Avast Ye Sleepless Souls

My non-stop work schedule continues! This is the first time I've posted in a whole week and a half. It feels like forever. My writing class ended last Thursday and I need to find something to replace it. Although I think I'll probably be remembered as the Black woman who thought and wrote about race way too much, I'll really miss the class! My instructor, Noel Alumit, was fantastic. I need to make some time to continue writing even though I'm not doing the class.

There are new things to look forward to. It's almost the opening day for Pirates of the Carribean, Dead Man's Chest. I'm considering going to a three a.m. show at El Capitan in Hollywod on the 7th.

I don't know if I'll also dress up as a pirate, but it could be interesting!

What's Juneteenth?

I pulled into Kenneth Hahn plaza twenty minutes ago, and as I walked into the Starbucks, I found myself contemplating the state of Black and Latino people in the greater Watts/Willowbrook/Compton area. Why was I thinking such deep thoughts? Because of two signs that were stuck on the fence of the lot on 118th and Wilmington.

One sign said, "Divorcio y custodia" and then had a phone number.
The other sign said, "100% Indian Hair for Your Weave" and also had a phone number.

The question I was contemplating was, "If I were an alien dropped onto earth and I saw those two signs, what would I be thinking?"

The Starbucks was empty, save for two African-American employees. They were chatting and the girl asked me the date.
"It's June 19th, it's Juneteenth today!" I said.
"Oh that's right, it sure is," she said.

Brothaman says, "What's Juneteenth?"

I think we both simultaneously exclaimed, "You don't know what Juneteenth is?"

But why should we be shocked? I never learned what Juneteenth is in school. I don't think I would know what Juneteenth is if I hadn't been in Houston in the summer of '98. So, let me ask you, do you know what Juneteenth is?

If you don't have a clue, Juneteenth or June 19, 1865, is the date when the last slaves in America were freed. There had been rumors about emancipation, but actual emancipation did not come until a man named General Gordon Granger rode into Galveston, Texas on June 19, almost two and a half years after President Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. He said this,

"General Order #3 "The people are informed that in accordance with a Proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free. This involves an absolute quality of personal rights and rights of property, between former masters and slaves, and the connection heretofore existing between them, become that between employer and hired labor. The freed are advised to remain at their present homes, and work for wages. They are informed that they will not be allowed to collect at military posts; and that they will not be supported in idleness either there or elsewhere."

Yes, that's right. Slaves kept on working all while SOME folks knew they were actually free. And this brotha in Compton didn't know it. We do not know our history in this country. White folks don't know it. Black folks don't know it. And we all just keep truckin' along, pretending that our day of reckoning will never come.

"If I look happy it's because I'm trying to be social"

I didn't say that first. Martin L. Gore said it. It's an apt quote for me right now because I can't help but realize that I'll be thinking this more than a few times in the coming two weeks.

This is the time of year when my life ceases to be my own. My work begins to feel more like indentured servitude, and I start to think that cloning might actually be a great idea! I stop caring about closing the achievement gap because I am working non-stop and I'm ridiculously tired and cranky.

How tired and cranky? Let me tell you. This is the time of year when I lose all patience with the things that come out of people's mouths. I don't have time make small talk. I don't have time to hear about how you're doing. And I don't have time to tell you how I'm doing either. This is the time of year that I dread the question "So, how are things going?"
If I tell you the truth, you will:
A) Be shocked by how prolifically I can swear
B) Develop a concerned look on your face because I'm not giving you socially acceptable responses, and
C) Ask me if I've considered therapy.

So, it's much easier to just answer, "I'm fine!" And then I can go back to clenching my jaw.

But I'm not too tired and cranky to argue till the chickens come home to roost that Nacho Libre is racist stereotypying of Mexicans. I don't care if someone wants to tell me I'm being too PC and too sensitive. It starts with an R and ends with a T. What does it spell? RACIST! And yes, I will agree that reverse-racism could be claimed when the Wayan's brothers actually dressed up and starred in White Chicks. How do such stupid movies get made? Hmm, the teacher in me will break it down for you. Boys and girls, today we're going to learn a new vocabulary word. It's actually a phrase. Repeat after me: Casting Couch.

Since I'm digressing, here's another thing: I haven't been writing the things I want to write because I'm working, working and working. In my writing class last Thursday, our instructor had his buddy come in and talk to us about being a writer, etc. This guy is about to start promoting his first book and he was absolutely engaging and funny. It was great. I was loving it.

And then, disaster struck.

Someone asks how he found time to write while working full time. Oh Ho! Dude starts talking about how he sold his house in the Hollywood Hills for a smaller and cheaper house in Echo Park and just lived off the money he made from the sale. So, he didn't have to go to work anymore for anyone but himself. To be fair, he could have sat around all damn day watching the Tyra Banks show and Starting Over, but of course, he didn't do that, he wrote. Still, talk about uninspiring to moi, Ms. Workhorse here! I want to hear how he worked full time, micromanged his kids, kept the house clean, stayed in shape and STILL carved out the time to bust out a fantastic novel.

I know this will all pass, eventually. By July 4th, I should be less robot and more human again.

I think.

