I'm Not A Racist. But...

Yesterday I looked in the mirror and saw my overgrown furry eyebrows staring back at me. I'd already been thinking of getting my nails done but I was feeling a bit lazy. Seeing the fur really sealed the deal though. It was clearly time to head over to my local Silver Lake beauty shop, the same place I've been going for the past seven years.

When I get my nails/waxing done, I don't have much to say. I just want to chill out and leave a big tip. Occasionally I'll get to talking with the ladies that work there about our kids, but really, I just want them rip the hair away and make my nails look cute.

So, I'm watching TV, my freshly painted nails are drying, I'm reminiscing about seeing Depeche Mode in Las Vegas this time last year. Life is good.

And then I overhear this very blond, very, "Where'd I set my BlackBerry?" type, chatting with the women working on her hands and feet.

"So what's your name?" she asked the lady scrubbing away her heel calluses.

The woman paused her scrubbing and said in her lightly accented English, "My name is May."

Blondie started talking very loudly and very s.l.o.w.l.y --the kind of condescending voice I've heard used before with the very deaf and elderly, the very stupid...and people whose native language isn't English.

"Oh, May. That's -- a -- nice -- name. What -- country -- do -- you -- come -- from, -- May? Cambodia?"

Now, if I was May, I'd have been trying to give Blondie a foot fungus or something. But May was nice and replied, "I'm from Vietnam."

What Blondie doesn't know is that May has been here for 15 years. She got here in 1992. She's got two teenage sons that she's putting through a private high school and her English is really good.

Blondie continued her painful chatter. "I was close! Vietnam! It's sort of like Cambodia, right? Are you sure you're not Cambodian? I mean, you all look really similar to Cambodians, don't you?"

It was said with the kind of authority that let me know that Blondie fully expected May to agree with her. And May wasn't going to call her out and say, "All Asians don't look alike and bitch, I said I'm Vietnamese." May wasn't going to ask Blondie if she meets Germans and tells them, "Are you sure you're not from France?"

May pretended she didn't understand. She just smiled and nodded at Blondie.

I just wanted to come to the nail shop, get my stuff waxed, get my nails done, and try to forget that 15 years ago when May got here, the 1992 LA Riots had just gone down. But no, Blondie was saying the kind of stuff that made me think she was on that Simi Valley jury that acquitted the officers that struck Rodney King 56 times.

Blondie wasn't finished with her questions. She moved on to the woman working on her hands. "So what's your name?"

This woman told her, "My name is May."

Blondie must have never met two Brittanys or two Stephanies that work in the same place because she said, "Oh, are you all named May?"

The Lord saved me from hearing more because the girl that does my waxing came to tell me she was ready for me. I'd rather have hair ripped off my body than have to hear Blondie continue to question the ladies working on her hands and feet.

Now, Blondie isn't hitting anybody with a baton 56 times. She's not on the radio calling black women offensive things. She didn't say the n-word in a comedy club. She's just trying to make small-talk with the ladies at the nail shop while she's supporting their business, right? So what's the big deal? She's just some close-minded woman talking too loudly, right?

Well, I'm sure Blondie thinks she's not racist.

Every day, I drive through the areas of this city that were decimated by the LA Riots. They started fifteen years ago yesterday. Today when I drive around this city, I'll be driving through a part of town that was on fire fifteen years ago. Even though now there's a Starbucks on the corner of Slauson and Western, there's still not a Barnes and Noble or a Borders in all of South-Central LA. High school graduation rates are like apartheid South Africa's. Unemployment is still high. But we're shocked when folks snap and decide to burn some stuff up.

In America we all want to sit around and say, "I'm not racist." It's always someone else thinking and saying and doing the things that hurt and cause so much pain. We don't think the stuff that happens on a daily basis in our own individual interactions is a big deal. We don't think the policies that are in place have anything to do with racism. We tell ourselves that these days most of the racism that happens is some huge thing like Rodney King getting beaten or Don Imus saying what he did. As long as we can squash the egregious acts of racism with public apologies to Al Sharpton, and as long as Oprah's still a billionaire, then we act like it's business as usual.

As long as the poor people of color stay down in South-Central, than it's all good. As long as May doesn't say anything to Blondie, it's all good.

As long as nobody riots, it's all good.

The Drill Is No Thrill

Ow.
I'm in pain.
My mouth hurts.
Seriously.

And that's my poem for the day.

Just kidding. Sort of.

If you're a newcomer to this blog, you may not know that prior to this year, I never had a cavity. Well, even if you read this every day, it's not like you remember obscure details from my life...

Anyway, I used to feel SO superior when I could boast, "Nope. I've never had a cavity in my entire life." Never ever. Not even an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikini one.

All that's over now thanks to the pesky x-rays revealing my SIX special friends hiding out between my teeth. Yeah, those little back stabbing cavities...They set up shop in my mouth unbeknownst to me, and what kind of thanks do I get? They snitched to the x-ray machine and got me sentenced to time with a drill!

Believe me, dental floss and Listerine have become my new BFFs.

Yeah, OW. I'm telling the truth about this pain thing. After today's drill and kill (the cavities) session, I absolutely disagree with Three Days Grace and their song, aptly titled "Pain". 3DG must not have had any cavities filled recently if they're singing, "Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all". Me, I prefer feeling nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero.

