Keeping Up with the Jonzee

My Tee Tee

2009-02-20T10:20:00.002-05:00

I have not been inspired to write here as of late because I have been too busy writing here and here. But this morning, I was reading a post from my girl La and got inspired. (IOW, decided to jack her idea).

You see this Valentine's Day, I had this plan to do something special for Big T, the 60-minute massage, nice dinner out on the town, and breakfast in bed. Why? Because I know that I am special--and I don't mean like 'Aw, she's mad cool' special, I mean like 'pain in the ass' special. See, I make a huge deal about certain holidays-the gift giving holidays. Now before y'all kill me, I know better (I'm a brat. I am working on it). One should give because they want to give, not because they expect something in return. Hence, the reason I wanted to do something for him--'cause I know he be racking his brain trying to do something good and make me happy.

So, here, just in case he didn't know, is 10 things to know (and I love) about his bald-headed ass:

1. He is the most giving person I have ever known T will give you the shirt off his back even if he doesn't have it to give. It frustrates me sometimes, but I love that he believes in sharing.

2. He's sensitive He does not believe in hurting other peoples feelings and is tactful and empathetic when it comes to having to give someone the business but...

3. He ain't no punk He is very calm. He does not believe in flying off the handle and deals with conflict with a smooth hand. But if you push him? God be with you. You should see him when it comes to boys and his baby sister...I pray for whoever the boy is.

4. He's smarter than he thinks he is He tells folks that I am smarter than him. I would say I might be more knowledgeable about certain things...but smarter, nah.

5. He is meant to be a teacher One day he will figure that out.

6. Hands down, best lover ever No need to say more, but lets just say I am more satisfied than not...especially when he takes his time.

7. That man can burn My grandfather will be proud to know that I will be left in capable cooking hands. The lamb with the Dijon peppercorn sauce he made for Christmas dinner...slap somebodies mama!

8. He knows me...almost too well I don't if this is good or bad, but he is very perceptive. He can ask me what's wrong, I can say nothing, and then he, often times, can vocalize it. It's annoying. But I love it.

9. He's old school He believes that a man should take care of his woman--in some of the most old school ways, like walk on the outside near the curb, standing up when you leave the table, opening your door. But also, I know (he won't admit it) that he hates when I pay for stuff. (I didn't get to treat for V-day) I love it. Screw it. Some of y'all ladies will just have to give me the gas face for this one.

10. He makes me slow down Like that song "Green Light", I am always ready to go. I like change--sometimes to my detriment. He has shown me that sitting still( both literally and figuritively) sometimes is important and necessary. And I am grateful for it.

Come Tuesday

2009-01-17T00:32:00.001-05:00

I have listened time and time again to the stories from my grandparents (who are still alive and good health) being my age during the time of Jim Crow. My grandparents were among the "talented tenth" who went on to get not only a college education but a Masters. Their life was fascinating and some of the things they were able to accomplish, under what many would view as extreme duress, is impressive.

My grandmother was riveter like Rosie in WWII. She left the factory and moved to Atlanta--by herself--while my grandfather was at War to pursue her Master of Social Work. She is demure, my grandmother, and if you are familiar with the history of the black middle class--she may falsely appear more socialite than independent woman, and more wife and mother from the times of the "best generation", then capable equal partner. But perserverance is her middle name.

My grandfather was a talented print man, who because of his color, had limited opportunity to make a career in printing and instead taught it as a vocation in the public school system. Like many other black folks, teaching was one of the few ways to have a white collar job and secure a future staunchly in the middle class, running the printing press at the Call and Post in the evenings. He has a sharp-tongued wit at times. And from some of his stories, it seems his relative fair skin is what kept him from ending up in a tree somewhere.

It is from my grandparents purview of American history, that I see the world. It is from their vivid portrayl of the decline of the American dream--first begun in the demise of our urban centers at the precipise of "white flight" and "desegregation", and further solidified by deindustrialization, that I dedicate my personal and professional time to revitalizing communities. And it is from this purview, that the last 10 years have made me rethink this personal calling on many an occassion.

When a former community organizer first decided to run for US president, I thought him delusional. When he exceeded expectations in Iowa, I began to listen. And as I listened, he talked about the importance of our urban centers and creating a poilcy arm that would focus on urban policy. He seemed to understand that the health and wealth of this nation hinged in large part on addressing many of our failures in domestic issues--health care, encouraging small business, and revitalizing a viable manufacturing base that might actually allow blue collar folks who's mothers and fathers once were "company men" in factories like Westinghouse and GM an opportunity to use their skilled labor to reach the American dream. It is then that I began to work for him with "cautious optimism".

Then he won the primary.

Then he won the presidency.

And now, come Tuesday, the sun might cautiously shine again.

Life Isn't

2008-12-11T11:51:00.000-05:00

For over a month, me and many of my colleagues have been waiting around for the hatchet to drop. The lead up to actual D-day has been long and torturous. We were told back in November that it would be announced the first week in December. Of course, rumours abound. As did speculations, about who amongst us would get the ax.

My dad works for IBM, I have lived through many a reorg—and this was the worst handled one ever. Now, I understand why, as the company has never had to do this before—but really? About a week ago, I started getting sick of my friends and fam emailing and texting to find out if I still had a gig.

Well, the news is—I do. And I while I am blessed to have continuous income, I feel guilty as hell. Why? Because daily it becomes more apparent that I want to go home. And everybody here knows it.

So, not sure why I am still here and others who were just as talented and probably have greater technical skills aren’t beats me.

As usual, I’m waiting on the Creator to make it plain.

