I'm sending up much thanks to God, 'cause I can look back and remember when...

I am grateful for the things that You have done
Yes, I am grateful for the victories we've won
I could go on and on about your works
Because I'm grateful, grateful so grateful just to praise You Lord
Flowing from my heart are the issues of my heart...

gettin' up, gettin' out and doing somethin'

have you ever seen a ghetto bird?

sure, you say, of course.

there's dawn who lives down by lexington

with her 5 kids and deferred dreams.

oh, and don't forget mrs. ann's kim

who left here

only to come right back

with a habit

you're right, the kims and dawns

are ghetto birds too

but not the kind i ask of

i'm talking about that one ghetto bird

who always seems

to have its eyes cast

upward

while the rest of the flock

is busy pecking

at the fruitless concrete

have you ever seen a ghetto bird fly?

fly? you ask. they don't fly

i mean, not too far from here anyway.

there's a few that try

but wind up discouraged

and eventually content themselves

with only hopping

from perch to perch

i've seen a good number of

high flying ghetto birds, i share.

i've seen them soar

above the jagged mountains of

at risk

and through the stifling haze of

disadvantage

have you ever heard a flying ghetto bird's song?

no, you admit. can't say that i have.

well, once they're used to

trusting their wings

they sing a song

to the other ghetto birds

down below

it goes:

i'm soaring

reaching heights unknown

freeing my soul

as much as i wish

you could be up here

with me

i've realized it's

too hard to teach

someone with their feet

planted so fimly

in the ground

how to

fly.

soul that lives within...

"Eventually I knew precisely what hair wanted: it wanted to grow, to be itself, ...to be left alone by anyone, including me, who did not love it as it was."-- Alice Walker, Living By The Word: Selected Writings 1973-1987

This goes out to you and you...

Today, I’m really feeling like one of those rap stars accepting an award at one of them hip-hop ceremonies or artists who have five pages in the back of their album dedicated to everyone they’ve ever met.

Excuse me as I give a shout out to my peoples and ‘em.

Dad: Thanks for giving me your charm and your walk….which bothers me a bit, ‘cause either you had a questionable twitch or my stride isn’t as feminine as I thought.

Mom: Thanks for being the originator and allowing me to be your remix. I know, I know “mad” corny, right? Waking me up early every, single Sunday has definitely shaped my cooking skills. I’m honored to be considered a part of your fortune. Yup, more corn. But you’re a mom and love that kind of stuff.

Shirlgurl: Your text messages keep me going during the day. Though I’m not really down with all that “princess” stuff, I have to admit your boughetto ways are cute and very witty.

Junebug: I love all our late night catch-up convos, since you believe we don’t truly “know, know” one another. Thanks for laughing at my outrageous stories, which I promise are all unfortunately true. You're right, my life is a “poetic comedy” and I’m glad you’re interested in hearing alllll about it. Don't forget, your NBA contract is paying for my student loans. Everybody knows that pinky promises are just as valid as notorized documents.

Flojo: You’re the first best friend I’ve ever known and the co-star in a lot of my early memories/escapades. No worries, with a little time, we’ll get us back.

Jenny: The fact that we’ve never gotten into a fight in the entire 17 years we’ve been friends, says something. I love that we can spend close to 6 months with no contact, and start right where we left off. Thank you for accepting me how I am, smelling real good all the time, and sharing my X-rated sense of humor. I love that you make half wigs look so chique, so much so, you got me wondering if the Asians sell half ‘fros. Ummmm, nah, never mind.

Sawnee (said with a real heavy Brooklyn accent) aka Big Sis aka Mrs. Mike Black aka Sister from the Same Two Mothers by Spirit: Thank you for recognizing the woman I’m becoming – even when I don’t see it sometimes – and placing me on Crown Woman status. Thanks for conversations on God’s plan, finishing my thoughts, and putting me onto Arkansas 77's "no facts" reporting style.

Kindred: Thank you for being there when I laugh – hard and often – at the audacity of life, and laughing right along with me till our bellys ache and tears flow. This is just the beginning of not only a beautiful business collabo –our books will be best sellers, for sure—but a budding friendship. I think that we’ve officially discovered the cure-all for life’s mishaps: food, wine, and tons of laughter. Promise me, that if you ever get that newsletter inviting you to become an adult, you’ll throw it away. Psuedo grownups for life.

Jess: Even though you’re real brand spanking new in my life, you’ve managed to become one of the first people I seek advice from, and share my extremely hilarious and humbling experiences with. It’s wonderful to have someone who is genuinely enthusiastic for most of the things I do and want to do – no matter how small or out there. Thanks for all the email convos ,that we use like IM since the man likes to breathe down our necks. Your peach cobbler is sin in an oh so sweet pie crust.

Lis Lis: You’re mix of bitter sarcasm, dark humor, and love for poppin’ lockin’ and old school boy group R & B is always just what I need. Thank you for letting me see your tender side and understanding that ‘everybody needs some time away’.

2006: You’ve taken me from Ms. Pantene Pro-V, making the Dominicans a heck load of money, to psuedo Cape Verdean with the wet and wavy look, and now the ultimate earth mother rocking a fierce natural. You bought a lot of firsts, lasts, and change into my life. Every new year, I will recognize the impact you’ve made upon my life because, not only, did I survive you, but you’ve helped me to get so much closer to the woman I’m destined to become.

Last but not least, big ol’ shout out to G.O.D for giving me everything I need and not what I want, ‘cause sometimes -- depending on how the wind blows—I want some real off the wall stuff. Thank you for your patience. You gave me life and I keep you entertained as I live it --definitely not an equal deal, but it works. Something tells me you love me. I don’t know, just a feeling I have.

I know there are several folks I didn't mention and no one wants to be the "and 'em", but my wrist is tired from all this typing. To be continued.

some kind of wonderful..

"The way you cook, makes a brother feel good about himself," said by Junebug, as I prepared food for a New Year's Eve dinner party.

Thank you, God, for all the wonderful men and men-in-training that you have put into my life. Amen.

Goodness gracious

I was caught all up in my own mental-mind at the end of my break today. So, I didn’t feel like responding when a brother wished me a nice day, as I passed by him on my way back to work.

Big mistake.

"Sistah…Sistah,” he called, continuing his attempt at trying to get my attention.