I want no pain when I'm at the dentist.

I'm telling you, if I felt that drill even a teeny tiny bit, I was raising my hand and acquiring additional shots of lidocaine to the jaw. I got so numb that I couldn't even feel anything from my right ear all the way to my lips. And who knew that applying lipstick to numb lips was so impossible???

I found that I sort of like the numb feeling. It's actually rather pleasant. I rather felt like I could go to sleep and leave my insomnia behind me...but instead I got in my car and drove from Beverly Hills to downtown LA. I don't really know exactly how I got to my office, but I guess "The Human Mapquest" went on autopilot because I didn't crash.

I know that scientifically, anything with that "caine" ending is a sibling to our friend cocaine...so it's probably a good thing that I've turned down cocaine on the few times it's been offered to me. I'd probably be hooked, tout de suite. And if nothing I'm writing right now is making sense and you think I've lost it, hey, I can blame it on the dental d.r.u.g.s.

Truly, I'm not myself. One, I haven't been able to talk very much for most of the day. And a pox on you if know me and you're actually happy about this. Two, I'm also pretty hungry. Unfortunately, I can't open my mouth wide enough to get a forkful of anything past my lips. A couple of people have suggested that this may be a good way for me to lose weight. Yeah, um, thanks.

Some people really know how to kick a sista when she's down...

Ok, I'm going to go listen to the most appropriate song for the moment, by the Pet Shop Boys. Can't wait till I can actually open my mouth to sing along, "What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?"

What I'm Laughing About Today.

It's such a beautiful day here in LA today that I feel compelled to share some of the things I'm laughing about today:

1) Kindergartners think they know it all. I was observing a classroom today and three of the girls were all, "How old are you?"

I put their question back to them. "How old do you think I am?"

One immediately replied back, "Seventeen."

Hmm...she must have been gunning for teacher's pet or something.

The other two girls disagreed with her response. "No, I think she's sixteen. No, eighteen."

I decided to burst their bubble. I leaned down and whispered, "Can you all keep a secret?"

They all nodded enthusiastically so I continued. "Well, I'm actually 34 years old."

Those girls faces gave new meaning to the phrase "shock and awe"...and one immediately let my secret out of the bag. She challenged my top-secret age by hollering at the top of her lungs, "You ain't no 34 years old! You're trying to trick us!" She then rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips, "I ain't no fool! You're seventeen!"

I'm still laughing two hours later.

2) Oh, Alanis, you're a genius! If you haven't seen Alanis Morrisette's take on "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas, you absolutely must click on this link to watch. This is a better than anything Weird Al Yankovic could have ever done. It's the exact same lyrics as the original, exact same style of video. More than anything, it succeeds in proving once again how utterly stupid the original video, song and lyrics were: My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps". Someone give Alanis a medal for clowning this one, please.

3) Remind me, why am I taking this novel writing class? Oh yeah, because I want to write a novel. I am taking the class and it's tonight. I'm supposed to turn in 3-4 pages of ...something. I'm not exactly sure. The instructor was a little vague. Am I supposed to bring a character sketch? An opening scene? My instructions? "Whatever you feel like bringing."

Well, my overachieving self needs direction sometimes. In this class though, we didn't even talk through the syllabus. Tell me what to do, spell it out for me and then I'll push those boundaries. I just don't like feeling like I'm going to get the bad grade by showing up with something that's actually not wanted. I am prepared to get ripped to shreds this evening.

Oh wait, this was supposed to be about stuff that was making me laugh, right?

Clearly it's time to end this post and listen to some more of Fedde Le Grand's (best name ever!) remix of Camille Jones' "The Creeps". I was writing about this track last night on my other blog and I think a few spins on the iPod are just what I need to put me back into a happier frame of mind.

So tell me, what are you laughing about today?

Ranunculus Surprise

Today my weekly trip to Trader Joe's ended with a surprise.

I certainly noticed all the bunches of ranunculus in their black water buckets when I first got to the store. But I'd been too eager to get to the last available shopping cart before anyone else, so I hadn't even stopped to smell the lovely blooms. Even though ranunculus are my absolute favorite flower in the world, they were forgotten in my efficient pursuit of apple-cranberry bran muffins and lentil soup.

The store was packed, not unusual for a Sunday at noon. But, I tuned the crowds out and zoomed through the store. In less than 30 minutes, I found myself chatting with the cashier about Lena Horne and whether the Laker's would win against the Suns. I said goodbye, told him I'd see him next week (I always go to the same cashier every week) and began to push my cart toward the exit.

I saw another Trader Joe's cashier walking toward me, a lovely bunch of rose-colored ranunculus in his hand. But, instead of passing me, he stopped, held the ranunculus out to me, and said, "These flowers are for you, courtesy of another customer."

What???

I was absolutely stunned by this. Someone I didn't know was giving me my favorite flowers? And in my favorite color of ranunculus as well? I stammered in disbelief for a few seconds but finally managed to blurt out, "Somebody gave you flowers to give to me?"