Facing Changes

2008-11-17T16:17:00.002-05:00

November 4th, Way too early in the morning...

I awoke at 4:30am-- bleary eyed and exhausted. I could not sleep the night before. I was anxious. I was nervous, and even though I truly believed that the change, I and millions of others had worked on, donated to, and prayed for, was on its way, the idea that we might lose would not let me sleep.

I sat on the edge of my bed and prayed. Then, I put on my objective election judge hat and walked in silence to the polling place—my polling place—to do my day long civic duty of working the polls. The silence was nearly deafening and I wanted to cry, but I did not. However, unbeknownst to me, this same feeling would return several times through out the day.

5:30 AM

I arrive on time, but it feels like I am late. There is a buzz about the place as the chief judge directs the technician, and other judges to set up certain stations to count and keep record of every single supply we have been given. She also reiterates the importance of the integrity of our polling place. All eyes are on us she says, more than anytime in the 7 years she has been a chief. Nervous looks abound, and back to business we go.

Although, the polls do not open until 7 am, and our 1400 people district in a neighborhood is one of the smallest in the city (and in a transitioning neighborhood on the edge of gentrification with historically low turnout at 30%), our first voter is already in the building, and had been since 5 am. She is a middle aged black woman who has arrived prepared to wait with a folding chair, newspaper, coffee, and breakfast in hand.

7:00 AM

My fears that people would stay home because they believed the election was already in the bag combined with the intermittent nasty rain falling outside, made for an interesting morning. As we were opening the doors—more than 100 people were already in line. My eyes swelled, but no tears.

8:00 AM

I am stationed at the provisional ballot station. Here, people who for one reason or another are not in the ballot book, or who registered within 7 days prior to the election, must fill out a paper ballot. My first “customers” are three black men—two of them, both middle aged, had never voted. Both of them were quite knowledgeable about how the election process worked and what their rights were. The other, was an older man, and a life long Republican. Each of them was proudly wearing a “change you can believe in” button—and none of them knew each other.

On the way out of the door, the two men who voted for the first time shared the news with the ballot desk—and a spontaneous cheer broke out. From that point forward, every first timer got a little cheer from the judges.

10:30 AM

An elderly woman walking gingerly with one hand on her cane and the other wrapped in the arms of a young woman in her 30’s. The elderly woman informs us that she is here to help her oldest grandchild vote for the first time. The grandmother has already voted on the other side of town.

A couple arrives right behind them—clearly high and drunk—barely able to communicate anything clearly—accept that they have arrived to vote.

12:00 PM

A young black family with three children under the age of 5 and one newborn arrive. Each parent brings two of the children up to the voting machine and explains the voting process. They even let them press the buttons.

2:00 PM

The line has stopped. Forty percent of our precinct has already voted, and we have 6 more hours left to remain open.

A young white family arrives—dressed in all of the Obama regalia they could find—including the dog. They tell us they just returned from early morning volunteering in Alexandria, VA. The wait when they left was 2.5 hours long.

3:45 PM

Several young men, who I often see hanging on the corner, and I have long suspected of (and have seen) selling drugs arrive in a group to vote. Nearly half of them have voted before. Two tell me they never miss an election—even if it’s just local. One apologizes for handling his business in front of my house.

I meet people I have never seen on my block before, and see folks I often see, but have never introduced myself too. Now, I know them all and they know me.

5:30 PM

Voting is now down to a trickle. Some of the judges are spending the downtime calling up relatives and friends making sure they went to vote. One judge in particular is harassing his 18 year old cousin who just arrived to vote. She is telling his cousin to go back home and get his friends—all who were personally registered by the judge. Fifty-eight percent of our precinct has voted.

7:57 PM

All day, we have braced ourselves for the call, which would inform us that our polling place had extended voting hours. Three minutes to go, and no call. As I prepare to break down the ballot booth station, a man clearly out of breath from running is walking as quickly as he can down the hall.

I tell him that he has gotten to me in the nick of time. However, he was in the wrong polling place, which means if he votes here, it will have to be on paper, and it may very well not count.

He says in return, “M’am, I just want to know that I filled in that circle. I took two buses and ran here to just get in the door. I can not vote—even if it may not amount to anything.”

This time, I cried!

No Doubt

2008-10-31T08:47:00.002-05:00

I grew up going to Church--even though often one or both of my parents often did not go. They would straight drop us off for Sunday school (which we looked forward to--it was really about hanging out...)

When I reached my hateful teenage years, I stopped believing. I was angry. IBM was laying off 10k people in my little 35k town. Parents--fighting like hell. Excuse my French, but I said the "heck with 'em".

Until, a summer in Alabama, in which my favorite cousin Erma watched her husband and youngest child drown in the river, while her oldest struggled back to shore. My family and I were late getting to 'bama...and me and my brother probably would have been in that water too.

The day before they were buried she found out she was pregnant. I will never forget watching my cousins and uncles and father carrying Erma out of that Church screaming, crying for God, repeatedly saying she knows He will protect her.

If she could hold on to that, even in a time of so much pain and anguish. How could I be so pissed off and angry and doubtful about some small stuff like the 'Rents not getting along?

I have been a believer ever since. And that belief--that every challenge is a blessing on the back end has never failed me.

D'Angelo, baby. Come home

2008-10-22T15:12:00.004-05:00

I been waiting for you. I know that naked photo shit really drove you off the deep end. All them fawning chicks (and dudes...but never mind) obsession with your Adonis-like figure made you, a sensitive introvert, incredibly uncomfortable.

Especially since you are such an incredibly gifted musician and want to be respected for that more than anything.