I noticed more than a few people stop, in the middle of the busy city sidewalk, to see who in the world this man could be hollering at with such commitment, and why in the heck she wasn’t answering.

Occupied with my thoughts and slightly embarrassed, I tried to get lost in the crowd before the scene escalated.

No such luck.

“SISTAH! SISTAH!...... SISTAH, WITH THE BIG LEGS,…. HAVE. A. NICE. DAY!”

…………

Yes, I am sistah with the big legs and that’s what I get for being shady.

randomness...

I spend most of my days on hold, while media relations people decide if they want to speak with me or not. Due to the classical or easy listening music that usually plays as I wait, I’m half asleep by the time someone decides to answer my call. If I ever have an office, when my secretary puts folks on hold I want callers to hear M.O.P’s “Ante Up”- probably the censored version. Regardless, of where I am or how I’m feeling that song never fails to get me amped and ready.

Yesterday, my thoughts fell upon my high school phys ed. teacher, Mrs. Gilmartin. With her long blonde hair and light colored eyes, simply by looks, she is the epitome of “all-American”. Out of the many people I’ve met in life, she is indisputably one of the realest. She is the same Mrs. Gilmartin who after asking the class to break into groups, noticed that a set of Jewish girls hadn’t budged. Without skipping a beat, she looked up from her clipboard and told Nicole to “stop being corny and sit next to those little Black children”. When it came to the swimming portion of her gym classes, Mrs. Gilmartin’s only requirement was that everyone had to fully submerge themselves into the pool at least once. Well, there were a lot of girls who tried to find creative ways not to get their hair wet. I remember one class Blair refused to put her head under the water. At first Mrs. Gilmartin paid her no mind; until the period was just about to end and she noticed that from her shoulder’s up Blair was completely dry. Twice she told her to go under and each time Blair refused. In a second flat, Mrs. Gilmartin jumped into the shallow end - clothes, sneakers, whistle and all – and dunked a shocked Blair under the water. Oh my goodness, I can’t forget one Bring Your Daughter to Work Day when a classmate asked Mrs. Gilmartin if the toddler with her was her daughter. “No, Tonya,” she said, “This here is just a midget I hired to follow me around all day”. All of my siblings have also had her as a gym teacher, and Mrs. Gilmartin told Shirlgurl that she felt sorry for our mother. My fondest memory of Mrs. Gilmartin is my senior year. A group of friends and I performed an African dance at the school’s Black Awareness assembly. Out of all the 2,000+ people in attendance, it was Mrs. Gilmartin who clapped the hardest. When we were done, she approached us with her hands clasped in front her face and a hint of tears welling in her eyes and told us , without her sarcasm or dry wit, that our performance was beautiful. Man, I need to pay her a visit.

I told a friend that for my birthday I want to go to some real illegal, sweaty, tight dance party in a concrete floored basement, underneath somebody's uncle's West-Indian restaurant. Monday, I got an evite inviting me to a weekend full of carnal exploits and hedonism, all in my honor. I love my friends.

Oh, to the brother who told me he loved my hair this morning and kept it moving – THANKS.

For winter fearing women when bubble jackets aren't enough

Lately, I've noticed co-workers throw envious gazes at adolescent couples in Union Square, as they unabashfully radiate that pubescent I-can't-live-breathe-or-survive-without-you-and-even-if-I-could-I-don't-wanna kind of love. I listen to countless tales told by girlfriends who religiously hit up every happy-hour function, regardless of how many hours they've just put in at the office.

Winter is coming ladies and gentlemen, and all the single women around me are concerned with the impending season change.

Blouse buttons are released a little lower and sistergirl dinner plans are canceled two steps from the door, once a phone rings and a baritone voice is heard on the other end.

"Winter.Is.Coming," declares this fair weather friend, who seconds ago was starving, as she takes off her coat, gets comfy, and coyly coos into her cell.

Heffa.

You'd think that with all this fretting over winter, women would be running to buy BJ-sized bags of melting salt for the soon to be icy roads.

But the thirsty determination in their eyes, reveals the statement's true meaning: Ain't no female ,in her right mind, wants to trudge out in the numbing snow to any club, lounge, restuarant or the like to find a man. So, the hunt is now on and it's real. Cold weather snuggle buddies are wanted.

Jess said it best, as we waited on the subway platform for the A train:
'If you're trying to get got, you'll get gotten.'

Well, there's a whole lot of women praying that the gettin' gets good waaaaay before snow coats the ground.

Am I among them?

Ummmerah, it would be nice to spend frosty nights indoors with a brother- who loves Scrabble, eating, and Toni Morrison - shampooing my mini 'fro with peppermint hairwash, greasing every inch of my scalp (yes, Reg, with no gloves. LOL), and cuddling while reading Black classics. Yeah, nice indeed but I'm not beating those mean streets.

Good luck to all those ladies out there on a mission. I understand. 'Cause the cold and loneliness are truly real.

Treating tricks

After declining Jess' invite to witness how folks from the Bay area get down on Halloween, I sat on the four train next to a 3-year-old cowboy and five-year-old angel. Needless to say, they were too cute.

By the time we reached 125th street, both the angel and cowboy collected quite a few dollars from our fellow passengers.

I didn't get a dime.

I guess no one was feeling my make-pretend-grown-up/journalist-on-the-grind costume.

This just in...

Over a week ago, I ordered a book from Borders. I was told that if it didn't come within seven days I qualified for their " 7 days or It's free" giveaway offer.

As I still wait, I'm letting you know now....

*pulling out bullhorn*

BORDERS IS GIVING AWAY FREE BOOKS!

Thank you.

Welcome back fam

My father, an old school West-Indian man, respected anything that required talent, hardwork and discipline. So from birth my siblings and I have been sport fans. We've spent countless school nights in our pjs , ignoring bedtime and the scolding of our mother, watching the rhythmic intensity of tennis , transfixed by the delicate elegance of figure skating, and getting riled up by WWF's Royal Rumble - dad's personal favorite.

Over the years, we've adopted several professional athletes into the family, referring to them by their first name and memorizing their stats. To these select few we've remained faithful. We groan, yell, and curse at unfair calls made by bias game officials, give standing ovations for glorious plays that require heart, and cheer till our voices are hoarse when our favorites win.

