. I didn’t want to talk to my friends but I knew I had to get help.
I went to the counseling center on campus and signed up for grief counseling. Even though I never missed a session, my depression caused me to drop class after class and extended my stay at Howard for an additional two years. Throughout my fight to beat depression and earn my degree, I continued to attend regular counseling sessions.
My counselors consistently advised me to work out. They were adamant about the positive effects exercise could have on my mental health. If I couldn’t make it to class, what made them think I was going to make it to the gym? I never did.
It’s been eight years and I’m just now coming around to seeing things their way. I can finally attest to the positive benefits of exercise on my brain.
Last week, I got some bad news from someone I love dearly. Immediately, my spirit was crushed. I dreaded the days filled with soggy tear soaked pillows that I just knew lay ahead. My appetite left me and I didn’t anticipate its return anytime soon. This was going to be bad. Real bad. Michael Jackson.
The next morning I woke up with eyes so swollen I didn’t know whether to go to work or go to the hospital. I sincerely couldn’t figure out if they were swollen from crying or if something had bitten me on both eyes in my sleep.
All day long, I was tipping on the “please don’t cry at work” tightrope until it was time for my weekly workout class with the co-workers. Every Thursday at 1:00 a group of us work out with a trainer. Although he routinely kicks our ass, I look forward to Thursdays because it gives me an afternoon energy boost. I think more clearly and my normally short attention span improves after these intense workout sessions.
This time, I noticed another side effect of the work out: my mood brightened substantially. Also, it’s hard to focus on your sad situation and power lunges at the same time.
While my heart was (and still is) broken, working out regularly has helped me keep depression at bay. I have made it my focus to keep BOTH my body and mind active. In addition to working out, I’m making sure I don’t isolate myself. I make it a point to get out of the house rather than sitting and dwelling. I’m finding things other than my sadness to focus on, like a good book, the NBA Playoffs and MY BLOG. *smiles sheepishly*
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not running (literally) from my pain. I think it’s important that we allow ourselves to feel but, just like squats, don’t overdo it.
Chuck Brown died yesterday. The Godfather of Go-go is gone. The man who has been central to the identity of black DC has departed this life and left us with only music and memories. It is generally assumed that while his body is gone, his legacy will reverberate within the soul of this city for generations, but is this true?
Chocolate City isn’t so chocolate anymore and is getting less so with each passing day. Like most major cities in America, gentrification is changing the way our neighborhoods look and feel. If you haven’t been to DC in the last few years, to come back and see how much it has changed can be quite a shock. Many neighborhoods are unrecognizable to old residents.
Chuck Brown’s death can be seen as symbolic of the death of the DC that many of us know and love. He created a sound that unified a city. Go-go is a major part of what makes DC unique and now, with gentrification, DC is on the verge of becoming just another run of the mill town.
A lot of people moving to the city don’t recognize the rich culture here outside of politics and monuments. Not only are long time residents being physically forced out of their neighborhoods but the essence of the city they’ve called home, long before suburban life became un-cool, is evaporating.
During the coverage of Brown’s death on WUSA 9 News last night, a reporter went to the local radio stations and had DJs explain what Go-go is. That’s like having someone explain Jazz on the local New Orleans news. Who exactly are you talking to?
For them to frame it that way, would make it seem like black life here is a sub-culture rather than the dominant culture. Why not assume that residents in the District, black or white, are familiar with Go-go at least enough to recognize it as an art form unique to the area?
Seriously, if you live in DC and don’t know what Go-go is, please move. You’re a poacher. Just like the hunters that kill elephants just to take the tusks and leave the rest to rot, that’s what you do to our city when you don’t recognize the beauty outside of the latest condo or trendy café.
I’m not saying all DC residents need to be in the go-go every weekend, or ever for that matter, but how can you LIVE here and not recognize an art form that has been the lifeblood of the people for decades? That’s ridiculous.
In Natalie Hopkinson’s essay on The Root she says, “Simply put: Go-go never sold out. There is a grit and texture to the music — sometimes derided as 'pots and pans' — that gives voice to the communities where it was created and from which profits are taken."
So, what happens when these communities are no more? Will the heart of the city cease to beat? I don’t know but what I do know is that Chuck Brown made a tremendous contribution to music and DC culture. For that, we will always love and miss him. R.I.P. Chuck
After this month’s outcry about a NY Post columnist’s ignorant comments on Jay-Z’s involvement in the Brooklyn Nets’ marketing, I’m reminded of a question that comes up in my mind again and again. Why do white people insist on the right to use the n-word?
How many times have we heard some version of the argument, “Well, black people use it, so why can’t I?” My question is, why do you want to?
It seems to me that some of our melanin impaired brethren are so arrogant in their privilege that they refuse to be denied access to ANYTHING. Not even to a word that THEY used, and continue to use, to insult and degrade an entire race of people.
Somewhere over the years, it became out of vogue for whites to use this word publicly.
Now that they’re hearing it used by blacks in popular media, they want the privilege to do the same. This line of thinking showcases a pathological greed that is pervasive in much of White American history, and present, for that matter.
There’s a lack of remorse in the destructiveness with which white people have used this word. If there was any remorse at all, whites would want nothing to do with it. But many continue to feel slighted by society’s insistence they don’t use it. I don’t understand this.