The cashier thrust the flowers into my arms as he explained how some guy had purchased the flowers, had described me and had asked for me to be given the flowers before I left the store.

"Are you serious?" I asked.
"Totally serious," said the cashier
"How long ago did this guy buy these?" I asked.
"Oh, about 20 minutes ago."
"What he look like?"
The cashier wasn't particularly descriptive. "A white guy. Dark hair. Tallish."

I hadn't noticed anybody that fit that description at all. Hmm. But, I couldn't grill the poor cashier forever, so I thanked him for his help and made my way home with my lovely bunch of rose-colored ranunculus.

I'm thrilled to get such a pretty bunch of flowers, but I have to confess, it's a little creepy to me too. I have an overactive imagination so I start wondering, what if these flowers are courtesy of some weird stalker out there in the world? If this happened to you, would you be a little weirded out by it too? Or is it just me?

Code Yellow

In my first year of teaching in Compton, I had a whole lot to learn, just like any beginning teacher. I had to figure out how to plan lessons that were so engaging and interesting that my students didn't want to talk or misbehave because they were too busy learning. I had to learn that I didn't need to assign thirty math problems as homework when five would suffice. And I had to learn what to do during a "code yellow".

I had never heard of a code yellow before that simmering hot August of 1998, my first in Los Angeles. However, I soon learned that if there was someone shooting in the neighborhood around the school, or if someone came on campus and started shooting, that was a code yellow. If this happened, the school bells would ring in a particular sequence and I was to shut the doors to the classroom and have the students get down onto the floor and stay there till an "all-clear" bell rang. We did not have a PA system at my school so those bells were everything. I remember being very worried that I'd mix the sequence of code yellow bells up with the sequence that meant it was a fire drill. I did not want to be the teacher who took her students outside for a fire drill when they should have been inside for a code yellow.

We'd have unannounced code yellow drills just like we had fire drills and earthquake drills (another new thing for a non-California native). The first time a code yellow drill happened, my third graders immediately recognized the sequence of bells and told me that it was indeed a code yellow and not the fire bells. I immediately ran to shut the classroom door and then turned around to my students. I saw them there, flat on their bellies, so innocent yet so hard in their nonchalance. A few boys were discussing wrestling, arguing over Triple H being better than The Rock. Some of the girls were singing a Spice Girl tune. I shushed them frantically. Maybe the gunman would think there was no one inside if we were all quiet. One student, Santiago, told me, "Don't worry. It's just a drill."

Santi then launched into a story of some of the violence that he'd heard about and seen in the neighborhood. Two minutes later, every student wanted to chime in and share their story. They told me of folks they knew who'd been shot, a cousin who had a gun, random gunshots they'd heard in the middle of the night. One boy told of seeing a gun down in one of the curbside drainage ditches. He'd tried to lower himself into the ditch to get the gun but he hadn't been able to reach it.

A moment later, there was a banging on the door and a voice telling me to open up. I recognized the voice of my principal and remembered her serious instructions that no one was supposed to open their doors, no matter what, until we heard the all-clear bells. I didn't open the door and then, fortunately, the all-clear bells sounded a few minutes later.

Sometimes when I'd get to talking with people, you know the business man sitting next to me on a flight to Chicago or the woman relaxing in a cafe, sipping a latte, I'd mention that I was a teacher in Compton. I inevitably would hear something like, "Oh, you must go to work in a bullet-proof vest." That kind of comment used to infuriate me when I worked in Compton and it still does. It represents all of the images and stereotypes about poor communities of color in the United States.

The truth is, if blacks and Latinos get shot in Compton or Philly or DC, on a daily basis, we are not, for the most part, shocked and outraged. We are not calling for more gun control. We are not questioning why someone didn't notice a troubled kid earlier. Heck, I'll tell you what happens to troubled kids in low-income areas. They drop out or are pushed out of school by teachers that don't want to deal with them. And if that troubled kid gets shot, well, that's life in the hood, right? The unsaid message is that that kid brought it on themselves. You know, they were probably involved in drugs or gangs and that's the way it goes. If only they'd stayed in school...and worked harder than they did, right?

How easy it is to forget what that kid would be like if they didn't have to experience years of code yellows, whether real or practice.

Those code yellow drills repeated themselves regularly over the years I taught in Compton. Those drills, and what I knew people thought and expected of my students, were a reminder of why I needed to work so hard as a teacher, why my students deserved the same education as kids in wealthy areas. So, I learned to lay on the floor and continue the lesson I'd been teaching. I'd ask my students comprehension questions about the story we were reading. I'd give them math problems to work out in their heads.

We'd also talk about college and how it was a wonderful place to go. I'd tell them about how colleges have beautiful green grassy lawns where you can relax and be whoever you want to be. I'd tell them how you get to live in a dorm and listen to loud music and go to great parties and stay up all night without parents there to supervise. I'd tell them that they could go to class and learn about whatever they wanted to learn about and not have to worry about people shooting up the neighborhood or coming on campus with a gun. One time a student asked if there were really no code yellows in college. I confidently rolled my eyes and replied, "No, there aren't code yellow drills in college! People don't shoot each other at college."