In our household basketball will always reign supreme. My lil' brother has said numerous times that it is absolutely unacceptable for me to date anyone who doesn't play basketball. He doesn't have to be nice or hold NBA dreams, says June, just a great appreciation for the sport is enough.

Every fall since 2003 , without fail, I've asked June about Jay Williams. We've followed his journey as a star Blue Devil, assistant to Coack K's third NCAA basketball championship, college graduate within 3 years, and second overall pick of the NBA's 2002 draft by the Bulls. We were devastated when in June of 2003, Jay lost control of his motorcycle and crashed into a utlity pole. With three of the four ligaments in one knee torn, a fractured pelvis, and a severed nerve in his left leg, there was little hope he'd ever return to the court.

Earlier this week, out of habit and genuine curiousity about his condition, I asked June if he heard any recent news. He shared that he thought Jay was a sports commentator now, giving up any basketball aspirations since his near fatal crash. A few days later, my little brother called me to see an article on NBA.com about Jay playing the preseason with the Nets.

Tonight, we watched in disbelief as the New York Knicks played a game against the Nets, who sure enough had our man Jay Williams in their lineup.

They didn't win tonight, and that's okay. None of us are wishing for a championship ring. I'm simply happy that he is able to come back to a sport that he loves and the family loves watching him play. There have been many who have died from far less, Jay is blessed to have a second chance.

**UPDATE**
Last I heard, Jay wasn't picked up by the Nets for the season.

We stay fly, no lie

Yesterday, with my nervous hands, I pinned the visitor's tag onto my blouse and pressed the button for the sixth floor. As the elevator traveled to its destination, I said a prayer for my first interview after weeks of job hunting.

I tried to calm down and remember what my boy Reg said about everyone being people, who started out at the exact place I am now. When the doors opened at my stop, I quickly passed my hands through my hair and over my slacks, attempting to smooth out any wrinkles and self-doubt.

My nerves chilled, a bit, as I walked into the office of the publication's human resource director. Her easy-going banter and infectious smile were able to put me at ease, as if I was chatting with an old girlfriend who was glad I came by to visit. I taught her the meaning of diaspora and she shared with me pictures from her first walk against breast cancer, an illness that her close college buddy has battled for five years. But though I was comfortable, I remembered where I was and the position of the woman sitting across from me. I guess I passed the prelimiary round because within fifteen minutes of our meeting, she called a few editors to see if they wanted to meet me.

Our friendly conversation continued in the elevator, through the newsroom, and until we arrived at the office of the executive editor. With a quick introduction she was gone and so was my confidence. As the door closed, I had half the mind to call her back to save me.

There I sat, in his small office with several pictures of dogs and famous faces, as he grilled me on everything from my past experiences, last non-fiction book purchased, and feelings on 'skut work'. Under his critical journalist's eyes I felt like that little girl, who is more accustomed to wearing kicks and jeans, getting caught playing make pretend in her mother's business clothes. I tried my best to keep up with his quick, dry wit and prayed that my demeanor didn't betray the the flip flops that my stomach was doing.

At the end of our interview he offered to see me out. On our trip through the newsroom, I quickly scanned the workers that I hadn't noticed twenty minutes earlier. My eyes were met by faces, belonging to mostly white males, offering quickly disappearing thin-lipped smiles that followed my exit.

And that's when it happened.

At that moment, I ached for the false protection offered by conformity and the days countless Dominican hair salons helped my hair live the lye. Instead, my in transition strands seemed to sense their surroundings and defiantly stood on my head, reveling in all their naptified glory. With each step towards the elevator, the slacks, which were flattering when I left the house, tightened under the strain of my behind that was growing to monstrous proportions. My nose took over my face and my lips began to look like the after picture shown to hopeful patients before their collagen injections.

The executive editor offered a detached indifferent handshake, pressed the elevator's bottom button, promised to call within a week, and sent me on my way. It wasn't until I reached the city's sidewalk, that my body returned to normal and I was proud of the many months spent sticking to my natural headed aspirations. This morning, I immediately sent out my thank you notes and half-heartingly prayed that the position was mine.

A few minutes ago, at the top of my inbox sat an email from the publication's human resource director. Convinced that they were so incredibly unimpressed that they decided not to even wait more than twenty-four hours before giving me the bad news, I read her two sentenced email asking if I got her message and if I could start later this month.

I've been doing a non-stop victory dance that can rival any of Chad Johnson's post-touchdown celebrations.

My two youngest siblings, Shirlgurl and June, have been known to entertain the family and my close friends with hilarious catchy songs, that they write themselves. After hearing the good news, I can't seem to get the Dipset inspired, unabashedly braggadocious chorus penned by my little brother out of my head: Been through the fight (Can you feel me)/ Been through the hype/ Been up on top (Now I'm stuck)/ I can't get down from up.

Ballin'! HAHAHAHA!

True,you may need one but you won't find her here

I am not your ride or die chick.
Leave that to the Charlies, Kims, and Trinas.
I refuse to be your down for whatever secret
while your wife/fiancé/girlfriend
keeps thinking that she’s playing half to a monogamous commitment.
I don’t do shapes
so take your love triangle elsewhere.
Oh, and forget what you heard
I.AM.NOT.THOROUGH.
Fights with women who hold your last name and your seed
is not what I do for fun.
How can one dare argue with a sister
whose anger is fueled by betrayal
and heart is broken from lies?
What did you say?
Ain’t no fun if the homies can’t get some?!
Are you hearing me?
Must I repeat myself?
I.AM.NOT.RIDE.OR.DIE.
Since you care about your boys and ‘em so much
why don’t you personally take care of their case of the blues?
And no, there isn’t any room in my purse for your glock.
Live out your Bonnie and Clyde fantasies with someone else.
I will not play Elvira to your pseudo Tony Montana.
It is not …
will never be…
that serious.

Thinking Outside the Box

Much props to Saki and Trevis for recently opening up their All-Nite Upscale Apparel and Juice Bar and being featured in the recent Weekly Dig!

All those in Boston, make sure to head down to Grove Hall and give these brothers some support.

we all have something to give...

www.worldonfire.ca/donations

Hindsight is Always 20/20...

because sometimes my pride and I are too busy rehashing all the should of, could of, would ofs instead of sitting back and silently take the L.