Let’s say Chinese Americans have a word they use among themselves but would be offended if I used it. You know what my response to that is? I don’t use it! It’s really pretty simple. I am absolutely devoid of any desire to use a term that has been deemed exclusive to a particular group, ESPECIALLY if my use of the term is offensive to this group.
We can argue all day about whether or not black people should use this word themselves. After a full day of arguing, I don’t think we’d come to an agreement on the issue. So, I won’t bother. But what I will note is that blacks didn’t just start using this word with the invention of the boom box.
My grandfather was born in 1922. He and his peers called plenty of folk “niggas.” Were there black people in his generation who detested the use of the word? Of course. But let’s get over this notion that the Hip Hop generation somehow brought about the revival of the n-word.
The issue is, rappers RECORDED black use of the word, which was then consumed by millions of white youth, who in turn felt entitled to the public use of the word.
And we’re back to where we started. White entitlement and privilege. Will we ever see the end of it? Will common sense and decency one day prevail? I’m not hopeful. Are you?
If you read my review of the documentary “Beats, Rhymes Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest” last year, you will remember that I credit much of my love for Hip Hop to my big brother, Henry Lake, Jr. The same could be said for my interest in sports.
When I was a kid, there was nothing better than watching football on Sundays with my dad and brother or sneaking in the living room to watch basketball when my brother had friends over. I enjoyed their commentary more than anything but over time, this grew into a genuine love for the game.
Over the years, my brother became known as something of a basketball expert in the city and eventually got the opportunity to host a sports talk radio show on KFAN 100.3 FM in Minneapolis. This was my introduction to sports talk and I immediately fell in love. I listened to just about every show featured on the station and would even call in to give my two cents on a topic every now and then. I learned that sports talk radio was so much more than breaking down the x’s and o’s of a given game. There was comedy and culture involved and I found it all highly entertaining.
Soon after being introduced to KFAN, one of my best friends told me to listen to the 2 Live Stews show. The Stews are two brothers (literally) who had a nationally syndicated sports talk show out of Atlanta. Doug and Ryan Stewart started each show to Public Enemy’s “Welcome to the Terror Dome” and, as members of Omega Psi Phi Fraternity Inc., ended each show with George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog”. They instantly became staples in my day. I would schedule my entire day around The Stews. Yes, it was that serious.
When I started listening to The Stews, they had a 3 hour nationally syndicated show. These boys from Monck's Corner, SC kept their show lively with gut busting commentary and high energy discussion. The show completely centered around their listeners, or as they called them, “dogs and poodles”. It reminded me of sitting in the living room with my brother and his friends, listening to them debate the hot sports topics of the day. There were arguments, lots of jokes, and plenty of Hip Hop.
In 2007, The Stews branched out into TV, with recurring appearances on ESPN's "First Take" and their own TV One show "Black Men Revealed." The Stews were being seen and heard in more places than ever but they still lost their syndication deal with Sporting News Radio.
Atlanta-based radio station WQXI 790 The Zone, had been the radio home of The 2 Live Stews show since the show’s start in 2001. Within five years, The 2 Live Stews became the highest rated show on the station. Once The Stews lost syndication with Sporting News, fans outside the Atlanta area now had to listen to The Stews online at WQXI’s website.
Eventually, WQXI got a new Program Director who was less than enthused about the direction of The 2 Live Stews program. Suddenly, The Stews could no longer choose their own music. “Welcome to the Terrordome” and “Atomic Dog” were replaced with “Like Jagger” by Maroon 5 & Christina Aguilera. Oh, the horror! Additionally, The Stews could no longer call their listeners “dogs and poodles” or give “big ups” at the end of the show. They now had to say “thank you” instead of “big up”.
Are y’all side-eyeing as hard as I am? It was very clear what was going on here. The Stews were now deemed “too black” and 790 The Zone was having none of it.
As of last year, The 2 Live Stews were still the strongest show on the station. Other than a disdain for diversity in programming, what would make you take away what made The Stews unique?
Something like Destiny’s Child, the writing was on the wall. The 2 Live Stews show has now been cancelled. The Stewart brothers can be heard on a new show called The Red Zone with some white hosts from WQXI. It’s clear that Doug and Ryan are just biding their time until their contract is up. I’m hoping they get picked up by another company who will give them back the creative reigns to their show.
It’s clear that race played a large part in The 2 Live Stews situation. Just look at the comment section of this story about their show’s cancellation. Commenters repeatedly claim that The Stews catered to “thug nation”, “ghetto” or “hood” listeners. It’s clear what WQXI’s fan base thinks of listeners like me.
What’s more troubling than the fact that my all-time favorite sports talk show is no more is that blacks in sports talk radio are damn near non-existent. There are no shows hosted by African Americans on ESPN Radio or Yahoo! Radio (who acquired Sporting News in 2011).
Blacks in sports media can be found all over television but are like chupacabras on radio. We hear a lot about the demise of black radio from the music standpoint but I think the discussion must be broadened to cover more than music. We’re losing across the entire industry. Can anything be done to save black talk radio? Should we be focusing on owning our own stations and catering to our own communities? What say you?
It's been a long time. I shouldn't have left you without some dope new posts to read... *jigs*
It has been way too long since I have posted anything here! I know I've been trifling. I’m sorry! I’m going to make a serious effort to do better.
I have some new stuff to share with you guys and some old business to wrap up. Please stay tuned! Brand new post coming Monday, y’all. Yes, THIS Monday. :-)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!”
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.
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 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.
Posts
