Five Things: Featuring Bette Davis, Michael Jackson and Nirvana

Five random things I'm thinking about:

1) I could have lived without seeing Saddam and the noose. Someone at every news channel felt like you and I wanted to see Saddam's execution. Over and over and over. And then one more time just in case we hadn't really seen the way they tightened the noose around his neck. Oh, and here's another shot of the body in a white shroud. Um, I didn't really want or need to see that. I'm fine reading about it or seeing a still head shot of Saddam behind the newscaster. You say I can turn CNN off? C'mon, be real. Who looks away from train wrecks these days? Plus, I was really trying to watch a funeral, James Brown's to be exact, so I didn't really want to turn. Speaking of funerals...

2) The Godfather of Soul /vs/ a former President of the USA. Two funerals happened today. James Brown's "homecoming" and Gerald Ford's State funeral. More people went to James Brown's funeral than to Gerald Ford's. Like 8,500 more people. At James Brown's funeral, we had Michael Jackson, Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, Dick Gregory and Bootsy Collins all on one stage. Gerald Ford got Dick Cheney. George Bush, our current President, didn't attend. He was out at his ranch on vacation. It just seems wrong for a sitting President to not go to a funeral of someone who once held the same office. Hasn't George Bush ever heard of karma?

3) One week of vacation is over, one week still to go. I'm glad I took two weeks off. It wasn't till this past Wednesday that I stopped waking up at 5:45 in the morning without an alarm clock. But it's going too quickly. I need time to slow waay down. I don't want to go back to work.

4) Alas, the decorations must come down. The best part of having a theme party is getting to decorate for it. Friday night's "Black Celebration" Depeche Mode birthday party was fantastic but before anyone even arrived,we all had fun decorating my place. Believe me, pictures of Depeche Mode are everywhere. In the bathroom, in the kitchen, on the doors, on the walls. Everywhere. I know I can't leave pictures of Depeche Mode up on the walls forever. But, how about they stay up for a couple more days, pretty please? At least till the tape starts to unstick and the pictures fall off.

5) Bette, Michael, Nirvana and my kids. My boys think Bette Davis is mean and said, after watching a commercial for one of her movies, "She shouldn't slap people. That's mean. She's a hard woman." I was hiding from my boys that the Michael Jackson they saw on tv at James Brown's funeral is the same artist they saw in the "Beat It" video. They asked who it was and I said, "Oh, I don't know!" I know if I'd told them they would've said, "That's not him. We know what Michael Jackson looks like. You're trying to trick us." Hmm. If only that were the case. The last thing I'll tell you is that my three year old knows the chorus to Nivana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and likes to sing it while he's naked. Ah, aren't I lucky to be a mom?

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Dear Thirty-Three,

How's it going? Hope you are having a great day. I'm pretty good, but there's something I've been meaning to speak to you about. Do you mind if we sit down and talk?

When I first met you last year, I thought, wow, you're the girl for me. You reminded me of my favorite Bulls player, Scottie Pippin, and you liked wearing black, red and white, just like me. We've had a great time together. Yes, we've had our ups and downs like any couple. It was hard at first, but I got past your dark circles and puffy undereyes in the morning. And gosh, I know I was a pain to live with during that annoying midlife crisis I had last March and April.

Come to think of it, you really were so supportive all year long. You helped me through my brother's suicide, you took that awesome writing class with me, encouraged my jogs around Silverlake and cheered me on as I lost 20 pounds over the summer. Plus, you made sure I really spoke what was in my heart. You really have been good to me, Thirty-Three.

All this makes it that much more difficult to tell you. I really want you to know, it's not you, it's me...but, you see, I met someone else. Her name is Thirty-Four. I like her. Alot. Everyone tells her she looks like she's 27 or 28. I don't really care about that, though. You see, she and I, well, we just clicked. She's really forward thinking and she just inspires me. Plus she's a Chicago girl. In fact, she loves my favorite Bears player, the late, great Walter Payton.

We're going on our first real date tomorrow. Granted, it's only to the DMV to renew my driver's license, but you know, a date is a date. And she's coming to my Depeche Mode party tomorrow night.

I'm going to tell everybody that me and Thirty-Four are together, so um, it'd be kinda awkward if you came too. Oh, don't cry Thirty-Three. I'll always cherish the memories we made together. No, it's better if you don't call or come by. Ever. We can't re-live the past. I really think it's best if we just make a clean break...Well, we can hang out for the next half hour, but that's it. I'm serious. After that, I have to go.

Thirty-Four is going to be at my house at midnight.

It's Not The Color Of Your Skin, But The Depths Of Your Spirit That Counts

I began replying to a quite heart-felt comment left this morning by Dr. D. on my post I wrote a few days ago, entitled Black Celebration...Sort Of. Except, my comment was turning into a rather lengthy response. Ok, a really long response. What can I say, I'm on vacation and I have time to mull these things over in-depth. So I decided to post my reply here instead of in the comment box:

Dear Dr. D. (and everyone else too),

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your thoughts! I hear you and believe me, I know that the labels we use to identify ourselves are completely fabricated. You are right to raise the question, what is being white and what is being black? Sometimes I talk to people who don't even know that white people in the new world weren't even called white till after 1680. They don't know there was a legal process of deciding whether folks from southern and eastern Europe were white. Likewise, I meet folks who don't know black people weren't always called black. Regardless of background, we don't know our history and how developing racial classifications was a necessity for keeping the legitimacy of slavery and Jim Crow. Yes, all the terms we use so freely, that I use every day, were designed in order to deny the humanity of entire groups of people and keep us divided.