Recently, I disappointed and vexed a friend and, though it was hard to not add my two cents as he verbally let me have it, I understood 100% where he was coming from. I sat there taking it all in and when he was done telling me about myself, I apologized.

I guess, now and then, I need the wakeup call of loved ones to make me see my mishaps.

No one said growing is painless.

A Must See For Sure.....

My man Spike is at it again. I've already been called a hypocrit for wanting to see this and not "World Trade Center". Yes, both Spike's Katrina documentary and the 9/11 film tell the story of two recent American tragedies, but I'd rather hear the story straight from the mouths of those who lived it, not Hollywood.

HBO will premiere Acts I and II Monday, August 21 at 9pm, followed by Acts III and IV on Tuesday, August 22 at 9pm. All four acts can be seen Tuesday, Aug. 29, the first anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, at 8p.m. to midnight.

Headed for Self Destruction

Summer days are melting away and I am coming to a semi-peace with the fact that, for this season, sleep and I have become distant friends. That's cool, for now, because rest hasn't been sacrificed due to idleness.

Though I have a dreamer's long to-do list, I'm satisfied that I've been able to put a check next to a few tasks. I'm especially glad that, after spending four years in the audience, I finally volunteered for this year's Roxbury Film Festival.

I not only saw several great films, that reinforced and slightly altered a few of my perspectives, but I also took part in a resourceful convo that has me 90% sure a master's degree in education is one of my future journeys.But I'm learning, from many past experiences, that while we make plans, God simply laughs. So I'm trying my hardest to leave all in the hands of the Most High and praying that we're on the same page.

The one thing I regret is not seeing the much talked about "Street Soldiers". Unfortunately, it was showing during the festival's last shift, we were severely shorthanded and hundreds of ballots needed to be counted.

About fifteen minutes into the documentary, as a fellow volunteer and I tallied, a woman exited the auditorium and walked out the front door without so much of a glance or word thrown towards our table. A few minutes later another woman did the same thing, leaving the building as if she was deeply offended. My curiosity finally got the best of me when a sister, I remember being pretty chatty when I sold her tickets earlier, also entered the lobby and prepared to leave.

I asked if something was wrong and the sister responded that the film was far "too bleak". She tried to convince herself to sit through it but instead decided after twenty minutes that she had to go. I knew that the documentary was on the emotional issue of the city's growing youth violence but I still didn't get it.

I asked her if she felt that the director could have done anything more to make the film better, in her eyes. She stated that he should have added an element to "Street Soldiers" that at least gave the audience a small bit of hope that the condition in our streets would improve. Frustrated and with her mind made up, the sister repeated that the film was too bleak and told us that she understood that the lives portrayed in the film were someone's reality, but just not hers. She declared that it was a bright, sunny day and she'd rather be out riding her bike
....................

To the white teenager in Byron Hurt's "Beyond Beats and Rhymes: Masculinity in Hip-Hop", profiling in his dad's shiny Escalade bumping Fabolous' "Keeping it Gangsta" during BET's Daytona Spring Bling, and the sister cycling on a summer day through the same Boston streets where countless young lives have been lost: it's everything but the burden, right?

Sister, was it discomfort that truly caused you to leave? Are having the realities of Boston's youth come straight from the source, instead of an emotionally-detached newscaster, far past your comfort zone? It seems like you're looking for the hope of fairytales when "Street Soldiers" deals with real life.

To the brother who, during the Q&A, asked the director of "Kilombo Novo" how the teachings of the ancient Afro-Brazilian martial art form could be implanted into our schools, so that more youth could learn about life and peace: I see you.

I see your question's urgency and how it was thrown out there for the educators, decision-makers and parents in the audience, purposely putting the weight of necessary action on their shoulders. Brother, you understand that we are in a state of emergency and advantage must be taken of any moment we happen to come together, even if it is for entertainment.

At the conclusion of "Street Soldiers" a woman dropped her ballot in my box, after giving the documentary the highest score possible. She expressed that the language in the film was strong but as a mother of a 21-year-old Black male, who she calls every night to hear his voice and make sure he's more than alright, nothing could have made her leave her seat.

I shared with her the opinions of the woman who left earlier and she simply shook her head. She knows that "no one is going to save Dorchester, Roxbury and Mattapan but Dorchester, Roxbury and Mattapan."

i'm not perfect but nothing is wrong with me

Pushing over 250 pounds and with a Myspace page repping the infamous Castle Hill Projects, it’s understandable why the other teens don't mess with her.

But I know better.

I hear the excitement in her voice when she asks if he’s in the gym and quickly signs in so she can find him. Minutes later, I see her eyes slowly lose expression when she realizes he’s too busy flirting with girls who wear tight clothes over bodies shaped like old school Coca-Cola bottles, to pay her any mind.

Jaz knows that in order for big girls to get shallow teenage boys to like them they have to play one of two roles: the extremely funny big girl who hopes that laughs will distract attention from her size or the tough big girl who is, without question, down for whatever. She’s decided long ago to be that hard big girl, threatening to shoot the fair one with the girlfriends of her crew’s enemies and clap up anyone that dares question her gangsta.

Though her exterior seems rough and she takes pride in being the only female to know the crew’s exclusive pound, the Program Director and I both notice how she yearns for the hugs the guys reserve for the svelte girly girls.

Everyone wants to be liked in that special way.

Next weekend I’m starting a workout group for the ladies. I know how intimidating it is to exercise next to women who simply go to the gym for minor maintenance, while you’re trying to shed some serious pounds.

I won’t guarantee that her crush will return the same feelings but I do hope that,regardless if she loses weight, she gains some self-esteem.

love of my life you are my friend

After almost two months of living under the Ghanaian sun my love has come back to me. She has returned in better health and with bit more meat on her bones (*rolling eyes*- "Yeah..yeah ...heffa you're butt got bigger"), both things Mom is definitely happy about.

My younger sis needed to leave because the world is meant to be seen, especially by one who craves knowledge and had never ventured too far from home. But I am more than happy to have her back because there are only but so many things that can be shared in emails, on IM or during five minute long convos on shady foreign cell phones and a Sam's Club phone card.