Now, let me be perfectly honest. I, too, stared gap-mouthed at that video on more than one occassion. And you looking all fine and chocolately was definetely a plus. But, honey, I and many chicks like me are straight audiophiles and it was definetely more because the ease of which that incredibly intimately composed, intricately layered song comes forth.

Matter of fact, after seeing the video three times, I never cared to watch it again. The master songwriting in someways, felt cheapened by the video.

Honestly, I could give a good got-damn if you ever looked like that again. No offense.

Where you at son? I find myself searching the archives of iTunes and Soul Sanctuary looking for songs with your voice on them. Like that Rh Factor song called I'll Stay, my man, is one beautifully written, way-down-deep in the soul song.

Look, Broheim, there are mad people in the world making bank right now writing bullshit and passing it off as some sort of musical craft. You always struck me as more of a Common-type dude--as in you did it your way and knew you were going to get paid. So come on, folks are feenin for real music('specially us over 30 types who are coming to grips with the fact that clubbing these days in generally at the over 30 joints.)

Maybe the video thing in the end felt like to much soul-selling for you. Don't know. But I do know one thing, that a God-fearing dude like you should remember. Nothing can happen that is too much for you to handle. So suck it up and get it together.

There is no excuse for wallowing in the liquor-fueled self-pity, Bruh. You got a gift to share.

If it will make you feel better, keep your damn clothes on this time.

Just a little tough love from one audiophile to another.

My Two Gay Uncles

2008-10-12T21:46:00.003-05:00

My grandparents have four children—three boys and a girl. One of the sons is my father, married for over 32 years one year to the day I was born. The other two sons were gay.

As a little girl, I guess I knew that my uncles were different. My oldest uncle (May he rest in peace) never had a girlfriend I can remember. He had a friend. Growing up with a middle class African American family from the Midwest, "friend" was always what someone you were dating was called. I never really thought about it one way or the other. And as my great granny would say, "it made me no never mind".

My family never made a big deal out of it. My uncle’s “friends”, were no different than my auntie’s “friends” of the opposite sex. His friends were treated like family. Even after one serious relationship ended amicably, the friend still often came to Sunday dinner. The “friends” called my grandparents "Mom and Pops" like they were their parents, and never missed a birthday or anniversary.

My uncle is gone now. My father lost his best friend and I lost my hero. But his closest friend will be at Thanksgiving dinner with some delicious dessert in hand.

Being out was not as, or at least as it appeared, simple for my younger uncle. He got married. Got cheated on badly and got a divorce all within a year. And then he found his voice. After that he entered into a serious relationship with a couple people, who were embraced as family just as well. The family of the man from his first serious relationship still sends letters and cards from Germany on holidays and birthdays. Just like his older brother he loves deeply and has a special place in his heart for his nieces and nephews.

Now, he is getting older, his embers have become a nice glow and he is with the man I think he will be with for the rest of his life. And Michael is family too. I hope one day, that I will get to see that commitment ceremony.

I am sure my grandfather and grandmother as well as my aunt and father struggled a great deal with the idea that both of my uncles were gay. But love was the key to dismissing any hard feelings or thoughts of putting them out of their lives. The strength it takes to not pay attention to what many in the world would say is a sickness, or the hatred and animosity the world may throw your way for having gay children is undeniably difficult. After all, my grandparents grew up in the Great Depression and raised a family during the height of the civil rights movement. To be a black man and make it through those times you had to be tough. But my grandparents raised three intellectually tough, free-spirited, big hearted men—two gay and one straight—and they love them all the same.

What I realized today, is that we have never differentiated my Uncles' pursuit of "finding the right one", from any of our straight family members. To this day, I don't think I have ever heard anyone make a differentiation between them being gay and us being straight. I don’t even think we think about it. It is what it is.

And in the end, what it is, is love.

This Moment

2008-10-10T14:09:00.003-05:00

We will never have to pay the price our ancestors had to pay. Never.

We won't have to live through the ex-facto version of slavery in the form of sharecropping.

We won't have to send our daughters to back room alley doctors to risk health and life for the right to chose.

We won't get spat upon marching for equal rights for all.

We won't have to feel that the only "white collar" job for you us was to be a teacher...as long as it was in a segregated school. Or be a cop because it was the only "good job" for a man from Ireland.

We will never feel nearly the sting of corporate racism as the first and second class of folks of color climbing the ladder at IBM, ATT and other Fortune 500's in the 1980's

No. That is a price that was long ago paid. It is a price that we can't even imagine today. If somehow, it became expected that any of the aforementioned events was something we would have to cope with, would sooner commence to trying to beat someone within an inch of his life, then let them try to desecrate our humanity in any such form.

And, it is price, that understandably none of us can relate to. Other than the vivid stories of our parents and grandparents, we have little related experience. We are so far removed from ever having to deal with this kind of treatment that many of us have looked at older folks--particularly those who were active in the civil rights movement like they are know-nothing relics of the past. We see our generations of X and Y as having crossed the post racial line in so many ways. Hip-Hop and other cultural aspects seemingly connected to "Youth" have been the great uniter.

That is until, in someways, right now.

History, once again, shows us that it still has plenty to teach us know-it-all young folks. Right now, as I type, Senator McCain and his runningmate are somewhere allowing crowds of suppoters to turn into angry seeting mobs on unfounded hatred for an opponent who is different. They are using coded language of racisim and hatred through such phrases as "dimish the prestige of the presidency", and insinuating terrorist connections to assassinate his character. Their silence about the not-so-coded language of terrorist and nigger used by their surrogates and supporters is driving the point home. No man of color. Not this time. Not ever.