As for me, I think about how the baby of the white master and the black slave woman had to be black. If not, that would mess up the nice neat racial divisions put in place. So, if I live in a country where having one drop of black blood makes you black, and it's been that way for hundreds of years, it's really hard to go around claiming to be something else. Sure, it provides an incentive to do it, a drive to mess up the little system that's been put into place. But, given that in the African-American community there is historical legacy of people who are blond and blue eyed identifying as black, people who had some great great great great great great grandparent who was black, how can I be around black people and say that I'm not black?

If I do that, many black people, including those in my mother's family, are going to diss me. If I do that, people will say I don't have black pride, that I'm trying to get away from being black, that I'm ashamed of my background. Do I worry about what people will say? Sometimes. Do I worry it might be taken as a desire to not be black because in America, being black is seen as less desirable, less beautiful, less intelligent, less capable, lazier, more threatening, more criminal, and on and on and on. Do I want to claim both my identities in order to mess with the system? Oh yes. Indeed. Are either of those my true identity? No.

Undoubtedly, we are all truly spiritual beings housed in a physical existence. I certainly need to work more on developing my spiritual side. Yet that spiritual path has to be walked with practical feet. Sure, I don't want to let society tell me how to categorize myself, but what I want and what happens are two entirely different things. I don't know how it works in other countries, like in the UK for example, but here on a formal level, when I go to fill out any government form, I have to check a box that asks me to indicate what race I am. I have often had the box checked for me and, just to be difficult, I've asked government officials in both Chicago and Los Angeles how exactly it is that they decided to check black for me instead of, for example, Hispanic. I'm not Latina, but I like to poke holes in those dumb forms just to mess with the officials. I never considered asking why was it that in Chicago or LA the officials decided by just looking at me that I wasn't Hispanic till after I lived in Harlem. You see, in New York City, I was always taken as either Dominican or Puerto Rican. Especially because I wore my hair curly all the time. People there sometimes got upset with me because they thought I was trying to deny my Latin roots. It was a new perspective to consider. I asked myself how could all these people look exactly like me but not be black? How come they got to identify as Latino and if they lived somewhere else, like Chicago, would that, "I'm not black, I'm Dominican" thing even fly?

Another experience you make me think of is from five or six years ago. I sat next to a white man on a flight from Chicago to Birmingham, Alabama. No big deal there but twenty minutes into it, I was pretty fed up after he asked me, "Do you watch golf? You know, Tiger Woods really is a credit to your race."

I was really offended but wanted to be polite so I merely answered back that I did not watch golf. The man replied to me, "That's too bad. He's such an example of what black people can become if they just try."

I'm sure he was just trying to be sociable and friendly in his way, but I wasn't having it. The sass in me came out and I told him I really wouldn't know anything about being black since I was white. Wish you could have seen his mouth fall open as I explained, "After all, my father is white and I believe in going according to European patrilineal descent laws." He got really quiet. Five minutes later, he asked the flight attendant if he could have his seat changed.

An interesting read on why we're so messed up in America on this who's black and who isn't issue is a text by F.J. Davis called, "The Nation's Rule: Who is Black?" Click here to read an excerpt from it. I definitely think you'll find it interesting if you haven't already read it before.

Part of the article talks about a woman named Susie Guillory whose passport application was rejected because she'd checked the white box on the passport application. Turns out, Susie, who never knew she had black relatives, had been delivered by a nurse who knew her Louisiana family's history and checked the black box on Susie's birth certificate. Susie was only 1/32nd black, meaning several generations beforehand, she'd had a black relative. She was married to a white man and she sued the government because she didn't want to be black and wanted her birth certificate changed. She lost her case.

Sure, all that one drop rule craziness is man-made bullshit. Most black Americans truly cannot say that they don't have a white relative somewhere in their family tree. And yet we call ourselves black. Can all the "white" Americans like Susie, people who think they are "pure" Mayflower or Ellis Island white, really be so sure that they don't have a black ancestor in their family past?

Of course, on the one hand, the whole discussion is stupid because we are all one human family and are all connected anyway. On the other hand, it matters so much. My two sons are at least 1/4 white, but they are black. Sure they may have a white grandfather and a great-grandmother who was one of those 1/32nd black people, and another great grandmother who was part Native American, but according to the way things work here, they're black. If I tell them otherwise, I am not preparing them for what America has in store for them.

People may say my boys are cute now but I know that in ten years when my two sons are teenagers, if things stay the same in America, there are a whole lot of people who will be afraid of them just because they are black males. If things don't change, they'll be getting pulled over by the police. They'll have teachers that will assume they aren't smart. Yes, I am raising them to center their identity on their spiritual inheritance, not their racial or ethnic heritage. But the general world around me does not do the same.

We're pretty unique here in America given our depths of racial craziness but I believe we set a tone for the world in this. Therefore, we have an incredibly important responsibility to take the lead in eradicating this insanity. We can tell folks in the Sudan to stop what they are doing but they know that here in America, we are no model of racial and ethnic unity. Sure, there are definitely shining examples of unity. Certainly, within the Baha'i community that I grew up in back in Chicagoland and the one here in LA, I felt there was genuine love, trust and friendliness regardless of race or ethnicity. It's a community where race matters in a positive sense, not in a negative one. It's a community that is focuses less on terminology and more on the transformation of the heart. Truly, none of this changes if we don't change our hearts.