She's in Boston for a few weeks so one day, while I prepared myself for work, I tried my best to fill her in on all the goings on of mutual friends (Remember Rach from high school? The one with the beautiful voice? Mmhmmm. We're invited to the wedding") and the family ("Shirgurl is doing alright but I can tell she's sad he had to go"). All this said I knew the story she had truly been waiting for.

I braced myself and reluctantly dug into my memory, searching for every single unfortunate detail so that she could understand, and see the entire hurtful picture.

Her eyes widened and several gasps escaped her mouth as I shared with her the series of events that occurred before and after I decided to let go. Already late, I promised that I would tell her the rest that evening. But she would have none of it. She quickly put on some clothes and joined me on my commute to work.

As we rode the packed Red Line, she looked me in the eyes, in that personal way only loved ones do, and called the deaded relationship toxic.

No judgement passed between us because she knows we're from the same place. A place where folks give it their all, in faith, and sometimes hope, that things will work out and reciprocity is truly real.

I take pride in being the one who gets requests for birthday money and a few bucks to pay cell bills. I love giving advice on crushes, friendships, clothes, life and old high school chemistry teachers who simply refuse to retire. I'm used to being asked to talk to Mom ("Can you pleeeeease talk to her for me? You know she listens to you") and critique election speeches, and English papers over the phone. And though I embrace my role as the oldest, there are times that I too lose my way and forget how to get myself back.

My younger sis and I sat in silence, allowing the story to marinate.

As we neared my stop, she reached over and hugged me. Letting me know that it's okay for everyone's everything, to shed my armor and allow the unconditional love of my kin to protect and soothe my heart.

On Some New York Ish

Mad random, but lately Kindred and I have been wondering why seeing grown men in jean shorts just doesn't seem right.

And it came to me......

It's because I'm so used to seeing them worn with Timbs.

Aha. Aha! (like the old Jewish man in "Coming to America")

Just some of the randomness that is me.

allow me to reintroduce myself.......

In my ear: Jay-Z Live Unplugged and some Lil' Wayne

Perhaps it's my pheromones or because the vibes I'm throwing out there are completely off.....Who knows? Whatever it is it's getting frustrating as all hell because the absolutely wrong people continue to approach me.

Tonight, I worked with the teens and met one of my coworkers named X. My first impression was that he seemed standoffish and uninterested in making small talk. I figured he was having a bad day, so I continued setting up the night's dinner and movie.

Later on in the evening as I tried to rewrite a press release, X apologized for his shady behavior and explained that his fulltime has had him stressed out lately. I told him not to worry about it and turned my attention back to my work. But I guess he didn't notice or care that I was busy because he commenced to talk my ear off.

Now, I can be a chatty person. I love learning about people and what interests them but once I have my glasses on, it's all about the work in front of me. Also, if we're going to talk let's discuss something interesting. But noooooo all X wanted to talk about was himself. He went on and on about all the things he's accomplished and how wonderful he is.

Yadda yadda yadda.

I fell out of my bored daze when the onesided convo finally found itself on the topic of X once serving as a teen director at a local center. Okay,I thought,perhaps we have something in common. I asked if he enjoyed working with youth and without hesitation he responded with a deadpan 'No'. I even observed his interaction with our teens tonight and he gets definite negative cool points. His tone was harsh and abrupt, as if dealing with the city's youth is far beneath him.

As soon as X started to ask for my number I immediately waved my supervisor over to critique my work.

Definitely not.

I'm aaaaalllllll set.

I used to get offended when guys I have no interest in attempted to holler. But now I wonder if it's me. Perhaps my presentation says I'm pretentious and often have an affinity for cooning.

*shrugging shoulders*

Who knows?

Reintroductions are definitely necessary because folks obviously have no idea.

Do Right Men and What They Have To Say...

Idris Elba, Hill Harper, Reggie Bush, Michael Ealy, Tyler Perry and 45 other single Black men, share with Essence why they love Black women. Definitely worth checking out.

Ashe, Ms.Dunham. Ashe.

~

"We weren't pushing Black is beautiful. We just showed it".

~

"I wasn't concerned about the hardships, because I always felt I was doing what I had to do, what I wanted to do and what I was destined to do".

~

“I used to want the words 'She tried' on my tombstone. Now I want 'She did it' ".

Hip-Hop Tidbits

So Long to Black Jesus and Tip Drills

Not sure if it's 100% true but supposedly, after 6 years, BET has let go of the infamously controversial "Uncut". Hopefully, this means they'll try their hand at better programming but that's probably a futile dream.

Back to Where it All Began

According to the The New York Sun, New York is planning to open a hip-hop museum in the Bronx. Folks are already making noise about $1.5 million in capital funding being spent on such a project. We'll see what develops.

Suge's Never Ending Troubles

After being sued and filing for Chapter 11, Suge Knight loses control of Death Row Records. I guess it all makes sense. With Snoop and Dre gone, and the rise of the hyphy movement, Death Row has long since lost its strong hold on west coast music.

Welcome Back Danyel

Lately, I've been wondering what happened to Danyel Smith's blog. I guess it has to do with her,once again, becoming Vibe's Editor in Chief. Congrats Danyel! Big things are sure to come.

Hip-Hops Founding Father Sentenced
---------------
In non-hip-hop related news: Cassey Weierbach needs to be put under the jail for life. Her cell walls should be covered with photos of the 1 million plus African children who are now orphaned due to the AIDS epidemic. Maybe then, she'll realize how foolish she is.

excuse me as I kiss the sky.....

I met JaHipster aka Tonya Matthews a few years ago at a NSBE conference and her cd of poetry still takes me to that place...

black angel haiku #6

It wasn’t slavery that stopped us
from flying.
It was

amnesia.

Who's Bad?

Last Sunday, a small group of us trekked out to New Hampshire for some fun on the beach. Our afternoon was spent splashing around in the ice cold waves, napping and building sand cities.

Sun kissed and satisfied, we cruised back to Boston with disc one of MJ's HIStory playing in the background. We snapped to "Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough" and got a bit sentimental with "She's out of My Life"(I get choked up everytime I hear Mike's voice crack at the end). As we sang along to "Bad", it struck me how much things truly do change.