And it is downright frightening. I know I have never seen anything like it. But those folks who paid the price? They have. They kept their eye on the prize. No matter what kind of hateful and beligerent behavior was constrantly thrown their way. We must do the same.

Change is on the horizon. I truly believe it.

This is our moment to stand up and say, "Never again". This is our time to be the morally compelling voice in the room. We must make sure our children never have to pay the price that we pay.

The Hip Hop Pass

2008-10-07T13:37:00.004-05:00

My man Ink jumped on the buzz about the Biggie movie with a link to P. Rosenburg's recent posting of the entire 4-hour Mr. Cee's Big Mix. And then Ink said two of the best things he has ever said. Big was not the Goat but he was gifted as hell.

I agree. Somewhat.

Someone already threatened to take my Negro card when I said I neither enjoy cornbread nor collard greens. But I got my AARBG (American Association of Retired B-Girls) card well hidden, so back the hell up.(My NY card, on the other hand? I might not be able to keep that one.) Back in the day, no one could question my allegiance to East Coast Hip-Hop. If you got in the whip with me on the way to school and tried to pop Black Moon out the deck for Master P or Eightball and MJG, not only were you getting put the hell out but you might have lost a digit on the way. And Biggie was King.

So clearly, back then, if you had asked me the hip-hop head password of yesteryear "Pac or Big", I would have said Big. Admittedly, it was partly because I because of the East Coast allegiance, and partly because I was living in Cleveland--where real hip-hop could go die and never be found. And you can add to that, the fact that I started every morning with a little Big with my Breakfast. (But it was mostly because I couldn't stomach that wack shit that passed for hip-hop on the North Coast.)

Now? The answer is different. The answer is Pac. And you know what? I shoulda said Pac then. As I have gotten older, I have actually paid alot more attention to Pac then I did in my early hip-hop listening days. He is prolific, conflicted, poetic, and often reaches down into a vat of emotions few people in any genre of music can. Shallow party shit. Crime drama. Heartfelt what-the-fucks. All of it. Brilliantly laced together.

Now before you start calling me unpatriotic to the hip-hop head nation or some sort of hip-hop terrorist, let me say there is still no doubt that Big was incredibly talented. There is no doubt that Big had an incredible lyrical gift. There is no doubt that he has spit some of the most amazing verses in hip-hop. Ever. Point blank. Period. I mean, I used to go home and practice the man's rhymes so I could spit it like I wrote the bars myself. But in my old age it seems to me so much of Big's flow is shallow. Its about shallow-ass shit. If you go back and listen to both of his first two albums most of the material is a precursor, perhaps treasure map to the road to riches via the unadulterated hood-rich, bling-bling, me and my 55 bitches and 4 video ho's hip-hop that we is rammed down our throats daily on a Radio Won station near you. Big was the King of Hood-rich and on down the hill it keeps going.

When I listen to Big now, I can so clearly hear that he had yet to tap into his best game. He was resting on his laurels. To me, he was a lot like Jay has been his whole career. Big could KILL you with his lyrical flow whenever he wanted, and every once in awhile drops a verse to remind you, but he didn't have to in order to be viewed as King shit. He only gave us the good flow cause it sells just as well. Money was the motivation. And while, of course Pac rapped about much of the same shit--seems to me he dug deeper. Perhaps that is why he was so conflicted.

Maybe I've gotten to hip-hop righteous in my old age. But I always need you to say more to me. Big chose not to do it. Perhaps he knew he was so talented but saw it more as a hustle he was good at then something he wanted to wreck shop at. Perhaps, it stopped being a challenge. Who knows. But I need more in my hip-hop, particularly as the world gets more complicated and simple all at the same time.

...Now, if you are looking for me, I will be in a witness protection program or hiding out at Gitmo. And my NY card has been stored in a country where I have immunity from US intrusion.

I'm thinking

2008-09-23T10:15:00.002-05:00

...It might not actually bother me so much if the markets keep going deeper into shit and I get laid off. I already have a plan that involves, bum rushing someones couch for a few months, putting on a uniform and slinging some burgers and beer.

Sometimes I miss the camraderie and free flowing schedule of it all.

...I really don't want to be a homeowner right now (its besides the point that debt and possible job loss make it a kinda awful idea.) I have been talking about buying a house for what seems like forever as others get married or rush into buying something that either takes a lot of work or is way too expensive. I don't even know where home is right now--and when I buy I want to feel like I ain't going nowhere no time soon.

...Baltimore is the Broke Man's Brooklyn. Its still got ethnic flavor, distinct neighborhoods, and strange slow moving gentrification that makes it welcoming. I like it...a lot. But the people? Particularly, my people? Man, they suck. And nothing can replace the actual Brooklyn.

...Dating at my age blows. I feel like the only people left out here are brothers with way too many babies and not enough jobs, want to be pimps, and people who either aint got the sense God gave them, or have turned into Bitter Brother Women haters. I think I am going back to celibacy 'fo I end up stabbing some dude.

...I really want a dog. A little dog. I always wanted to buy an English bulldog and name it Otis. But I'm thinking a pug or puggle name Rufus might work too!

...I need to go out and dance more. I went out on Saturday (and was home by midnight...what kind of fuckery?!) and felt like I couldn't find the groove. I used to be THE KING SHIT on the floor--I felt like a bum.

...twenty more pounds and I might attract that white dude my cousins have been waiting to hear I'm marrying. Of course, I don't know who that dude is, but perhaps its worth a try.