Anonymous Black Man, I'm Sorry

Last Friday, my day began with a bit of drizzle.

That may not sound odd to you, and I suppose I shouldn't be so shocked, but this is Los Angeles, and it is June. I pay astronomical rent to live in Southern California because the sun should be shining. In my book, that means, it shouldn't be drizzling. I'm cranky when it drizzles here in June. I don't want to hear about June Gloom. Birds should be singing. Love should be in the air. The world didn't end on 6/6/06, and America has been blessed with pictures of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt. Did I mention that the sun should be shining?

Instead, at 6 a.m., I could hear the sound of tires sliding and swishing over the filmy wetness on the streets. I began to think about about the nightmare that the southbound 101 freeway would be, merely due to the light misting of rain, and so I made up my mind that I wasn't going to drive. "I'm going to take the train to work," I announced to my husband. He gets nervous when I take the train here in Los Angeles. "It's not a train city," he'll say. He worries something will happen to me when I'm on the train or when I'm walking from the train to my office.

I don't take the train to work too often, mostly due to the fact that I might have to be at schools or in meetings in East L.A., Watts, in Downtown, and by USC, all in the same day. I can spend up to 3 hours a day in my car. But, last Friday, I didn't have any external meetings, and so I eagerly got on the train at Santa Monica and Vermont.

I sat next to an older man who was reading a novel written in Spanish. His skin was a leathered brown and his hands were covered by age spots. I apologetically scooted past him when the train arrived at the 7th Street station, and began the walk east to my office. The drizzle had ended and the air felt cool and clean in my nostrils.

There are lots of people out in downtown L.A in the morning now. The rehab/gentrification of this city's core has been fascinating and gut-wrenching to observe over the past five years. Cranes loom over the streets, building wonderful lofts and luxury apartments for the elites that will be able to pay to live there. Still, knowing that business is booming and that FIDM students are riding the train with me, and walking southeast through downtown with me in the morning, I do feel safer. Not that the homeless gentlemen who hang out in front of the Olive Hotel have ever really done anything but smile and say hello. Well, once there was someone selling crack but I never saw him again. He was a clear anomaly.

No, it's the folks that aren't hanging out in front of the vagrant hotel that I need to worry about. Every woman has worries about psychopaths that want to snatch you or your purse. I have no illusions in believing that most people would stop to help a Black woman screaming for help. I'm so jaded by the intersection of race and gender inequity in this country that I truly believe most people would just keep on driving by, or would walk right by me getting assaulted on the street. On Friday, I was reminded that there are other people to worry about and they seem perfectly harmless...until they open their mouths.

You see, I was with with a group of five or six other people, waiting to cross 7th Street, at the northeast corner of 7th and Olive, when I saw the young man coming my way. He was running along 7th, coming towards me. I wondered if he was going to get sweaty because he was nicely dressed. I remember thinking that he must be late for work or for a meeting. And then I heard this:

"Do you think we should stop him?

-I dunno. What 'dyou think?

Maybe. He could be running from the cops.

-Probably stole something.

Yeah, probably. Wouldn't be surprised if he has a gun though."

And then the walk sign turned nice bright and white and we all began to cross the street. The running man was, of course, Black.

I've been thinking about this incident for three days now. The obvious questions burn in my mind.

• Can't a Black man run down the street in his work clothes during rush hour without racists assuming the worst of him? Nope.
• If he'd been a young white man, would anyone have thought he might have just committed a crime? I highly doubt it.

I'm sure there's someone out there that would argue that the two people who were having that awful conversation weren't talking about him that way because he was Black, but because he was running in a slightly higher crime area. I'm not buying that argument though. I've grown up in America so I know better.

The saddest thing is, as much as I'd like to think that young man was running along without even knowing that was being said about him, I'm sure it crossed his mind. He certainly didn't hear the conversation I heard, but you don't grow up Black in this country without being made fully aware of what the rest of the world will think of you. We don't get the same pass for behavior that other people do, and our elders, if they're worth their salt, make sure we know the rules for operating while Black in America.

That young man probably had to make the conscious decision to ditch those voices in his head that are saying to him, "Son, you'd better not run down the street because you know folks will think you're a criminal." He probably had to weigh his two options: save face or be late to work.

Anonymous Black Man, I probably wouldn't recognize you if I passed you again on the street but I see my two sons in you and I wonder when this madness of racism that America clings to with such desperation will end.

I see my husband in you and cry for the injustices he has suffered over three decades, and admire the fact that he isn't bitter and angry every single day. I'm so sorry I had to hear those words spoken, and I'm so sorry they were said about you.

Clearly, The State of California is NOT Superstitious

This state is going to hell in a handbasket.

You need some proof? Who else holds their primary election on 6/6/06? Yes, even though this state is 24% Catholic, tomorrow, the day of the mark of the beast, we are holding primary elections.

I mean, I know I live in Los Angeles, home of Hollywood, various garment district sweatshops and the San Fernando Valley, generator of the world's supply of pornograpy. But do we have to advertise to the world that instead of being the City of Angels, we're more like the city of...hmm, something else?