Last thing I'll say is that you also make me think about how I've told many teachers I've worked with here in Los Angeles that they have to teach their students in Compton and Watts, and every single other poor black and Latino neighborhood of Los Angeles, like those kids are going to grow up and marry their own children. To me, that's the ultimate test of commitment to fostering bonds of fellowship, love and friendship amongst people from diverse backgrounds. But that's a whole other topic.

Thank you, Dr. D. for sparking all these thoughts. I think about this stuff all the time and truly believe with more open and honest dialogue and some accompanying action, we can create a different future. Certainly, your thoughts and contributions are a part of that in your corner of the globe.

Celebrating Successes of 2006

Are you just getting started on thinking of ways you want to improve yourself in 2007? Or maybe you're more advanced than I am. Maybe you're ready to go with a list of things to change and improve about yourself. Do you already have your list typed up and signed in blood? Have you laid it out in a project plan? Are you type-A? Hmm?

I'm not yet in a place where I can ponder all the things I need to improve or change in 2007. I'm still trying to celebrate the successes I have had so far this year, either things I started doing or things I stopped doing in 2006. I'm not yet at the point where I can fully reflect on things like learning to accept an apology gracefully and not going to bed angry. Give me a week or so to warm up to those deep thoughts. In the meantime, since I live in LA, I've been reflecting on and celebrating a few superficial things that really do mean so much:

I've learned it really is better to leave some things to the professionals. Once upon a time, yours truly believed she was superwoman and could do it all. I even took this arrogance so far as to believe I could give myself a bikini wax. I will spare you the gruesome details...but I'll also throw in that I'd never had a bikini wax before so I really had no damn clue. I figured if I followed the directions on the box, it'd be all good. Um...No. I desperately called a friend about five minutes into it and she laughed for a good 30 seconds (well, maybe 60 seconds) before agreeing to come over and rescue me. Even with her assistance, I thought I was going to die. Yes, it's definitely better to leave certain things up to the professionals.

Life's too short not to wear red lipstick: I wore a whole lot of red lipstick in high school -- my mother wouldn't let me out of the house but she had no problem with me wearing lots of makeup, go figure. Then I became an adult and swallowed the nude/neutral/brownish lip idea. There's not a whole lot that's super fun about going around feeling neutral every day. It's so boring. Then one day, on an impulse, I hit up the MAC counter at the downtown Macy's for a tube of red lipstick. I was able to try on several different shades in order to get one that perfectly matched my skin tone. I even let the makeup artist teach me how to put on the lip liner, the lipstick and the cherry colored gloss. He was very clear about the steps, "Nothing looks worse than a poorly applied red mouth." He's right. Yes, it's a bit of work to get red lips, but it's really fun sometimes.

Day without any black clothes. I really like black clothes. A lot. To me, life's perfect when I'm wearing a really well-fitting pair of black pants, a well-tailored black shirt and a pair of black slingback heels. I have three black leather jackets. Two black tracksuit jackets. Two other casual black jackets. Too many pairs of black pants and shoes to name. I've even acquired two more pairs of black shoes and a second pair of black jeans in the past month. Don't get me wrong, I do wear other colors sometimes, but I realized it was usually something like black pants and a pink shirt or my absolute favorite, some combination of white, black and red. This year, I decided I really had to branch out. My motivation? Well, someone I dislike a whole lot had taken to copying my style. It was really starting to annoy me. She even copied my short nails painted with black nail polish. I've since pushed myself to have days where I'm not wearing anything black, not even my shoes. I actually purchased a pair of chocolate brown pants and some brown shoes. I still can't believe it.

Sure, these three things may seem awfully superficial. It's not like I can say I beat insomnia in the past year. But, they mean something to me and I'm going to celebrate my victories and lessons learned.

What things from 2006, superficial or not, are you celebrating?

Christmas For The Privileged Class

Do you remember the olden days when everything was closed on Christmas Day?

It's hard to believe it now but there was a time when stores didn't have signs posted at their entrances proclaiming, "Open till 9 pm Christmas Day". In those days, if you forgot to buy maple syrup to glaze your ham, well, you'd better try to make a coating from brown sugar and nutmeg because every single store was closed. There was no such thing as getting up on Christmas morning to run to the store for another can of pineapple. No visiting the cigarette counter to grab another pack of smokes when you accidentally ran out.

In fact, I remember my parents freaking out one year when they ran out of cigarettes on Christmas Day. Everything was closed so there was nowhere to purchase another pack of Benson & Hedges. They had us kids scouring every single ashtray and waste basket, including the one in the car, looking for butts with some sliver of smokability remaining.

Every Christmas Eve seemed to find me and my father in the local Kroger with my mother's list of last minute requests, written in her painstakingly neat calligraphy. The store would be packed with other last-minute shoppers, eagerly snatching the last package of whole wheat dinner rolls off the shelf just as my father began to extend his hand for it. My dad would agonize over whether to go home with the white dinner rolls or nothing at all. This was before cell phones so he couldn't exactly call my mom and ask her which she'd prefer.

Times have certainly changed. Today I headed down to our local Vons grocery at a little past noon. I didn't even bother to call first to see if they were open. Once there, I slowly strolled the aisles with dozens of other shoppers. I added a bag of baby carrots, luminously red tomatoes and other salad stuff to my cart. In the checkout lane, I picked up a copy of Us Weekly. After buying these things and stashing them in the trunk of my car, I headed back inside to stand in the long line at the Starbucks counter.