Your Butt is Mine

I remember watching the "Bad" video and thinking Michael was the ultimate thug. I know, I know crazy, right? But to my 8-year-old mind, a black cropped jacket with shiny silver buckles, long silky waves parted to the side, tight black pants and a group of hard male backup dancers, meant danger.

The word is out, you're doin' wrong

Gonna lock you up before too long

Your lyin' eyes gonna take you right

So listen up, don't make a fight

Your talk is cheap

You're not a man

You're throwin' stones to hide your hands

As his limber gang performed choreographed moves reminscent of West Side Story and Fame in a dark dank abandoned subway station, Michael menacingly thrusted his hips and grabbed his crotch. My younger self was scared for whatever acid washed jean wearing crew that dared to step to them.

Fast forward........

You Say You a Gangasta

Put that knife in ya, take a little bit of life from ya

Am I frightenin ya? Shall I continue?

I put the gun to ya, I let it sing you a song......

Y'all garages for bullets

Please don't make me park it in your upper level, valet a couple strays

Nowadays, supposed musically inclined thugs don't dance. Nah son, that's wild 'mo. Instead they have video honeys that handle that department. Oh, cropped jackets, form fitting pants and ballerina leaps? Yeah right! Are you serious? White tee night gowns are the uniform and the only time they're jumping is over cars and fences when the block is hot.

N***** know, the lyrics molestin is takin place

F****** with B.I.G. it ain't safe

I make your skin chafe, rashes on the masses

Bumps and bruises, blunts and Landcruisers

Big Poppa smash fools, bash fools

N***** mad because I know that Cash Rules

Everything Around Me, two glock nines

Any motherf***** whispering about mines

Today's 8-year-old? Maaaaan, they'd scoff at Michael's past claims of being bad, call him a wangsta and tell him to shut the hell up and sit down before 50 makes him cry. Kids are mean.

I'm scared to think who will be considered "hard" and "bad" when I have children.

Too much?

Parts G.Garvin, Malcolm, John Henrik Clarke, Ted Thomas, D. Wade, Will and Harry Belafonte.

you can't sow yam and reap casaba

Have things ever weighed so heavy on your heart, that the pressure awakens you from your sleep? That's exactly what happened to me Thursday morning. I immediately recruited a friend to come along as I beat the streets and attempted to tackle my lengthy to-do list.

We ended up by Coolidge Corner, when a small, obscure art deco antique spot caught our eyes. As we explored the shop, we couldn't help complimenting the owner on his breathtaking collection. A sprite like older Jewish man with grand hand gestures, he told us that his store has existed at the same location for 39 years and how Luther Vandross once spent over $100,000 on his antiques.

Obviously, one who loves an attentive ear, Mr. Mark shared with us photos of his marvelous three-story South End apartment and stories of his youth. The story that touched us was how after repeatedly applying to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, he was finally admitted on his ninth try. When I asked why he didn't give up, Mr. Mark gave me an incredulous look and simply replied , "Because I wanted to be an artist." Point. Blank. Period.

He graduated at the top of his class due to his perseverance and the financial support of a Black woman who believed in the importance of artistic expression. It is her generosity that has inspired him to offer annual full scholarships to students entering his alma mater.

On our way out he left us with the quote: Live for today and tomorrow miracles will happen.

Inspired, we headed to Ten Thousand Villages, a fair trade store whose purpose is to ensure that artisans from countries like Haiti, Sri Lanka and El Salvador, receive direct profit from their crafts. On this trip, we were in awe of a set of delicate colorful multi-sized boxes made by large sea shells. As the store manager explained to us the process, I wondered how we could ever consider creators of such marvelous artwork to be have nots. We in westernized society supposedly have so much but I have yet to see us produce anything half as stunning. Our growing dependency on technology has blinded us to the beauty and value of our natural resources, making us the unfortunate ones.

As cliche as it may be, I believe wholeheartedly that all things in life happen for a reason. And as we left Ten Thousand Villages I was overcome by all my blessings. The pressure on my heavy heart subsided and right on the sidewalk, tears almost escaped my eyes as I felt the humbling power of how good God is.

I was overwhelmed by the realization that all I ever need to be fulfilled and happy, I've already been given.

Meet me at the barn.....it's going down

Last Saturday, Kindred and her folks threw a celebration in recognition of her graduating from college and her two sisters finishing middle and high school. So, with our overnight bags, a bunch of us piled into cars and headed towards western Mass.

Forget the artists on Cribs and How I'm Living with their extravagant million dollar fish tanks, refrigerators filled with nothing but Cristal and shiny poles in the basement. I am not impressed.

Show me a home with a barn in the back and that's when I'll ooooo and awwww.

Yeah, I said it. B-A-R-N.

Right in Kindred's backyard is a dark red wooden barn, the same size of a one level, single-family home, with a front deck that leads to an above ground pool.

We spent the evening eating good ol' homecooked Haitian food, laughing, taking tons of pictures and dancing in the barn to music provided by our boy Jose from It Bees Like That Entertianment. As the sunlight subsided so did the debauchery and mayhem. In the late night we warmed up by a bonfire, ate s'mores and enjoyed the good company until 4 am.

With sleep still in our eyes, on Sunday morning we trekked down the road for breakfast at a small country diner, whose patrons obviously never saw Black folks in such large numbers before. As the temperature rose, folks said bump it to going back to Boston and hopped into the pool, in an attempt to beat the heat. Wanting to preserve my freshly done do, I opted to take a cold shower instead. But once they managed to push the Back Bay Madame , who's violently allergic to fun, into the water and she didn't come up swinging, my ache to cool off grew stronger. I finally couldn't take it anymore and jumped into the icy water, with my relaxer, pajama shorts, t-shirt and all. The humid afternoon was spent playing a hilarious game of water basketball and splashing around like kids.

My boy B from back home came through for the weekend and all my friends welcomed him into the family.

That weekend I finally, kind of sort of, understood the satisfaction those who aren't in school and are unemployed get from simply chilling. Being care and worry free definitely has its appeal but I just can't live that life for long. Way too ambitious for that.

It's nice to know though that when I need a little vacation and don't have the funds to jet out to St. Tropez and see a a man play the mandolin like Puffy, there's always a nice cozy spot in the boondocks of Massachusetts where I can hideout and relax.