It's strange to think that if I was still teaching, I wouldn't be able to say that now. I'd always be remembering that some crazy person could potentially walk into their college classroom and murder them, erasing years of hopes, hard work, dreams and determination.

Thankfully, the thing is that in the years I taught in Compton, my school never had a real code yellow. No one ever walked onto campus and shot up the school. But we were always prepared because of the realities around us.

The reality of violence, sadly enough, is everywhere now. Truly, there is no safe space anymore in the United States.

Girl, That Skirt!

I'm usually not a big shopper but yesterday I went to the mall and did a little material object acquisition. I got a case to protect my new red iPod from iDeath. More socks for my two sons. A shirt from Ann Taylor and a very lovely and classic shirt dress from Express. Although I bought the dress, while I was trying it on, I found myself thinking that it was a bit on the short side.

My, how things change. This dress was just above the knee length. Ten years ago, I would have thought the dress was a bit long. Twenty years before that, despite the fact that I was forbidden by my parents to wear mini skirts and they had never bought me one, I wore skirts that were so short that the security guards at my high school threatened to send me home to change.

How did that happen?

Every day I left the house wearing the mother sanctioned Talbots-type conservative outfit, complete with penny loafers. The school bus would come, number 172, blaring Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me".

I'd climb on and slide to the last two back seats. Once on the bus, I'd find myself seated across from a boy who reeked of weed and enjoyed our ride to school by surreptitiously sipping from a flask and slurring my nickname "Lizzie" into "Ishhe".

"Isshe, you gonna put one of them short skirts on today?" he'd ask.

In response I'd laugh and tell him he'd better not peek while I changed. Then I'd take what I was actually going to wear to school out of my backpack. These skirts that emerged from my bag, a short black denim or a micro mini red cotton number, were borrowed from my second cousins who also attended my high school.

To start the transformation, first I pulled the skirt up and over my pants. Then I'd unbutton the pants and slide them off. I'd fold them up and stick them into my backpack. A couple times a week, I'd step off the school bus in one of these mini skirts, rain or shine, and whether it was 20 degrees or 80 degrees. After school let out, I'd transform back into the conservative pants and stick the skirt into my book bag. I wonder what that bus driver must have thought of my back-row transformations. (Unless she reads this blog, I guess we'll never know).

My parents were none the wiser until the unfortunate day my dad, unbeknownst to me, decided to pick me up from school. I remember strolling to my locker with one of my cousins, (their lockers were right next to mine). We were strutting in our matching black skirts and red tops like we knew we were hot stuff. And then my cousin gasped, "Oh my gosh, Liz! There's your dad!"

I looked down the hallway toward my locker and horror of horrors! My father was standing right there and he looked furious!!

If I could have turned and run the other way, I would have. But, I couldn't. So I propelled myself forward and heard him growl, "What do you have on?"

I've always been quick on my feet so I told him some lie about how someone had spilled their chocolate milk on me at lunch and how my cousin had had some extra clothes in her locker so I'd had no choice but to put the skirt on.

He didn't look like he believed me at all. My cousin tried to back me up, but he still wasn't buying it. I was such big trouble with my dad that I couldn't even imagine the thunder my mom would bring when she found out. I knew I'd be lucky if she let me out of the house ever again and alas, my mini skirt days were definitely over.

When I finally got to college I figured it was my chance to wear minis again. But, it was the height of the grunge movement. In general, minis and grunge just didn't make a good mix. Still, I remember the first time I went to my parent's house in a mini skirt, focused on proving that I could wear whatever I wanted when I wanted. All my mom would say was, "Oh, that's a cute outfit!" That drove me crazy! Why couldn't it have been a cute outfit five years earlier?

Since then, I've worn my share of mini skirts and sometimes miss the days of going dancing in a denim mini, black opaque tights and black Doc Martens. I guess it's good that I got all that out of my system because I've clearly become more conservative in my thirties if I think that a just above the knee-length dress is short.

At this rate, I'll probably be in floor-length skirts and dresses by the time I hit fifty.

You Said It First! Who Said It First?

Ah, Don Imus.

I saw him on the Today show yesterday and wowzer, I have no idea how old he is, but the man looks like he's got one foot in the grave. No wonder he sticks to radio instead of TV. Don't you think he could use more than a two week vacation? I really think his bosses should do him a favor and make it a permanent vacation. It just seems like doing his show is taking way too much of a toll on what must have been, at one time, some spectacularly good looks.

Ok, I'll stop being sarcastic. Or, at least I'll try. It's just that with all the discussion about "The Don Imus Issue", I keep hearing a few things that have got me thinking beyond Don Imus.

First, I've heard a couple of folks share the idea that calling black women "nappy-headed hos" originated in the black community. We started it, rap music started it...and so folks can't be mad if Don Imus says it. It's a double standard!

Hmm. I don't know if black people and rap music really started the use of this terminology. Sure, it's internalized now, and some of us do use that language, but I don't think we started it.

I was commenting on someone else's blog that there are plenty of black people that dance at parties and bump in their rides to tunes like the currently popular Fat Joe and L'il Wayne song "Make it Rain". Yes, that song, like so many others, prominently features the word "hos" and features a video where guys are throwing money on black and Latina women who are busily gyrating like strippers. But if the Pussycat Dolls gyrate like strippers, they get a TV show and get called superstars. What???