I waited behind a woman who was wearing what must have been her special holiday outfit: a red jersey mini dress, cinched at the waist with a wide black leather belt. Her legs were sheathed in an unfortunate pair of black spandex leggings that ended just shy of her ankles. Rhinestone bows trailed up the back of the leggings, disappearing from view as the red dress covered them at mid-thigh. Her shoes were black, open-toed, patent leather heels, the kind of heels I describe as stripper heels. The conservatively dressed man standing by her side murmured to her, "You can't wear this to my mother's house." She ignored him studiously as she ordered her drink. I'll bet there was drama at that Christmas supper, don't you think?

My appetite for observation was whetted. Once it was my turn to order, my annoying curiosity compelled me to ask the barista behind the counter the rudest question ever.

"So, I hope you get paid extra for working today?" I asked. She nodded her head yes as she rang up my grande soy chai with a shot of sugar free vanilla.

"I guess that makes being here worth it then?" I continued.

She looked up at me, tilted her head slightly to the left and twisted her lips into a slight grimace. "I guess," she said.

"Well, thank you and have a wonderful rest of your day," I replied.

She probably wanted to slap me, and rightfully so. How annoying it must have been for her to have me asking these questions. She knows I'm going to take the chai home and sip it while lounging on the couch and perusing the Us Weekly. On the other hand, she won't be going home till 9 pm.

Things seemed so much simpler when I was just an oblivious girl tagging along on Christmas Eve in search of wheat dinner rolls. Now I know, whether or not I want to admit it, that my being in that store today is participating in something awful. My luxury of a chai on Christmas Day is only possible because this woman is working a job with no health care, no paid time off, no benefits at all. That's the real reason my local grocery and yours can stay open nowadays. Stores wouldn't be able to advertise that they're open on Christmas Day if their employees weren't willing to work it. But everyone needs more money when they're only making $10 an hour, if that much.

I came home thinking about how holidays are now only a day off for those of us privileged enough to stay home. We watch "A Christmas Carol" every single year on TV and don't even realize we're living it. It shouldn't be this way.

It's Christmas Eve...And All I Can Think About Is James Bond

I went to go see Casino Royale last night.

I'll admit it. I was one of those people that was less than enthusiastic about Daniel Craig being chosen to play James Bond in the remake. To be clear, I was not bothered by his blond hair like the cornballs who actually took time to set up websites vociferously proclaiming, "Daniel Craig sucks. He's blond and only 5'11"! James Bond only has dark hair and is six feet tall. Let's boycott the film!" Sure, that's what Ian Fleming said Bond should look like...but this is 2006. To me, the producers could have put any actor from any ethnicity into the role and I wouldn't have had a problem.

So why my lack of enthusiasm? You're going to think this really mean of me but...well, when I saw pictures of him, I couldn't help but think that this guy was, to be quite frank, ugly as sin. He was not the image of a smooth, suave, handsome guy who just happens to be a secret agent. I didn't want James Bond, the subject of countless fantasies, to have a face only a mother could love. I thought they should cast him as the villain in the movie, not as Bond.


Last night, I was ready for the 10:55 pm showing of Casino Royale. Ensconced in my comfy seat at The Grove Theatre, munching on Red Vines and drinking a green tea, I was prepared for the usual Bond fare, you know, gadgets, guns and girls. However, thirty minutes into Casino Royale, it became clear that Daniel Craig is a new Bond.

This Bond is, first and foremost, a cold-blooded killer/secret agent. Accordingly, Craig really brings a rugged athleticism to the role. We haven't seen Bond whup ass like this in years. Thankfully, he only uses the girls and gadgets sparingly to get what he wants. All that was great. Fantastic. Fabulous. But the most shocking surprise of the cinematic experience was when I found myself thinking, thirty minutes into the film, "He's hot." And then, "Damn, he's really hot."

What? How did I go from thinking Daniel Craig is completely unattractive to...being a bit infatuated with him? I'm still trying to figure out this change of heart. What did it? Was it the strength of the writing? Craig's acting ability? The eye-candy worthy scene of him walking on the beach? Was it the way Craig actually used his acting abilities and made the character emotive instead of merely a cliche? Or was it the way this Bond is clearly not relying on his looks to accomplish his mission?

If you've seen it, did you have the same experience?

Black Celebration...Sort Of

You ever catch one of your "mixed" friends having a bad day? You know, your friend, the kid with one black parent and one white parent, slumped on the floor, sobbing into the edge of the bedspread, "All the black kids tease me because I'm mixed and all the white kids hate me because I'm black! I have no friends!"

Even if you don't realize your half white/half black friends have done that, they have. You just may not have been privy to that particular sob-fest. They were probably just doing what I call "one drop rule" math...

black mom + white dad = black child

white mom + black dad = black child

If you genuinely don't have any "mixed" friends to talk with about this math, go find some. We're everywhere these days. In the meantime, I'll share a bit of my experience with you.

Yes, growing up the white kids called me nigger and told me I was ugly. The black kids, well, black people in this country are trained to love them some light skin (seen any darker women in hip-hop videos lately? Ever?) so they wouldn't call me ugly. But, the meaner ones would call me "oreo". I'm assuming you know why the white kids would call me what they did, but I realize you may not be privy to the whole oreo lexicon.

Observe the photo. An oreo is black on the outside...and white on the inside. How could I be white on the inside, you ask?