The only sour part of the two day festivities was Kindred's teenage sister's friend (get it?) who is unfortunately lost. While folks scoffed at her behavior, were appalled by her choice of attire and deemed her destined for videos, my heart couldn't help crying for her. Because I know that people in her life are quick to call her degrading names and promise her material gains at the high cost of her selfworth. But who's taking the time to teach her her value?

My 50

Folks have definitely caught tagging fever nowadays. I'll be a good sport and go along with it.

So, here goes my 50:

1. How tall are you barefoot?
5′1″ and a half. I didn't realize I was considered short until my freshmen year of college. I guess being tall is a state of mind.

2. Have you ever flown first-class?
Nope and I don't yearn to.

3. One of your favorite books when you were a child?
Dag, I've always been such a bookworm so choosing just one book is hard. If I must, I'd say A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

4. A good restaurant in your city?
My life is shared between two cities right now.

NY:
During Memorial Day weekend Kindred's family put me on to Silk Road Palace on the Upper West Side. That was hands down some of the best Chinese food I've ever eaten. To top it off the waiter continued to fill our glasses with free white wine during our entire meal. Kindred and I made sure to pour a little out for the homies who couldn't be there.

Boston:
Due to health issues my girl Ro has spent the past year on a strict eating regimen. In the beginning it was hard for her to hang out because we would often go to or order food from restaurants that couldn't cater to her dietary needs. Things have gotten much better and for her birthday we discovered Grasshopper in Allston. There isn't any meat, chicken or seafood on the menu but the dishes are so good that it doesn't matter.

5. What is your favorite small appliance?
Right now, my iron. It's been able to work wonders.

6. One person that never fails to make you laugh?
My family and friends. Definitely people who recognize the healing power of laughter.

7. What's your favorite Christmas song?
O Holy Night.

8. What was the first music that you ever bought?
I think it was a TLC cd.

9. Do you do push-ups?
Nah.

10. What was one of your favorite games as a child?
Kickball.

11.What is the one thing that you cook that always receives compliments?
The fam loves my scalloped potatoes, spaghetti and barbecue chicken.

12. When you were twelve years old, what did you want to be when you grew up?
Always an author.

13. Your favorite Soup of the Day?
My mom's soup joumou. January 1st doubles not only as New Year's Day but also the anniversary of Haiti's independance. Since that day in 1804, Haitians around the world drink soup joumou. It is also tradition to bring the soup to the homes of friends and family. We drink it to celebrate our freedom and foster unity.

14. What in your life are you most grateful for?
So many things. But the one thing that I'm consistently grateful for is my family.

15. Have you ever met someone famous?
Yeah but fame is relative. Those I consider famous others may not know or care for.

16. Date Of Birth?
12-09-83. Gifts are welcomed.

17. Top 3 thoughts at this exact moment:
Wondering if it's the truth.
How I can help my girls find what they're looking for.
Why folks can't allow things to be simple.

19. Name five drinks you regularly drink:
Water, apple juice and ginger ale.

20. From what news source do you receive the bulk of your news?
Mostly the internet but also newspapers. Nothing beats holding the actual news in your hands.

21. Current hair?
Jet black, straight and shiny.

22. Current worry?
That things may take awhile to work themselves out.

23. Current hate?
Nothing at the moment.

24. Favorite place to be?
In or by the water.

25. Least favorite place to be?
Anywhere with negative energy.

26. Do you consider yourself well organized?
I'm an organized mess.

27. Do you believe in a afterlife?
I believe in heaven.

28. Where do you think you will be in 10 Yrs?
Definitely someone's mother, maybe someone's wife and anywhere but here.

29. Do you burn or tan?
What? I guess I tan. Always trying to become more darque. ( that was for you Kindred)

31. Are you more optimistic or pessimistic about the future?
Optimistic. I'm in far too many people's prayers to fail.

32. Last time you had an alcoholic drink?
Last Saturday.

33. What songs do you sing in the shower?
Usually some gospel.

34. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a kid?
I don't remember. I do remember just being scared of the darkness.

35. What's in your pockets right now?
My sweats don't have any pockets.

36. Last thing that made you laugh?
Someone telling me tonight that Pat Riley can be the next great leader in the Black community.

37. Best bed sheets you had as a child?
The Care Bears.

38. Worst injury you've ever had?
Praising God for only experiencing minor scrapes and bruises.

39. Favorite song?
Far too many.

40. How many TVs do you own?
One.

41. In the last calendar year, how many people have you told that you love them?
So many people. Can't even count.

42. Last thing that made you blush?
When one of my boys said that everyone can't help falling in love with me.

43. Best Compliment received?
"Woooooow! That's my dream girl," said by a teen in Dudley Square.

44. What song is in your head?
"One Last Cry" Brian McKnight.

45. What is your favorite book?
Too many to list one.

46. Last meal you cooked for the opposite sex?
Spicy shrimp, mixed vegetables, rice and a cake for dessert.

47. What songs do you want played at your wedding?
My girl since childhood always jokes that my wedding will a be nonstop concert since I love music so much. There will definitely be some good ol' r&b, classic soul, kompa and something to electric slide to. Oh! Definiately some Cameo and Maze!

48. What song do you want played at your funeral?
Anything uplifting and rejoiceful.

49. What were you doing at 12 midnight last night?
Laughing and having good conversation at the Reflection Pond.

50. What would you like to accomplish with the remaining years of your life?
I hope to help others and myself to be fulfilled and genuinely happy.

What's your 50?

we've come a long way, a mighty long way

Way back in March, my mother let me know that she'd allow me to miss Easter Sunday if and only if I promised to come home for the church's march. So on a dreary Saturday evening I caught a ride on the Fung Wah and headed home to celebrate.

As my mother prepared Sunday dinner, I peered out the kitchen window at the dauntingly stubborn gray sky and noted that my new suit and satin pumps wouldn't withstand the rain. She assured me that God knew what day it was and He would send the sun down on time. Always steadfast, my mother went back to humming as she lowered the fire under the brown rice and beans.

Word of the march reached far. Over two hundred congregation members and supporters stood under umbrellas in front of the former worship space, waiting for the march to commence. It seemed that I was the only person concerned with the weather because no one else bothered to look up and acknowledge the dark clouds. I guess they had waited far too long for this day and would march through even the heaviest of snow if it was necessary.