Anyway, I digress.

YES, Snoop, 50 Cent, Jay-Z and all the rest quite frequently use the n-word, call folks bitches, and hos and regularly feature the aforementioned scantily clad black and Latina women in their videos. My question is, who's paying these rappers to make records like that?

Jay-Z may be head of Def Jam records but, hello, Def Jam is not black-owned. It's owned by Universal Music Group...which is owned by French-run conglomerate Vivendi. And who's the CEO of Vivendi? A guy named Jean-René Fourtou.

Now, imagine if Jean-René were to suddenly call up Jay-Z and say, "Look Jay, you're a really talented rapper, but you need to write rhymes that are not sexist or racist, or else I'm going to drop you from our label."

Can you imagine that? Yeah, I can't either. Reason being, 70% of rap records are bought by white people, primarily by the 18-24 male demograpic. Those young white males have a whole lot of disposable income, and so the records get made, because certainly, Jean-René probably has a place along the Seine to pay for.

I've heard some people say that black people don't complain about rappers so it's not fair that we complain about Imus. Um, that's just not true. The very same black people who've been upset about 50 Cent, Snoop and Jay-Z calling black women ho's are upset now. The problem is that mainstream media hasn't given those prior complaints any coverage.

Some of you all may not know about the infamous Nelly song "Tip Drill". If you don't, good for you that you were spared exposure to an incredibly lewd and lascivious song with an even more sexually explicit video. (Don't ask me how I saw it...my inability to turn away from train-wrecks is another issue.)

Now, in this video, Nelly swipes a credit card between the shaking butt cheeks of a light-skinned black woman wearing only a barely-there thong. It was disgusting. Absolutely horrifyingly sexist and racist on so many levels. But, was the New York Times or the Washington Post calling for Nelly's firing from his record company? Nope. Instead, it was the black women of Spelman College that led the charge against the song and protested Nelly's potential participation in a leukemia fundraiser at the school.

I also didn't hear any record company executives complaining about Nelly. In fact, I didn't hear anyone in the mainstream media complaining at all. It was further proof that when it comes this stuff, it doesn't really matter if black people complain about being called bitches and hos because we aren't the ones buying the songs. So, who cares what we think! This is also why Imus is probably only going to get a two-week vacation instead of a permanent one...sure, it's a hot story now, but after all, and I could be wrong here, I don't think many black folks listen to Imus. Again, it's that white male demograpic/dollar that advertisers want and Imus draws them in.

I also find myself thinking how none of the aforementioned rappers feature nappy-haired women. Their videos deal almost exclusively with black women who wear weaves. So, nappy hair...yeah, I remember being 8 or 9 and one of my aunts was trying to brush my hair. She smacked me on the head with the brush and started complaining, "You have the nappiest hair of any mixed girl on earth! What is wrong with you?"

Sure, my aunt said the word waaay before Don Imus did, and she used it in a negative way, but the thing is, who invented the word? I'm sure African's back in the day didn't sit around and say, "Girl, your hair is sooo nappy! You need to get your relaxer touched up!"

I also find myself having a hard time believing that the first black people off of slave ships just decided to started calling each other nappy-headed ho's without hearing someone else calling them that first...someone who owned them and told them they weren't fully human. (Wonder who that could be?)

Generations later, someone taught my aunt, and every other black woman born in the Western Hemisphere, to think that our hair is unattractive in it's natural state. As much as some folks want to, thankfully, advocate for a return to "natural hair" in this country, and as much as there are books like Nappy Hair, it's still an insult in the black community to say that someone's hair is nappy.

So, is there a double standard? Maybe in some ways there is, but I think our issues are more complex than just simply saying, "Well, black people, you did it first so don't get mad!" We have to go beyond that surface level argument and be prepared to talk about why we do and say the things we do. If we don't know the root cause, we can never cure the disease.

And, like any good school teacher should tell kids that say, "He hit me first!", it doesn't matter who did it first, if you did it too, well then, you're both wrong.

He's Abusive And Doesn't Love You!

Sometimes I have those days where I'm unwilling to get off the couch. Saturday was one of them. I was still in a bit of pain from Friday morning's trip to the dentist, where I got my first four cavities ever drilled and filled. But, I can't say that my lack of enthusiasm was solely caused by that. I also can't say that I was especially tired since I didn't go anywhere on Friday night. My Friday night merely consisted of beginning to write a letter to a friend and then falling asleep, fully dressed on the aforementioned couch. Major action, right?

I knew I had to get up eventually because we needed to be at my friend Maisha's Easter egg hunt at three and I still needed to go to Walgreens to get eggs. Not real eggs. No, I needed the fake plastic Easter eggs that you can put jelly beans and chocolate in and then hide around a yard for the kids to find.

I finally set out, eager to escape my kids who were harassing me with their non-stop inquiries of, "Is it time to go to Maisha's yet? Did you get the eggs yet?" By the time I left, I was in such a bad mood that I walked out of the house in the same clothes I'd slept in, without brushing my hair, without washing my face. I threw a newsboy hat on to hide my disarray and screeched out of the driveway, Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence" on full blast in the car.