Well, unfortunately, black kids in this country are trained to believe that doing well in school and being whip smart is "acting white". I was a big nerd. Nerdy enough to skip a grade in school. Nerdy enough to take the SAT in 7th grade and get a 1320. Plus, there were almost never any black students in any of my classes. Schools have this culture where academics=whiteness. You think back to your own honors and AP classes. How many black students were there in there? Not too many and I hope you don't think that's because of some inherent lack of ability. If you do, feel free to come to work with me to see what I see every single day. I get to see how black students aren't put on the college bound, AP track in school. Believe me, they are put on the step-n-fetchit track...and it's now my job to make sure they are taken off it.

To enhance the "mixed-girl" nerdiness, my parents were also super strict and never let me out of the house. I'm not kidding. Once school let out, no one saw me all summer. I spent my summers pulling weeds in our backyard and reading 700 page novels in one sitting. The summer between my junior and senior year in high school, I decided to read a book a day, just to see if I could. I read Dracula once a week for years. You've read Dracula before, sure. But 217 times? Yes, not only was I "mixed" but I was also pretty darn weird.

To foster my ascendancy from merely a "weird mixed girl" to an "ultra weird mixed girl", let's not forget the icing on the cake: house music and Depeche Mode. Every other black kid was drooling over Prince, New Edition, Janet Jackson, Michael Jackson (before he tried to purposefully turn himself into the weird mixed kid) and Ready For The World. Not me. I was staying up all night listening to the Hot Mix 5 on WBMX and dreaming of marrying my favorite house DJ, Julian Jumpin' Perez.

I was busy scribbling Depeche Mode lyrics into my notebooks and was actually dumb enough to ask other black kids if they listened to them. "To who?" was the usual response. To give folks credit, 75% the white kids I knew only listened to hair metal bands like Def Leppard and didn't know who Depeche Mode was either. High school was tough. Like you, it wasn't till I left home for college, that I finally felt like I met people who were my friends despite all my weird quirks. Even though there were those who still called me an oreo every once in awhile, it was all good because I was having a whole lot of fun in life.

You'd think these issues of identity and feeling like the weird oreo mixed girl would evaporate now that I'm a grown woman, right? Yeah, I thought that too. But, last night, I had this dream where I decided to invite a black woman I like but who I don't know super well to my birthday party, happening next Friday. The conversation in the dream went something like this:

Liz: Yeah, I'm so excited about my party next Friday. I hope you can come.

Anonymous Black Woman: Oh. Where are you having it?

L: At my apartment. It's going to be a Depeche Mode themed party. I'm calling it "Black Celebration" after their fifth album.

ABW: Who?

L (oblivious to ABW's confusion and thinking she just can't hear me due to poor cell phone reception): Depeche Mode. So, everyone has to wear black but eyeliner on men is completely optional.

The response was silence.

Then, in the dream, all those feelings I thought I'd left behind came rushing to the forefront. I started to wonder if ABW was thinking, "Yep, Liz is a really still a weird mixed girl and I don't know if I want to be down with this." I started to explain that Depeche Mode's songwriter and sometime singer, Martin Gore, has a black father. "So, Depeche Mode, they're kinda black, you know." I start to elaborate on how I am working to close the education achievement gap. I remember saying, "Hey my husband is black and I have black kids." So please love me for being black, right?

None of it mattered. I still got called that name in the dream. ABW said it loudly, like it was on a world-wide intercom, "I knew it, you are an OREO!!! You aren't really black!"

Obviously, sticks and stones and all that. I know I'm not an oreo. I've always tried to avoid living my life ruled by our society's arbitrary meters of blackness or of whiteness. But I am left with a question. What does the dream mean and have I secretly been over-compensating in certain areas of my life for maybe not feeling quite black enough?

Eat, Drink, Be Merry, Get Presents

Today is our office Christmas party. I mean, holiday party. Well, whatever we're calling it these days. Since I somehow ended up being the main planner of our shin-dig, I've entitled it, "Eat, Drink, Be Merry, Get Presents"...because I like to do all those things.

Everyone has to bring a dish of food to eat, drink some sparkling cider...be merry by not talking about work even though we're at work, and bring a present to exchange in our white elephant gift exchange. I secretly want my present, a copy of the cult classic movie, "The Warriors". I found it at the Virgin Megastore on Sunset Blvd. When I saw it, it literally screamed, "Buy me for the white elephant gift exchange!" This should be interesting since I primarily work with women and, this is so sterotypical of me to say this, but I'm not sure how many of my female colleagues even know what the movie is.

The movie came out in 1979 and is about these gang members that have to make it back alive to their hood in Coney Island. They also all wear really cheesy outfits! I only found about it about ten years ago because there was this house music tune that sampled a lyric from the movie, "Can you dig it?" I was obsessed with finding out where the sample came from. Turns out, all I had to do was ask any guys I knew. They could recite lines from the film verbatim.

An interesting side-note is that this film is being in the process of being remade and set in Los Angeles starring real gang members, a la City of God. Clearly we have enough gang members out here to make a few movies. Plus, New York is too clean nowadays to really be believable as the setting for this film.

Anyway, we're going to play white elephant where people can steal presents. We'll see who ends up with the movie. I wonder if it'll be me!

One Of These Things Don't Look Like The Other One

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I took off all my jewelry like I normally do and set it in the little box on my dresser.

I took one large gold hoop earring out of my right ear.