...I need to come up with better shit to say on this blog.

Blessed and I know it

2008-09-11T12:43:00.003-05:00

Over the last few years, I have generally tried to act as though this time of year on my calendar effects me no more than any other. Usually, I just forget about it.

Until I turn on the radio.

This morning proceeded just as the other 200-odd work days have proceeded. Shut off alarm. Go back to sleep. (Oversleep lately) Convince myself that, no, I have no legitimate excuse for not going to work (except for the dread part lately). Commence moving like Speedy to get to work "relatively" on time.

Then I turned on the radio.

One station was rehashing how jacked up life has become since that day.

Another station was lamenting about Osama.

On another station, a woman was telling a story about her mother. A woman who was never, ever late for work. But messed around that day and missed her bus to the Pentagon. A bus load of her co-workers were lost that day.

I turned it off. In silence, I rode.

See, I missed meeting my maker not once but twice. About a month and a half before 9-11 I started hiking it from the Staten Island Ferry to the Trade--the transfer from the local to the express to look longer if I got on the train at the ferry then it did with me walking it to the stop. Pretty much, every week day at 10 minutes to 8, I was in the building. (The incentive to be on time was the free doughnut a couple times a week from my boy Shawn at the Krispy Creme.) But a week before 9-11 I moved to DC unexpectedly for a housing consulting gig.

On September 11, 2001, I was preparing to meet a military official at the Pentagon to discuss military housing logistics. At 6:45 am, he called and canceled the meeting because of a family emergency. If the meeting was not rescheduled, one or both of us might not be here to tell the story.

As much as I wish it was just another day, it is not. For me and others--no matter how far we get from that actual date--it will not be just another day. The pain may lessen...but the same never.

Yet, here we stand, on the verge of voting into office a Bobbye twin version of the man who fueled extreme irrationality in the living rooms of so many Americans and has left the world more chaotic then he found it.

This day, will never be just another day--particularly if we all don't wake the hell up.

Half Make-Up

2008-09-10T14:54:00.005-05:00

Someone tell me why half-make up (it sounds so much better than half break-up) sex is so the BOMB!? I mean, really?! What kind of fuckery is that?

Why do I call it half-make up? Well, see what had happened was a couple of weeks ago the semi-sorta ex came down. And what we came away with seemed very clear. He gets space.

(Bruh's got 90 days and no guarantees. And if he is smart he will get it together before some other dude grabs his cookies and runs off screaming "Mine, mine, mine!" But I digress.)

But we also agreed that before "space" became officially offical that we would kick it through the Labor Day holiday weekend/my girl's wedding in Va. Beach--and then let the space begin.

Since I ain't trying to have a repeat of the on-going foolishness I had with the Bunch (so 'nother story, 'nother time, ' and maybe a little drunkeness required). I knew in my head that I had to get it in as much as possible by the time last weekend came. Cause after that...

No cookies for you!

But Yo! why he been hitting it out the park. Um, like, I'm sort of insatiable now...and um this weekend he looked good enough to eat and shit.

How pissed am I that now I can't have none...out of principalities...???

...This is some ole bullshit.

He could get it

2008-09-04T09:00:00.002-05:00

So, after teaching my first English as a Second Language (ESL) class, I needed to watch some mindless dribble on the Tele. As much bullcrappy dribble that was coming out of the Moosburger eaters mouth, I needed something that did not also make me want to throw up.

And what should appear, but the movie my mother watched every day for the entire year of 1993? The Bodyguard.

And I'm sorry but, to this day...K Cos could get it. I have a penchant for men of color...but I ain't blind.

Lets See, who else:

Sean Connery (have to make sure his pacemaker is working, though)

Harry Connick Jr.

Al Pachino (yes, another pacemaker check)

Simon Baker

Mark Walhberg (Used to be Donnie...during my NKOTB fanatic days)

Christian Bale (he's just so badass as Batman)

Who falls outside of who your would normally date--that could definetely get it?

Done Deal

2008-08-25T14:13:00.002-05:00

Last night I got shot at. Well, not exactly at...but two drunk 'ignant muufuccas were drunk in the street, carrying on, as I was on the passenger side of my car. (Getting another square--'cause I am stressed and turning into chain smoking Joan Crawford--minus the wire hangers and shit.) And one idiot decided to shoot at the other idiot. I dropped down on the ground and crawled up my stoop so fast, I don't even know how I did it.

Shook up? To say the least. Clearly, I didn't sleep well.

The foolishness exacerbated my normal Monday morning blues. Same shit times 10. Dreading the 40 minute commute. Feeling lonely as hell. Sitting in the 10 AM team meeting thinking about how I so am not interested in how much fee (i.e. how much bonus my boss is going to earn) the deals in the pipeline might garner--and I am so not in the right job long term. Longing for a hug and kiss on the forehead, and a "baby, its going to be alright." in whispered in a deep tenor in my ear.

Its time for me to go home. And home is where Big Baby is.

The latest epiphany.

Pride is what got me here in the first place. Do I think moving was a mistake--not necessarily--but long term it won't work. The Big Baby encouraged me to move because he wants me to have what I want. He didn't want me to feel like I was sacrificing for him. When folks were asking me "what about Big Baby?". I looked at them like "What about him?" and dismissed it. And so I went--because I have been doing me so long it never really occurred to me to think about it any other way. Partially, because I got something to prove about not giving up a career for a man (mama baggage). Partially, cause the dollars were shining and outweighed other things. And largly because I was afraid to take the risk of staying.

Now its time for me to take a risk. A big one. In January, I'm leaving. I figure I really have nothing to lose. Bmore is cool. The house is very cool. But...