California partisan politics is the cesspool of all cesspools. And tomorrow, we are all supposed to band together to defeat the antichrist, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Although this state hated our former governer so much that we held a special election to get rid of him and elect a bodybuilding, Hummer-driving, Head of State, it didn't take Arnold too long to become the devil.

Now, we're supposed to begin the process of dethroning the horned king by either voting for Phil Angelides or Steve Westly in the primary. One of these two clowns will face off against Arnold in November. Who knows what they really stand for? Westly seems to be trying to paint himself as the choice of smart, young progressives (is this becoming a code phrase for young white people?) and Angelides had the corny commercial with his two daughters saying, "Vote for our dad because he's awesome!" I don't know about you, but this is not inspiring me to believe that real change will take place for the poorest residents of this state.

Then there's the race between Kevin de Leon and Christine Chavez. Not really sure what exactly they are running for, which is odd since I've gotten a gazillion phone calls that usually go something like this,

"Hi, this is Bret Michaels calling. You may remember me from my days of singing in the rock group Poison. Well, the real poison is Christine Chavez. Join me and Mayor Antonio Villaraigose in voting for Kevin de Leon on Tuesday, June 6th!"

At the same time, according to the THOUSANDS of pieces of advertising that have deluged my mailbox, I'm supposed to vote for Christine because her grandfather, Cesar Chavez, was a good man and she'll fight for the rights of poor people like he did.
Today I got a copy of the Western Union Telegram that Dr. Martin Luther King sent her grandpa. It's inspiring to read it, but it doesn't tell me anything about Christine.

Well...maybe that's not quite true: It tells me she's not shy about riding on the coattails of a famous relative, but why shouldn't she? Isn't that the American way? I mean, there are tons of people in this so-called meritocracy, who have been hired because of who their daddy or granddaddy is/was. Are you one of those people? I know I'm not, but I sometimes wish I was when I see the hook-ups folks get!

Maybe the real issue is that we have seen so many horrific things happen in the past few years, Katrina, 9/11, and on and on that we don't need to scare ourselves with crappy remakes of The Omen. But, if we want to remind ourselves of the supernatural things we should worry about, we can go vote and then trek to the multiplex to see the horrible Omen remake that's coming out.

Hearts, Anyone?

Sizzle.

Sizzle.

Sizzle. It was a boiling hot day today here in Los Angeles. Could this be due to the release of the Pirates of the Carribean playing cards? Our favorite hot actor, Mr. Orlando Bloom, is back again as the hero, Will Turner. And it's no surprise that he's the King Of Hearts.

The opening of the sequel to the original movie is a month away, well, 32 days, 16 hours, 49 minutes and 8 seconds away, to be precise.

Anyone care for a hand of hearts or spades to pass the time?

Rehabilitation

Huge parts of my childhood were spent watching my parents rehab their home. My mother began the process by making a drawing of the room as it was. And then she began the time-consuming ritual of inserting ideas gleaned from the three-foot high stack of Architectual Digest which occupied a hallowed spot in our upstairs hallway. Then came the endless trips to the hardware stores. Then on to the paint stores. And then the fabric stores. And on... and on.

And on.

My mother also taught me to do cross-stitch at an early age. While she would spend a seemingly endless amount of time poring over wallpaper books, I worked with my own piece of fabric, making the little x's that were supposed to form a lovely image of a bunny. I poked with my needle and thread. She meticulously compared the paint sample strips to the images of birds and flowers that danced over the wallpaper images. Sometimes the exhaustion of it all made me want to just curl up in a ball on the floor of the store. I wanted her to just make a decision, any decision, so we could leave.

Once she was finally finished choosing the decorations, then came the real work. The smell of turpentine and sweat mixed together every summer as we laid siege to a room: Steaming off old wallpaper. Scraping old, fossilized paint from the walls. Rubbing decayed varnish from wooden surfaces.

While we worked, we listened to cassette recordings of the old radio shows that she and my father had grown up with, "Suspense" and "The Whistler". I still remember the opening lines of "The Whistler":

"I am the Whistler, and I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales, many secrets hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak…”

I was young enough to believe that there really was someone watching what went on, someone who knew everything. (Later I would understand that the non-human version of this "someone" was God. Still later, I would understand that the human version of this "someone" was the U.S. government.)

Last Monday, Memorial Day, I sat around looking at Toussaint's crayon handiwork on the walls of our living room.

"We should paint the wall," I said.
Elarryo asked what color.
I thought for fifteen seconds and then replied, "How about a light blue?"

Today, we all went over to Dunn Edwards paint store in Glendale. We had 54 minutes on the meter. In that time, we picked out supplies, picked out this color called "Cloudless", and waited for the store employees to custom mix it for us. Now, Elarryo's painting a wall and listening to one of his mix cds, various artists produced by R. Kelly.

I'm wondering exactly why and how we picked this paint so quickly. It's a lovely color. Or at least, it is so far. (It hasn't dried yet.) But, our meter hadn't expired yet when we got back to the car. Seven minutes were remaining. Is it a generational thing, with our lives being so busy now that we simply don't have the time to spend hours deciding on the exact perfect color, making an entire decorating scheme for a room? Or is it that we have lost something, the art of caring so much that we take the time?