The traffic heading down Vermont to 6th Street was typical LA nightmare and it took me fifteen minutes to go the two miles to the Walgreens. Once inside, I found the plastic eggs, no problem. Choosing the candies proved to be more difficult. There were half a dozen varieties of jellybeans and just as many kinds of chocolates. I'm sort of a cheapskate when it comes to stuff like this and I'd spent ten minutes comparing prices on generic chocolate vs. name-brand chocolate when I heard a woman's heavily accented voice.

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?" she yelled. And then her voice broke into incoherent sobs. I looked around me and noticed that almost every other shopper in my aisle was staring intently at shelves of speckled jelly beans, chocolates wrapped in pastel foils and stuffed-animal Easter bunnies. I didn't hear a reply to her question, which meant that this was either a phone conversation or mental illness. She continued talking, her central-African accent drawing my feet toward her.

"I was only two minutes late! Please, those are my children," she continued to cry. "You can't take them away from me." I turned the corner and there she was, a black woman on a cell phone, standing in front of a display of patron saint candles, tears streaming down her face. A boy, maybe nine or ten years old, was sitting on the floor behind her. A second black woman stood a couple of feet away, shaking her head and holding the hand of her toddler daughter.

I wasn't sure if I should say anything to the African woman so I hovered across the aisle, my eyes scanning magazine covers that proclaimed that Angelina Jolie is leaving Brad Pitt. I heard her offer the man on the other end of the phone money. "I will give you twenty dollars for gas if you will just bring my children back to me." He must have refused because she continued to talk and cry. "I will give you thirty dollars. Gabriel, please don't make me suffer like this."

I found it interesting that all the Latina, Asian and white people in the Walgreens seemed to have disappeared from sight. And yet me and now two other black woman were hovering, watching this woman sob on the phone. The second woman was older, her graying hair braided in cornrows, her eyes narrowed with disgust. She approached me, shaking her head with disdain as she gestured toward the crying lady. She asked me, "Can you believe this sh*t?"

On the one hand, I couldn't believe I was overhearing a woman in a Walgreens on the phone begging for her children and apologizing to her man for being angry that he brought "the other woman" home. On the other hand, I sometimes feel like I see it all in Los Angeles so there was a part of me that felt a little jaded by the conversation.

I asked the lady with the cornrows, "Do you think we should do anything?"

"I don't know, but she needs to stop offering that ni**a money in exchange for her kids." She shook her head some more and continued, "We black women put up with too much stuff from those fools. Ni**a's wanna bring some other ho up in a woman's house and then not let her see her kids... And she's gonna pay him gas money? Oh hell no!."

I didn't know what to say so I mumbled something about it being a shame and I wandered back to the candy aisle. There were lots of other folks minding their own business, trying to decide which pre-fab Easter baskets to buy. Plus it was almost 2:00. We were going to be late for the Easter egg hunt if I didn't hurry up.

I found myself thinking, "I should have stayed home on the couch," and "Why can't I be one of those people who just go about their business and don't ever walk over to see what's going on?" I started to put the name-brand chocolates into my bag and said out loud, "I can be one of those people!"

A minute later, the crying from the African woman had gotten even louder. Along with it, I could hear another voice saying, "Ma'am, I need my phone back."

Crap. I'm just not one of those people.

I walked back around the corner and approached the African woman now talking and crying even more hysterically into the cell phone. Her son was still sitting on the floor, his chin in his hands, his eyes staring vacantly ahead. The other two black women were also there. They were talking to each other and it turns out that the one with the little girl was letting the African lady use her phone. She told me that the African lady was supposed to meet her estranged husband at the Jack in the Box and get the other kids from him.

Mrs. Africa had been a couple minutes late because she was on foot. Her man had pulled out of the parking lot and left, even though he'd seen her walking up the street toward the restaurant. But, no, he'd kept driving and she'd hunted for someone who'd let her borrow a phone to call him. Now he was saying he wasn't going to ever let her see her kids again.

I heard a bit more of this background story and then looked down at the little boy sitting on the floor, listening to his mother offer more money, "Gabriel, I'll give you forty dollars for gas if you'll just bring my babies to me. Please! I'M BEGGING YOU!"

I couldn't take it anymore. I found myself grabbing this hysterical woman by the shoulders and saying, "You need to hang up the phone. He's just humiliating you and playing a game and your son is sitting here listening to you beg." She started to cry more and I repeated myself, "Hang up the phone!"

The woman with the little girl chimed in, "And I don't have free weekend minutes so I really need my phone back."

The African woman said to Gabriel, "Please, just bring them back to the Jack in the Box. I'll give you fifty dollars. That's all I have."

The older woman with the cornrows suggested, "Call the cops and have his ass arrested. No good ni**a!"

The African woman overheard her, paused the hysterics and begging, looked Mrs. Cornrows in the face and dropped a bomb. "Oh, my husband isn't black. He's not a ni**a. He's white!"

(Oh, Los Angeles and her surrealness...)

To which Mrs. Cornrows said, "Oh, you're letting a white man treat you like that? You really need to hang up the phone then and let his ass know who's in charge." She then turned to me and said, "She's married to a white guy? Hmph. I don't know what they teach them in Africa but she should be runnin' sh*t, not him!"