My personal happiness is finally starting to outweigh my need to over-achieve.

In the end, everything always works out for the best anyhoo. And I know that from plenty of experience.

Cootie Brown

2008-08-21T09:05:00.003-05:00

...drunk as. That is me. It is 10 AM...and I'm not quite sober. Yet, at my desk/pod/fishbowl on a conference call I sit.

I'm too old for this shit.

Last night, Line Sista 54 (now and forever more called LS Fi-Fo)came by. We were going to be grown. Have a little dinner, maybe a drink or two. What it turned into was a 6 hour, 2/3rd bottle of Sailor Jerry (yo! check out the Sailor--it is so YUMMY!) Spiced Rum drinking, drunk dialing to the sorta semi-not quite--ex by the ls, good ass time.

But now here I sit. Still. Not. Quite. Sober. 7.5 hours of sleep. Still. Not. Quite Sober.

And it will probably take my ass two days to recover--because I'm what? Too old for this shit.

Oh. And now here comes the hang over.

Toys [ain't] Us...no more

2008-08-11T15:12:00.005-05:00

This grown folks shit is for the birds. Bills. Responsibilities. Appointments. Mortgages and crap. Who signed me up for this? I mean really. I want my money back...

Since I turned 4 nearly two weeks ago,(that is 3+1 for you simple muuufuuccas)the "wow, I'm really grown and shit", has really been on my mind. I mean, just a couple of weeks ago I was in the ATL taking a young woman on her college tours, and I found myself acting like mama--making sure she asked the good questions, that she got to see the most important people, finding out about the money factor. I gave her advice whilst trying to be very conscious of the lecture tone (GAWD knows I hated that shit when I was teen.)

And I swear I hear a damn clock ticking--though just a month and half ago I was in Chucky Cheese ready to hide under a table from all those little monsters running amok. Thanks to my LS--who made it painfully clear that our difference in age afforded her the time to putz about on the kid thing. Sheeit--I ain't birthin' no babies till their is a ring (ahem...a wedding ring on my finger.) But the clock is messing with me and lets just say ain't no suitors lurking about so I better put some eggs on ice or something.

I can't even kick it late on the reg anymore. Bedtime for me is all early and crap. I had my PJ's on at 11:30 and was asleep by midnight (with the added help of the "liquid painkiller"--Navy Sailor 92 proof--good lookin' Wise). I mean, on my damn b-day, the celebration was over by 10--I was in bed by 11:30--on a Saturday. What kind of fuckery is that nonsense?!?

But the worst thing, is that my fool ass finally decided to apply to law school and stop bullshittin'. Average age of a fool in the law programs I am interested in? How about like 23.75--what in THE hell? Guess, this old poodle's gonna have to dust off those Beer Pong skills and skill the hootchies on mack mastering...(now where the hell is my cane?!)

So, I lied

2008-08-06T09:18:00.002-05:00

I said I was going to not talk about it. But its weighing so heavy on my mind. I am passed the sad phase, and I am almost passed the "conjecture/guessing" phase. But now I am entering the "mad as hell phase".

You want to know why I'm mad? Let me tell you why I am mad?

See, this the thing, long distance has in no way been easy on me. I have never been faithful. Ever. Every dude I ever dated, when they started to get on my nerves, or I was getting bored, or I simply didn't feel like being bothered(but didn't want to be alone either), I always had someone on the side--an ex, a bootie call, a friend who I knew was trying to get it.

But not him. I even turned down the advances of the "sort-of-ex 7 years of bullshit" dude. Not once but twice. So, see I made progress in the name of love.

I live 200 miles away and could do whatever the hell I want and he would be none the wiser. But I have not.

I have thought about ending it on many occassions. Not because I don't love him, but because long distance is a bitch. But, I was never afraid to talk about it. I was never afraid to say this sucks big time.

But you don't just get to shut down cause you can't deal. That, right there is bullshit. Especially after all we have done with and for each other. Its bullshit.

Perhaps, it could have been fixed. Perhaps, it could have been more visits not less. Shit, Bmore and Jersey aint that far. But it can't be when you think you have the right to stop communicating.

I deserve more. I deserve the conversation. From what I have known from him, he is a man of his word. But then again maybe I don't--and this conversation will never actually occur.

But like I said before, the game ain't changed and the 80/20 rule still applies. So, I hope whoever the chick is she is doing it for him better than I clearly could.

Now. There. I am done.

Dusting off

2008-08-04T11:06:00.002-05:00

I have decided not to talk about it anymore.

I have dissected it. Talked about it analyzed it. I even asked my damn Daddy what he thinks.

I won't know until the conversation is had. And at this point, I don't think that will be anytime soon.

Maybe time and space is good. Maybe its not. Maybe the loss will be permanent. Maybe it won't. We'll see.

But what I do know, is the game ain't changed. And most muufuccas still playing the game at my age are trying to fill the void with bullshit.

And it took the void to slap me in the face to recognize that life without was not nearly as good as life with.

So until the day of reckoning comes, I'll be running, hiking, lifting, and writing my way toward some peace in my heart. But no more will I talk about this shit out loud.

Have a Little Help from Your Friends

2008-07-31T10:00:00.002-05:00

I am blessed in many ways. But one of the most important ways to me is the many wonderful and supportive friends I have collected over the years.

And God knows I need them now.

So, this a shout out for all my friends who have called me twice a day for the last couple of days to check up on me, make me laugh, or just in general send some encouragement my way.

I love you!