I took one medium sized silver hoop earring out of my left ear.

Gold. Silver. Large. Medium. OH MY GOODNESS! These two earrings didn't match!

I know, the world is going to come to an end over the fact that I went around all day long with two different earrings in my ears. I immediately began over-analyzing the situation. What did this mean? Is this some sort of karma? Am I losing my mind? Why didn't anyone tell me?

I came up with some different scenarios as to why no one said a word:

A) People noticed and decided not to point it out to me because...they were thinking, "Poor woman, she's got two kids, works really long hours and compulsively checks her email. It's a surprise her hair's not standing all over her head."

B) People noticed and decided not to point it out to me because... they were thinking, "Hah hah! I'm glad that heffa has on two different earrings. It's exactly what she deserves! I hope she forgets to put mascara on both eyes tomorrow!"

C) People noticed and decided not to point it out to me because...they were thinking that if they said something about the earrings, they'd also feel compelled to tell me about the pen marks on my face and the spinach in my teeth. Americans, we aren't so good at doing that.

D) People noticed and didn't really care because... they are thinking about more important things like world peace, ending racism, gender equality, eliminating world hunger and what they're going to fix for dinner.

E) People did not notice because... my hair is too long and they couldn't see the earrings. That's probably what happened with the woman who asked, "Girl, how much you pay for that weave?"

F) People did not notice because... when they were talking to me, I kept tilting my head so I could actually hear what they are saying since I can't hear as well out of my right ear. So they only saw one earring anyway.

I don't know which it is. If you saw me yesterday, did you notice? Why didn't you say something then? If you didn't see me, what option do you pick?

Mommy, Have I Been A Good Boy This Year?

My eldest son, Olinga, asked me that question yesterday while I was buckling him into his car seat.

"Of course you've been a very good boy! You share with your brother, you work hard in school, you clean your room and brush your teeth, and you say your prayers every night." I obviously had to make sure I got all the right messaging into that response...can't leave out the room cleaning piece.

"So Santa is going to bring me alot of presents on Christmas, right?"

My first thought was to give him props for being a smart and logical boy. My second thought was that I'm going to seem like the grinch because we don't celebrate Christmas and I'm not buying any Christmas presents. What five year-old wants to hear how we can be happy for our Christian (and athiest/agnostic) friends that are celebrating Christmas, and participate in their celebrations if we're invited? I'm still waiting for someone to ask us to go to church with them on Christmas Eve, but that's another post. My third thought is that I don't care if I seem like a grinch.

I'm not the kind of parent to deny his participation in the holiday program at school. He had a good time dressing up as Rudolph. I actually think it's stupid to call it a holiday program. Let's face it, it's a Christmas program. I don't see any songs commemorating Eid-al-Adha, the Muslim feast that takes place on the 31st of December.

I'm not against decorations. I put up a string of lights on our windows. But I also put up red, green and gold lights to celebrate Black History Month. We did purple and orange ones at Halloween and red, white and blue on the 4th of July.

I just can't get down with the, "Well it was a pagan holiday anyway so why not get a tree and a few presents?" type of mentality. Last time I checked, paganism wasn't that great of a thing...the animal sacrifice and orgies have got to go, you know.

I think I'm pretty ok with telling him that we're Baha'is and we don't celebrate Christmas in those ways. I'm not going to say, "Well, because we have ____day instead!" No Baha'i holy day will ever be able to compete with the millions of advertising dollars invested in fostering Christmas hype. That's probably a good thing.

To-Do List Overload

I keep two to-do lists, a personal list and a professional list. I like to cross things off of both but this week I found I was mainly crossing off the professional list and neglecting the personal list. I'd post a picture of my list for you but I can't find my camera right now. All week long I said, "I'll just do this on Saturday." Well, now it's Saturday and good grief, my head might explode.

At the top of my list is, "Pay bills." Sounds fun, I know. But with the magic of online banking, voila, it's done. Now I know how much money I have to waste when I venture out in search of a new fish tank later this afternoon.

Right now, I'm going to get my jacked-up hair done. I've worn it in a very Victorian, school-marmish bun all week and I can't take it anymore. I also have to get my squirrel-tail looking eyebrows waxed. I thought of cancelling my appointment but my hair is a mass of split ends due to too much flat-ironing. Soo, I have to be at the salon at 10:30...I know, that's 13 minutes from now. I'll be leaving my house in a hot second. No, I haven't broken up with my stylist yet so I probably won't emerge till around 2 pm, if I'm lucky. This is problematic since that's a good chunk of time that I could be using to do other stuff. Ahh, the price of beauty. That's where the fun ends though.

The rest of my afternoon will be spent buying and setting up a fishtank, acquiring new bathmats and kitchen towels, going to the grocery store, picking up suits at the cleaners, cleaning my house and... on and on and on.

Enough blogging...I'd better get started.

The Problem With Honesty

Two days ago I was particularly honest with someone and now I wish I could take all that honesty back. People say they want to hear the truth, but they don't really want to hear it. As for me, I want to tell the truth, but I don't want to deal with the consequences of telling the truth. Sometimes I wish I could lie to people more, which is odd since I tell little lies to people all the time. How many times a day do you and I have this exchange:

"How are you doing?"
"I'm great."

Not to be all Dr. Phil about it, but this week I want to tell folks that I'm not so great. I worked 82 hours last week and I'm racking it up this week as well. I almost fell asleep while driving up Figueroa Street on Monday afternoon. The only thing that saved me was that the hookers were out in full force just south of Gage Avenue and boy oh boy, some of those outfits are serious jaw-droppers.