As usual my mother was right. Once the police escorts arrived the sun sensed we were ready and chose to take its rightful place in the sky. Its rays shined so brightly that the prior rainstorm seemed like a figment of our imaginations.

The deacons and deaconesses took their positions in front holding the church's banner and both the Haitian and American flags. Behind them stood a Haitian marching band from Brooklyn dressed in pristine white uniforms and a large white pickup truck carrying several guitarists and a drummer.

Jenny, my girl since the days of colorful hair ribbons, and I decided to hold up the rear so that we could get a good view of the celebration.

Congregation members dressed in their Sunday's best and sensible flat shoes feverishly waved their Haitian flags as we made our journey through the city's streets. The further we walked the more the procession seemed to embrace the spirit. Apparently moved, the band's conductor, a handsome deep chocolate wiry man with microphone in hand, hopped onto the rear of the pickup truck and commenced to get the crowd crunked.

Men and women who once intercepted my notes during service and told me I was a fresh child when I asked how they knew my eyes were open during prayer if they were actually praying, lost all their inhibitions. The band caught the spirit and they began to play old celebration songs from back home. Sisters lifted their skirts a bit higher making it easier to dance and the brothers pumped their fists in the air as the music's tempo quickened. They looked more like revelers in Jacmel during carnaval or folks on Eastern Parkway during NY's West Indian Day Parade than participants in a church march.

A joyful chorus of 'HALLELUJAHS!' and 'AMENS!' filled the air once we reached our destination and the ribbon was ceremoniously cut. Several times I found myself in deep warm hugs and my cheeks moistened by damp kisses from those who still consider me 'the church's first baby'. Their eye's were misty from 22 year old memories of the living room of my step-father's old bachelor pad serving as their first worship space and how it soon became too small as more Haitians arrived in the city.

Eyes turned towards heaven and tears flowed freely as all the church's choirs sang a soul stirring rendition of Give Thanks. Pews filled quickly and those who couldn't find seats within the sanctuary instead stood in the aisles, outside on the church's steps and in the parking lot.

No one wanted to leave. They'd come much too far by faith to turn around.

an apology to the real good black men

Dear Black Men,

We as Black women have done you a great disservice.

There was a time when statistics had us panicking. We could be found lamenting on the pages of Newsweek and the couches of Ricki, Sally and Montel about how we couldn't find any desirable single Black men.

We complained that most of you were either some baby's daddy, locked up, jobless and/or without degrees. You heard us repeatedly declare that we were in active search of a good Black man amongst all the defaults . Our definition of this man was one with a clean criminal record, career, at least one degree, his own place, car and no kids. We wanted our equal male counterpart and felt that if we could finally find this elusive good Black man that our lives would finally be fulfilled.

A few of you saw this list and realized that you had every single quality that Black women, at the time, desperately desired. Your chest protruded a bit more and you stood a few inches taller because you understood that your degree, car, no baby momma drama and the bills in your pocket meant that you were top choice. With that knowledge you got your serious mack swagger on and I don't blame you.

Across the country Black women were sistergirl high-fiving because some of us had finally found ourselves the Black man we always wanted.

But unfortunately all that falsely glitters eventually begins to fade.

I've heard the countless sad tales of friends, family and associates who were devastated to discover that their good Black men were arrogant, cheaters, inconsiderate lovers, elistists unconcerned with the issues of our race, self-centered, dishonest, faithless and uninterested in Black women.

We created a list of what we thought we wanted instead of what we need.

We forgot that educated doesn't mean faithful. We forgot that no baby momma drama doesn't promise that problems won't exist. We forgot that a mortgage and car in the driveway can't guarantee morals. We forgot that money in the bank won't necessarily ensure happiness.

We overlooked the Black men with kids who are actually committed to being fathers and raising them. We ignored the brother who made mistakes in the past, paid his dues and is trying to right his wrongs. Our noses went up at the hard working blue collar Black man putting in long hours so that he can take care of his responsibilities.

I completely agree with having standards, there are certain attributes that we simply won't bend on. But perhaps some requirements on our lists need to be bumped down or revised.

Black women have made a mistake. To the true good Black men, I apologize.

You are loved for all that you are.

Sincerely,

A Black Woman

spiritual renewal

Looking for peace.

Thinking of fasting.

Let's see what happens.........

I admit that sometimes pride tries to hide my view
And even this gift that you gave me, I forget it’s for You
And all the many days and many ways Your grace I’ve abused
Still you were patient and Your love loved me through
But the wind still blows and the flower still grows and one thing is still true......

Without You life’s a wound that won’t heal

Without You, nothing in this world is for real
Without You, we're just actors on a stage
Like a child who's lost his way
Wouldn't be here today without You

This World

Another child is born
Another race is won
Another dream is shattered
Another day has begun

This past weekend was spent hanging out in the dungeon with Kindred and the reclusive Back Bay Madame.

One of the many reasons why Kindred is... well... my kindred... is because she hates being confined, is always down for whatever and loves the sun as much as I do. So once we saw thin rays of light peeking through the two pinholes that the Madame has as windows, Kindred and I caught a serious case of cabin fever and needed to breakout.

After a walk to Cambridge we tried to make it back in time to meet up with the Dutchess and Madame for a sexuality workshop in Brookline but that definitely wasn't happening. While I showered up Kindred hopped on the computer to research what we could get into. She found info about an independent film festival that was going on in the SoWa neighborhood of the South End.

We tried calling some folks in an attempt to up the melanin level of the audience but unfortunately no one came through. I truly wished they did because what we caught of the festival was incredible. The documentary "BALLOONHAT" was our favorite hands down.

This world is still afloat
No not in Noah's boat
We've only lost the vision
Of the stars we're meant to be

The film follows balloon artist, Addi Somekh and photographer, Charlie Eckert who are disheartened by our media's love for sensationalism. Refusing to view the world as hopeless, they set out on a journey to prove that humankind needs joy to survive.

What stands out in the documentary is not only the breathtaking images but also the beautifully inspiring tales of their travels.

Hopefully, the film does well and their second chance at a publishing deal works out.

Somehow the balloon hats show that at the humancore all we want to be is happy.

Another broken heart
Another lesson learnt
Another harvest eaten
Another night is gone
A new day's begun
Even your dreams they can be real