A Rock is Missing Two Johns

2008-07-25T07:58:00.004-05:00

For the past two nights, I have watched the Black in America Series on CNN. I was not surprised by the content. But I was significantly disappointed by the way it was presented and what it reported.

I could go into the whole thing about how I think black women got played. The overarching theme about black women ither promiscuous baby making machines or hard- driving-ball-busting career women. Nothing about income disparity in earnings between black women in the workplace and male counterparts either white or black and how that disparity effect largely female head-of-household families. And what about the great gloss-over of the effects of misogynistic images of black women and how that effects our relationships with men and our view of ourselves (which has a lot to do with why so many young black women choose to have children--often without a pot to piss in)? And don't tell me that 8 seconds last night counts as any sorts of coverage.

And most importantly nothing about what the lack of a father in a woman's life does to her. As usual, the lack of a father is most prevalently identified with black manhood.

But like I said. I'm not going there.

My biggest issue is with that Cosby Show has-been dude John Phillips. WTF?? His simplistic, pedestrian analysis that "they shouldn't sell crack", "they should go to school because that is how you achieve.", and lastly his attempt to lambaste Spike Lee regarding Lee's statements about Hollywood studio level racism when it comes to funding black films(even though the fact that the studios set a benchmark of $100mm and he blew it out the water more than once--he's still got his hat in has hand for most projects) just reiterated the dumb simplistic shit people say about the pervasive nature of poverty and discrimination.

It's easy to say all that shit if you have role models who "show you" the value of an education at work or who demonstrate to you that dreaming and achieving is possible. "Keep Hope Alive" slogans are not enough. If you were raised in a family or a neighborhood where education is not valued, and most folks are standing on the corner and succeed at not following in those footsteps--you are an exception not the rule.

And then their is this man--with his black people have no work ethic and aren't smart enough to learn. Guess that whole white kids and black kids are educationally on par till 4th grade missed him.

Bump you! Pay Me!

2008-07-24T15:47:00.002-05:00

So, Dr. Fryer is paying children to learn and folks are up in arms.

Not surprised.

But its not such a far out radical idea. Dr. Freyer just had the balls to say it straight up. "Pay them to learn".

Its no different than a kid getting a new book (like I did) or a special dinner when they bring home a great report card. Or how about programs like Upward Bound or College STEP? As a STEP alum, I got a $5,000 stipend every year I was in the program and did what I was supposed to do. I don't hear anyone hollering about that--and Upward Bound is probably one of the greatest experiences a teenager could have.

All examples of incentivized learning.

I get why so many are like "we are teaching children materialism", we are "using money as a means to an end", etc. But lets step down off our high-minded idealism about education and be real. Children are surrounded by materialism and the need to "get money" long before they walk in the classroom door--particularly if you are a poor child. Over my years of mentoring, I have listened to many a child talk about money. To my kids, money, or the lack of it, is the reason they don't have, can't get, can't have. The link between "getting money" and education is not tangible to them. To my mentees its been more like 'show me why I should' not tell me.

But showing and not just telling takes people who can demonstrate that education can get you further than you ever imagined. People talk alot of shit. But don's show up to do this "showing".

Until we get more folks doing by volunteering and mentoring rather than "running the yap" about what should be done, Dr. Freyers plan for a small sample of children will be that motivation.

WHATEVER IT TAKES.

Unless of course we are about to start a new movement of successful people of color volunteering for one-on-one...

*crickets*

Thought so. Talk shit amongst yourselves.

Failing

2008-07-21T13:25:00.002-05:00

I am struggling with this long-distance love. It is progressively getting worse. Every time I leave him I feel like my heart is having the life squeezed out of it. When he leaves, it feels like someone has just left my home forever. The silence.

This was my choice. I chose to take a position that was essentially lateral, for a better company, with significantly better pay. And he encouraged me to take the job. Too bad I know the job is not for me in the long run. As a matter of fact, the best thing about my choice, is that I live an easier life in a nice house in a city of which I have always been curious.

Today, the admin told me that the NY office is finally hiring for the same position I occupy here in MD. Too bad when I originally interviewed to be the NY version of me, the position was on freeze.

Too bad.

But I'd leave tomorrow if he asked.

A Serious Affair

2008-07-16T09:46:00.007-05:00

And as the AKA Centennial Celebration week winds its way to the end, I thought I would reflect on just how in the world this chick who said she would never do it, went ahead and did.

But, alas, I was born an AKA. Though I didn't fully realize it until later in life than I would have liked.

Although, I grew up in a church full of AKA women (80% of the church ladies), and my grandmother has been a card carrying dues paying member since the late 1930's, I never bought into it. Honestly, I didn't get it, and based on my run-ins with some of the church ladies, I thought they were mean as hell.

During my high school years, my anathema to joining a social organization waned. Me and my closest girl were all about wearing the Crimson and Cream. Shoot, everyone who knew me growing up said I acted like a Delta--whatever that is supposed to mean. I was even...well I can't tell you that, my Sorors might kill me.

But two things happened that steered my right on back to where I belong. One, was an incident with one of my best friend's mother. Upon hearing that I might have to move to Cleveland with one year of high school left, she and some of her sisters (who were also good friends of my family) wanted to see if they could help me stay in my home high school so that I could finish my last year with friends. After much begging on my part, my father asked her and her sorors, If I could live with them when school was in session. You should have seen how fast "no" came flying out of their mouths. But another young woman who I had only become friends with during high school (whose Mom was an AKA) offered easily without me asking--and even had drawn up a plan of the rules and responsibilities that would be involved. Even though in the end I still had to go. Just the gesture stayed with me for a long time.