We all know what happens if I don't say that I'm great. I sound like a whiny beeyotch and I have to then hear about how whoever I'm talking to worked 90 hours so my 82 is really nothing.

So maybe I don't actually wish that I could lie more. Maybe I don't even really want to be more honest. Maybe I just like to behave badly sometimes and I pass it off as honesty. I still have to live down this conversation from 3 years ago:

"Can I take Olinga (my elder son) to the beach with me?" this person, an acquaintance of my husband's asked.
"No," I said.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because I don't like you," I replied.
"But I don't understand why," she said.
"Because you're a bitch and a ho and I don't want my son around you," I said.

Now, that's behaving pretty badly, isn't it, even if I was definitely telling the truth. Everything was true, in my own subjective version of the truth. Perhaps to others, she wasn't a ho, just very free with her sexuality and very skilled at making men pay her rent. I try to make myself myself feel better by saying that I was so annoyed because I felt like it was hypocritical of her to act like I'd ever liked her...and I was six months pregnant and tired. Not that that excuses anything but I can sometimes just be a little raw when I'm tired.

Which brings me back to my honesty of a couple of days ago. I'm still trying to figure out what to do about it and maybe the best option is to do nothing at all.

Requiem For A Beta

Nine-o-clock on a Sunday night seemed like as good a time as any to reveal to my eldest son that Nemo the fish had gone to "swim with the fishes." We'd put it off for as long as we could. This is totally gross, but Nemo was starting to decompose.

You know that not all pets last forever, right?"

"Uh-huh," said my son, unconvincingly.

"Well, Nemo isn't with us anymore," said my husband.

I sat there listening and wondering if he could be any more vague. Come on, I know my son's smart but is a five year-old kid supposed to get what "with us" really means? Of course, even though I was the parent against surreptitiously replacing Nemo with a look-alike (felt a little too Pet Sematary for me), I also somehow managed to be the parent merely standing around as moral support.

"What?" Five year-old eyes filled with tears. I guess I didn't think he'd cry. After all, the fish had been dead for two days almost and he hadn't noticed. But, those black diamond pools rapidly overflowed.

"You see, Nemo died," my husband said.

"Nemo died?" Hysterical sobbing ensued. Five minutes of it. Then we gave him a choice: bury him outside or flush him down the toilet. Guess which option was chosen.

To give Nemo a proper send-off, we all put on black suit jackets and brushed our hair and teeth. I felt like I was in an episode of the Cosby show, except we're not rich like those Huxtables and our kids actually look like they are related. Then, we had reflections on good times with Nemo. You know, "Nemo was so good at swimming in his tank." Then a prayer, "God, keep Nemo safe from sharks."

Finally, it was time to flush Nemo away. More hysterical sobbing ensued as Nemo disappeared into the bowl. Five minutes later, I knew my son would be just fine.

"He was such a good fish. I'll miss Nemo. Can we get a dog? How about a cat? Or a hamster? I like hamsters."

Rest in peace, Nemo. Your memory is surely, ahem, treasured.

Bobby Brown Really IS Kinda Crazy

My husband and I just got back from a Hot 92 Jamz concert featuring Zapp, Boys II Men and New Edition with Bobby Brown. We'll get to Bobby in a minute. But first, let me give you a few of the highlights.

Pre-Show: We had VIP passes so prior to the concert we got to go into this lounge area. I know, VIP, it sounds so chi-chi. They did have free food and drinks but it was mostly just a bunch of single black women standing around staring daggers at the brotha who brought in a blond with these humongous breast implants.

Ten minutes before the show was supposed to start, we figured we'd head to the restroom and then go find our seats. Wowzer, ladies restrooms are great places to eavesdrop. I got to hear this exchange, "Yeah, I must've fucked all of New Edition after a show of theirs...must have been ten or fifteen years ago."

Her friend replied, "Girl, you always wuz nasty!" The first woman than said,"Not anymore since I got saved. Plus that was 30 pounds ago and I'm too old for that shit now."

Thank goodness I have a little notebook in my purse to catch these little gems.

Zapp: They came out in matching yellow pimp suits and did their greatest hits. "Computer Love" sounded especially great. I'm not sure if the woman in the group is the same woman that's been with them all along but she danced her butt off in a form-fitting gold flapper style dress. One thing I love about black folks is that this woman probably weighs around 200 lbs and that's not seen as some sort of impediment to her being on stage. Black people still yelled, "Work it out, girl. Shake it!" and cheered for her.

Boys II Men: They sounded very good but they have a lot of slower ballad songs. The tipsy lady on my left kept sharing her life story with me, "This is the song me and my husband made my son to."

New Edition: Before New Edition came out, the radio station personalities highlighted all the stars that were at the show. You know how they say, "Ladies and gentleman, Janet Jackson's in the house. Tyrese is here. Shar Jackson (Keven Federline's baby momma) is here and you know she's got all the money." Then it was time for New Edition to come on.

The lights dimmed. The crowd stood and roared. And nothing happened for a good fifteen minutes. What was happening back there? You can imagine the theories of what was going on.

Finally, they appeared. Ralph Tresvant is still hot and his voice actually sounds better than ever. Johnny Gill and Ricky Bell also worked it vocally. They all have the dance moves still which is pretty amazing to see given that they're all almost forty.