The woman with the little girl crossed her arms across her chest and repeated more forcefully that she needed her phone because she needed to go.

Mrs. Africa finally handed her the phone and collapsed to the floor in a heap of tears. I found myself wanting to comfort her but also wanting to tell her to get up for the sake of her son. I asked her if she was legally married and she said yes. She tearfully explained how a month ago, her husband had brought home another woman and said all three of them were going to live together, but when she'd protested, he'd kicked her and her son( from a prior marriage) out. She's been living in shelters with her son since then. She has two daughters with this man, ages four and six, and he'd kept them and moved the new girlfriend in. He'd told her that she could visit her daughters for a few hours but now that was ruined because she'd been late.

I asked her if she'd been to Legal Aid yet. She hadn't and she asked me, "Do you think they can help me get my babies back?" I told her that I didn't know, but she probably had some grounds for custody since he was the one trying to move another woman in. I didn't know if they'd give her full custody though if she was homeless.

Mrs. Cornrows was still in shock and asked again, "You really letting a white man treat you like that?"

Then Mrs. Africa said the phrase every abused woman has said at some point or another, "But I know he really loves me. I don't know why he does these things."

I could feel the pinpricks of tears starting to form in my own eyes. And that's when I knew I needed to go. I couldn't fix this. I couldn't give this woman a place to live or the legal advice she needed. I couldn't provide relatives to go kick this man's ass. Nope, I could only suggest overworked and underfunded Legal Aid and that she document all the threats he's making and actually take him to court. But I don't even know if she'll do all these things because she believes this man loves her.

I could only tell her that she needed to leave this man for the sake of her son sitting there watching and overhearing all this, and for the sake of her little girls who were obviously listening in to the other side of the conversation. I told her I'd pray for her. Then with my basket of pastel plastic eggs and candies, I headed for the checkout lane, the incredulous voice of Mrs. Cornrows trailing behind me, "Girl, that white man don't love you. He just wants your $50!"

As the cashier rang up my last item, Mrs. Africa's voice carried clearly across the Walgreens hub-bub. "I guess white men can be ni**gas too."

Trippin' To Disneyland

Tomorrow, for the first time in my life, I'm going to Disneyland. It does feel sort of special to be going to Disneyland for the first time ever right now, mainly because my husband has also never been there and neither have my kids. We're all 1st timers. The thought of that is a little scary!

Yes, I figured it was time to take my kids, especially since my eldest son has been making up stories about going. Several of his friends in his kindergarten class have already been and I think he has started to wonder why we haven't been yet.

I guess I never even really thought about going and I've been trying to figure out why that is.

I do know that when I was a kid, maybe when I was eight or nine, I did see commercials for Disneyland on TV. But, I think I wanted to go with the sort of wistfulness we reserve for pipe dreams. I never once seriously thought that there was a remote possibility that my family was going to trek all the way out to Anaheim, California so I could get my picture taken with Snow White and see Sleeping Beauty's castle. I never ever expected that to happen. Never ever, because I remember feeling...no, I remember knowing, Disneyland was not for me.

In my world, Disneyland was for white kids with money. The Disneyland advertisements I saw on TV reflected the people around me that I knew were getting on a plane and going to Anaheim. In my world, Disneyland was for the blond-haired, blue-eyed children who came back from Christmas break with ski lift tags still affixed to their zippers. It was for the kids who read the The Official Preppy Handbook and could actually afford to dress like the book instructed. Those kids went away to summer camps in Michigan to learn archery and horseback riding. Those kids had parents who went to Europe for two weeks, came home, felt guilty and said, "Heather, we'll take you to Disneyland for spring break. Promise."

I'm hoping my oldest son hasn't been thinking and feeling the same way I used to feel about Disneyland. I hope that he feels it's a place that's for him, but... almost all of the Disney characters are either white folks or animals. Sure, we've got Aladdin and Mulan to round things out. And, I know that down the road Disney has plans for some black princess character, but still, that's nothing! Thinking about this, wow, I am more than a little apprehensive (is that the word?) about going to the shrine of Disney. I already worry about my eldest having identity issues. Will going to Disneyland subconsciously make him feel "less than"? Will he be writing on his own blog in 25 years, saying, "I first remember knowing that being black in America wasn't OK when I was six years-old and we went to Disneyland"?

I'm sure it'll be fine tomorrow but I can't help but think about all this stuff. Sigh. I'll let you know how it turns out.

To Enhance Or Not To Enhance...That Is The REAL Question

OK, I'm out on the town in Breast-Implant Land, I mean, LA. Did I mention that I'm on vacation this week? Well, I am! Thank goodness for vacation because I was singing DMX songs in my head last Friday. I'm at The Grove, everyone's favorite outdoor mall/pseudo community on 3rd and Fairfax. The rest of my family is next door at the theatre watching the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie. Yeah, sorry, but I had to pass on that one. I've been strolling around outside and I just walked by the Victoria's Secret so here's another bra-related question:

What's up with the plethora of padded and push-up bras available?