The second, was right around my Senior year of high school. I wanted to do a documentary on the decline of Shaw Senior High, a once prominent public high school in East Cleveland. I didn't have any money for the project. And I was new to the area. I didn't really know anyone, other than the folks at church who work like grandparents and aunts and uncles to me. The ladys of AKA heard about my dilema from my father, and out of the woodwork came donations and connections. Someone lent me a great camera, another lady helped me find someone to edit it (for free), and other helped me connect with the administration at Shaw and the EC board of Ed. The ladies who went to Shaw signed up to be interviewed, shared year books, etc. Many of the AKA's in Cleveland are teachers and they gave their perspective on public school education and suggested ideas on how to fix the system. They helped me make my project an award winner.

Perhaps these things seem small to you, but these are only two of countless examples of ways in which I watched ladies in pink and green not only talk the talk and walk the walk of a "lifetime of service" not only to Alpha Kappa Alpha but to the world in which they live. There are countless other folks I know who have been helped, prodded, even chastised when they needed it by these ladies. They run soup kitchens, bible school, tutoring sessions, and mentor young women in some of the most abject poverty you could imagine, all while managing their own families.

If you know nothing else about me from this blog, you should know that I believe reaching back and up to empower minority folks, especially black folks to empower themselves. So many of the ladies of AKA embody that spirit and they do it in their own way, with their own voice, and they are unapologetic about it.

Don't get me wrong there are plenty of women who joined just so they could don the pink and green and do the strolling and party hopping. As well as plenty who take the AKA stereotype to the Nth level. But for every 1 of them there are at least two who are trying to figure out how to create programs to educate folks about Diabetes, managing money, or some other community service initiative.

Happy 100th b-day AKA!!!

I got that feeling...that Pre-Teen Feeling..

2008-07-10T13:18:00.003-05:00

Growing up, I had New Edition on wall, and these dudes on the other.

I had the buttons. The Tee-shirt. Every copy of Tiger Beat, Teen Beat, and even Right On with them on the cover. (Yeah, Right On...remember that???)

But, a chick was like 12 then. So...why the hell do I heart their new joint???

New Kids on the Block - Summertime Music Video

Perhaps, it's because it reminds me of when I discovered as my great grandmother would say, those nasty boys. :)

Did we Come this Far by Faith--or is Bling the King?

2008-06-30T12:48:00.005-05:00

I had an interesting convo with my girl this weekend. I was dismayed by my visit to a Sunday service at a church that is quite popular here in Baltimore. Since over the years, she I have commiserated about the woes of trying to find a new church home in a new city on many an occasion, I figured she would be the best person to vent to.

Let's just say this is the second time this year I have been floored by the an answer I wasn't expecting. She didn't get my dismay over what I saw was a lack of committment to the history of activism in the black church. As a matter of fact, she told me that in all her years (and she is a bit older than me), she has never attended a church that gave a hoot about what was going on outside the wall of the church--in the community.

I have grown up in the exact opposite world. Working to alleviate poverty and to help people gain both spiritual and socio-economic betterment has been part and parcel of every church I have ever been a member--including my childhood home. All done, of course, to bring more folk into the Kingdom.

These days it seems its more about keeping up with the "Dollars and Olsteens" of the world, thanworking to do good through Christian fellowship. Screw the neighborhood.

And the church I visited was the epitome of church looking to reach Mega status by looking out only for its parishioners. Screw the neighborhood.

Even though this church is located on what looks to be a relatively new "mini-campus" on top of a hill across from several acres of boarded up former multi-family/public housing units, it has decided to unapologetically move out to the county to create a 21 acre campus, like these folks.

The church has been in Baltimore for more than 100 years, yet it has decided to build a 14 acre campus out in the the County (aka the Baltimore) suburbs.Instead of trying to impact the current community in which it resides, it instead sat on hill making sure you knew it was special staring down on delapidation carving out the backyards of many owner-occupied homes.

During announcements not one mention of outreach, not one ministry was listed as doing anything outside the walls of the church. And of course the offering was all about the capital campaign for the church building fund.

Do you feel me yet?

Don't get my wrong, I have no issue with church growth or expansion. I wax time and time again about how non-profits need to run with economic sufficiency and business like strategies--and churches should too. Churches need parishioners to survive. Managing a big church is a big job and the Pastor has the right to be compensated for it (how much and how lavish---that is another debate)They need enthusiastic membership to move its agenda forward. But what I do have a problem with is this seemingly continuous migration away from the black church working to help the communities in which is located not only spiritually but in the alleviation of poverty and the physical and socio-economic betterment of not only its parishioner but its neighbors. Of course, with the ultimate goal of converting more souls. I have a HUGE problem with this "if you ain't mega, you ain't wit' it" sort of business. I think you can be relevant, successful, growing AND progressive. There has to be a delicate balance between growing and doing what is morally right for the community in which you are located and the resources you take from that community.

Perhaps that means you don't grow to 20,000 members as fast as you would like. Perhaps, you forgo the fancy newest dais for Pastor and instead build a community center, donate a bunch of books to your local library, or sponsor an all-day bible camp. Don't know. But I know I definetely don't think that things like adding a bookstore, movie theatre, christian nightclub, etc should be your primary focus. This ain't Disney. Or did we forget?

Too many black churches have been propping up the ego maniacal dreams of the Pastor than the needs of their own communities. No wonder some them have last names like Dollar and Price.

Maybe my visit was God's way of reminding me about that the church I did chose is that right one for me--because the woman sitting next to me informed my that my church divested from her church about 20 years ago.