And then there was Bobby... who said, after singing one song, "Y'all Need To Get Some Of These Stars Up Here... Cuz I'm Tired!" During "My Prerogative" Bobby stripped off his shirt and began unbuttoning his pants on stage. I thought I was going to see a certain, ahem, part him naked, a horrifying image for sure. I can't believe I'm saying this but I am relieved he only settled for copious amounts of bumpin' and grindin', especially since he was quite obviously aroused. I think he had some really small man-boobs too. It was a bit hard to see so I couldn't tell for sure, thank goodness.

Oh, there are so many more observations I need to put down about Bobby's antics, but it's two in the morning and I fell asleep while typing just now. It's raining outside so chances are, I'm going to sleep great, dreaming about hearing New Edition singing my favorite song by them, "Can You Stand the Rain?"

Shh! Nemo Is Dead!

My husband passed a piece of paper to me early this morning while I was nestled on the couch watching cartoons with my two sons. It took a moment for his hastily scribbled sentence to register. Nemo is dead? What?

Then, I looked up to our small fish tank, tucked back on a shelf amidst various family photos. Nemo, our blue beta, was floating motionless at the top of the water.

My husband took the piece of paper back so he could write some more.

"What do we do?"

After much scribbling back and forth, his vote was to just flush Nemo without telling the kids and then sneak out and get an identical beta. My vote was to tell them so they could learn some deep life lesson about death, you know, we pray for Nemo's safe progress into Happy Hunting Ground, bury him in ceremonial fashion and get some small rock to be his headstone.

Nine hours later, we've done neither.

In the haze of everything I've had to get done today I keep forgetting that there's a dead fish floating on a shelf in my living room. Oh, I'm a bad parent, aren't I? Except, my boys have not yet noticed that Nemo is dead. All these hours that we've been here in the house, neither of them have even glanced at the fish tank. Perhaps Nemo, (the fish with the most boring name on earth) was not as entrancing a pet as I believed.

"You Wanna Go To Jail Just Like Your Daddy?"

The question echoed down the hallway, causing me to snap out of my self-absorbed musings concerning my engine light coming on this morning and my need to clone myself so I can be two places at once this Saturday.

I observed a trio just ahead of me to my left: A little boy, his mother and his teacher. His mother was obviously not pleased and neither was the teacher. The little boy hung his head and shook it from left to right in response to her rhetorical question.

"Then stop acting up, having me come up here off of my job to deal with you," his mother said.

"Mmm. Hmm," said the teacher. "You better listen to what your momma's telling you. It's the same stuff I've been telling you."

I made eye contact and nodded my head to them, the universal sign of greeting for black folks. I scooted past them and on down the hallway.

His mother's voice continued behind me, echoing in it's harshness and anger, "You wanna be a thug? Huh? You wanna try to act all bad and hard? What you think that's gonna get you?"

He didn't say anything but the teacher chimed in, "I tell him that every day. He knows that's not how he's supposed to act."

From his size and the location of the classroom, this boy was probably six years old, either in kindergarten or first grade. This is a scene I've witnessed all too many times over the past eight years. A child misbehaves in school and the conversation isn't about, "You might fall in with the wrong crowd." It automatically jumps to this place of heightened seriousness: prison.

Why are we talking about prison instead of college? I know the answer to that question, of course. There is no real expectation that this boy will go to college. I didn't hear his teacher say, "You are so smart that I think I must need to challenge you more so you don't misbehave in class." No, she'd never say that.

His mom, well, her fear is voiced for anyone strolling the hall to hear. She's probably seen her fears become reality all too frequently in her neighborhood, one of the poorest in Los Angeles.

Of course, I can get up on my soap-box because I don't live there. I get in my car and drive home everyday. My own kindergartener is determined to go to Notre Dame. He's debating whether he should be a pediatrician or a scientist. His teacher showers compliments on him about his behavior and his academic prowess and I'd be ready to sue if I saw otherwise.

I wish this little boy had the same.

Someone Else's Son Was Once Three

My two days in Santa Barbara are sadly coming to a close. I strolled State Street, fantasized about winning the lottery and moving up here, and overall enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere. Despite all the scenic beauty, I can't help but keep thinking about our accidental visit to "Arlington West" on Sunday.

I had no idea that folks put down a cross and a flag for every soldier that has been killed in Iraq. The veterans that run this set it up every Sunday morning and take it down every Sunday afternoon.

We stumbled upon the memorial during an afternoon stroll along the beach. There were plenty of photographers out, busily taking pictures of the entire scene. One young man, Brad McIntyre, shot this photo of my youngest son picking up the flags.

How lucky I am that my son's face isn't on one of these crosses.

One Good Reason To Like Cell Phones

"Do you really like Los Angeles?"

Every time I go back home to the midwest, I get asked this question. Let me tell you, today, I really like Los Angeles.

You see, before cell phones, I couldn't sit outside in the sun, talk on the phone and taunt my family. Now I can call them all up after their winter wonderland has made national news. I can snidely ask, "So, what's the weather like there?"

Mean? I know, it is. I will repent in my prayers before I go to sleep. But, I couldn't help further twisting the knife by saying, "So what are you doing today? Oh, shoveling snow? How many inches did you get? Four? Well, it's about 70 degrees here. It feels so cold. Yeah, I'm going up to Santa Barbara tonight. I think it's going to get down to like 40 there. It'll be freezing."

They'll get their revenge eventually when they call me up in the future to inquire, "So, what was that earthquake really like?"