I mean, do most women really want the average man (or woman) staring at their chests? Ladies? Tell the truth. I'll tell you my truth: I think it's annoying and insulting and I wish I could use a red-hot poker or an acid-filled water-gun on the offenders. I know, I'm supposed to ooze sex appeal, have my ta-tas jumping out of my shirt, and not worry about whether or not I'm being taken seriously at work or anyplace else. --On the other hand, maybe I should try wearing a push-up AND padded bra at work. Maybe I'll get a promotion or something.

Seriously, come on. If you've got the padded/push-up thing going on, once you take that thing off, somebody's gonna know all that cleavage wasn't really you. And, since I'm married and believe that a present for my honey equals a new pair of underwear, (they really don't buy them for themselves) I know that padded boxers and briefs aren't available in mainstream department stores.

Nope, men don't roll around wearing gel-enhanced underwear to make themselves look more physically endowed. Or, if you're a man and you do that, I'm sorry, but there's a possibility that you're still mentally in the eighth grade.

We women, alas, we've drunk the kool-aid that's been trickled down our throats. We've been brainwashed into believing we are less than worthy if our breasts aren't gigantically standing at attention at all times...but, don't get me wrong, I'll be the first to admit, if you need a bra, please wear one.

And now I'm off to observe some non-undergarment related activities...like the guy sitting to my left here in the Barnes and Noble. He just dropped his half-eaten cookie onto the floor and instantaneously picked it up and started eating it. I don't even think he's aware that he did it.

It's a sure sign...he must have kids.

32A, 34B, 36C, 38D? Your Guess Is As Good As The Salesgirl's!

Last night, I went to the JcPenney at the Glendale Galleria. I was in search of new shoes and pants for my eldest son, Olinga, also known as "The Human Weed" because he's growing so quickly. After getting both of my kids shoes and pants (great prices!) I decided to head to the lingerie department to check out what was on sale there as well.

My eldest is at that age where he screams, "EWW...GIRL'S UNDERWEAR!" at the top of his lungs. That progresses to, "I can't look! Rescue me, mommy! AAGH, I SEE BRAS!" The younger one says whatever his brother is saying, but he seems to have more lung power, and also will add his own flavor by saying stuff like "nasty underwear" and "gross bras". Needless to say, I sent them to a play area with their father.

It turns out, I was the only customer wandering around the lingerie department at 7:30 on a Sunday night. I picked up some underwear that was on sale, "Five for $25". I'll never get why a pair of underwear is $5, but that's a whole other issue.

Then I saw a sign advertising a "Free Bra Fit Event" and figured I should get myself measured. After all, I always read how most women are going around wearing the wrong bra size and I don't want to be one of them. And,I was safe! No other customers were there to hear my measurements, unlike last time I got my bra size measured and the saleswoman seemed to be hell-bent on shouting my measurements through a megaphone. I figured it'd be smooth sailing.

I approached the counter where three employees were chatting with each other while folding and rehanging items discarded in the dressing rooms. I waited...ten seconds. Twenty seconds of hearing how Tatiana's man is no good. Thirty seconds...he is cheating with, "that slut". I'm thinking, "Ok, maybe they don't see me, even though I'm standing right there." I decided to interrupt their gossip-fest.

"Excuse me, but if it's not too much trouble, I want to get my bra size measured." Jeepers, listen to me! No wonder my sister says I'm waaay too nice to people.

The sales girls exchanged looks and one said to me, "You don't know your bra size?"

The very question made me feel like a moron even though they had the Bra Fit Event sign right next to the cash register.

"I know my size, but I want to make sure I'm wearing the right size. It's been about a year since I got measured, and I want to be sure."

They exchanged looks again and one of them said, "Ok, Kati (pronounced Khaa-tee) will measure you."

So Kati sighs, grabs a tape measure, comes from behind the counter and says, "What size were you before?" I tell her but explain that I've been working out more and so my bras feel a little big. She starts to wrap the tape measure around my chest. Thirty seconds later she says, "Well, you're either a ___ or a ___ ." Kati suggests that I try on both sizes to see which one I like best.

I had instant misgivings about this you're one of two sizes measurement. One of the band sizes she told me was bigger than what I currently wear and if I already think what I wear might be too big, how could this possibly fit? The other size was the same band size I wear now, but a much bigger cup size. As flattering as being a bigger cup size sounded, um, it really was just ridiculously unbelievable!

I knew that no bra in these two sizes would fit me. I wanted to ask Kati to remeasure me but she'd already stalked back behind the counter to hear more about Tatiana's trifling boyfriend going over some other woman's house.

See, now I know why we ladies are going around wearing the wrong bra size. It's because customer service is truly a lost art. We're left to guess whether we're an A, B, C or D or ZZ cup. We're left to try to just pick something off the rack and hope it fits. What size bra do I really wear? Your guess is as good as mine.

And, in case you're wondering, yes, I left the underwear on the counter. Even though they really were cute, I couldn't buy something from a trio of salesgirls who couldn't even get it together for one measly customer. I keep thinking about why I didn't say something to them about their poor customer service. I know back in the day, my mom sure would have.

What would they have done if I'd actually told them why I wasn't buying anything? I don't know about you but my gut tells me they would have just shrugged it off.