Snap, Crackle, Pop! Yeah, The Show Was Hot!

I think a pair of underwear got tossed onto stage.

Then again, maybe it was actually a lace glove. Or maybe I am just imagining that I saw underwear flying through the air in the direction of Davey Havok.

If I did imagine it, you have to understand: Tonight's Blaqk Audio show at The Mayan was HOT!

The opening DJ? Not so much. Howie Pyro text-messaged and yawned while phoning in his set. He did play an amazing track by Fischerspooner. Other than that, my three year-old could've mixed better.

Thankfully, his "performance" was soon over and Mr. Havok and Mr. Puget finally took the stage. Here's what I think made the Blaqk Audio show amazing:

1) The crowd was not the typical "Too Cool For School" LA crowd. Instead, this crowd was ready to let loose, dance and sing along to all the songs. It was general admission so things got a little crazy at times with folks trying push their way to the front. But, for once, LA represented!

2) Davey Havok is a great front man. The guy's been performing and touring with AFI for the past fifteen years or so and it really shows. He knows how to work a crowd. I mean, really work a crowd, hence the suspicion about the underwear. And while I didn't hear anyone yelling about how hot he is...um, yeah, he's a very good looking man in person.

3) Jade Puget is no slouch on the synths. He's the guitarist for AFI normally, but he's the music side of Blaqk Audio. Plus he sings backup, dances, and gets the crowd going. I wish I could hug him for creating the song "Cities of Night".

4) Davey and Jade were genuinely having fun together on stage. This is particularly true on their cover of Blur's "Girls and Boys". There's no faking how much they were enjoying themselves. I mean, when's the last time you saw a show where the entertainer seemed to be having as much fun as the audience? Sometimes performances just seem like something for the artist to get over with so they can go back to snorting coke. But not with these two. They had so much raw energy and enthusiasm. They even smiled at times while they were performing and laughed too!

I can't wait to check out some YouTube footage of the show. Everybody and their mama had their cameras out snapping pictures and taping the show. (I didn't take my camera because I just wanted to enjoy the show without worrying about taking pictures.)

5) This concert was another excuse to me to wear a Depeche Mode t-shirt. Not that I need an excuse, but you know what I mean. Here I am, wearing one of DM's last tour shirts a mere hour before I left to go to tonight's show. (I look like I am still mad as all hell that I took my eldest to soccer practice and found out that it was canceled and his coach didn't call.)

Anyway, some folks think Blaqk Audio sounds like Depeche Mode. They really don't. But it felt good to rep the kings of alternative/electronica/rock at a Blaqk Audio show. A few other folks had the same idea. I saw several other DM shirts tonight.

I suppose more than anything, I'm happy I'm once again doing the kinds of things I love to do, the kinds of things I stopped doing when I let my job consume my entire life. Being a workaholic is not fun. If you happen to be one, please stop and remember that there are other things in the world you need to enjoy.

I don't know if you'll get to enjoy seeing Blaqk Audio live anytime soon since tonight was the last show of their tour. Let's all hope they embark on another sometime soon. We need things that put joy in the world and smiles on people's faces.

And with that, I'm going to bed.

Straight Blaqk

September is clearly music month for me! I'm telling you, when I said earlier in the summer that I was reclaiming my life, I wasn't playing around!

Tonight, I'm going to see a duo called Blaqk Audio. They're performing at a club in downtown LA called "The Mayan'".

Blaqk Audio is an electronic side project from Davey Havok and Jade Puget, two members of AFI. You can read about how I got hooked onto AFI right here.

I'll probably be the oldest person there since it's an all ages show. The only thing that worries me about that is that I might get trampled by insane fan girls screaming, "Oh, Davey Havok, you're sooo hawt!" Davey's the one on the left.

If I escape those fan girls, I have to watch out for the ones screaming Jade's name, "Jade, I luv you!!!" He's the one on the right.

Despite the annoyance of "Javey" (Jade + Davey) adoration, at least I won't have to deal with pot heads like I did at the Muse show last week. Thank goodness, both Havok and Puget are Straight Edgers. The crowd that follows them tends to be the same.

If you're not familiar with the Straight Edge movement, it started as a subculture of the hardcore punk scene and folks who are into it completely abstain from alcohol, cigarettes and other drugs of any form. Some Straight Edgers also don't drink coffee, they become vegans or vegetarians and they don't engage in promiscuous sex.

It makes me wonder, will hip-hop ever develop a straight edge subculture? Wouldn't that be interesting!

Anyway, it should be a good show...and I'll get to hear live the song that's been my cell ringtone for the past couple of months, "Cities of Night".

I'm really glad I'm going. I need something to put a smile on my face after what I've seen this week. Don't you think?

Seeing the Unseen

Over the past few weeks I've come to realize that although I've lived in my neighborhood for eight years, I haven't really lived in it. After all, how could I really see what's going on in my neighborhood when I was rushing out the door at 7 AM and not getting back home until 6:30 PM (on a good night).

For example, I didn't know that this old woman somehow gets in the gate in back of my building and digs through the recycle bins for bottles.

Despite the occasional feel-good story that runs in the press about someone who's putting their child through college by going through other people's trash and collecting bottles and cans, I find nothing heart-warming about it. It makes me profoundly sad that people are so impoverished that they must find some way to sneak into my building parking lot and do this.

When I took her picture mid morning yesterday, I think I assumed that seeing her tip over the bin, and then getting on her hands and knees to dig through the trash, was going to be saddest thing I'd see all day. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

My gut tells me that the drunk that used to be down the hill is okay. So, if I don't count him, well then yesterday I saw my first dead body in my neighborhood.

It happened while I was going to pick up my 1st grader from school. I pulled up on Melrose around 2:15, rushing because the bell rings at 2:20 and I had a block to sprint down a side street. As we stood, waiting to cross the street, my three year-old whined that he wanted a piggy back ride. I could only look across the street at a body, a male body, face down in the dust. He lay there, only a couple of feet away from the traffic rushing by. Nothing was moving.

He was Latino, dressed in a green t-shirt, khaki shorts and tennis shoes. I couldn't see his face, but his outfit conveyed youth. I guessed him to be in his early twenties. I didn't think this was just another drunk. The body had an awkward twist to it. Something just didn't seem right. There was a stillness that a live body just doesn't have.

We crossed the street and about 20 feet away from the body, I stopped a group of teenage girls that had just walked by him. I asked them if they knew him, if he was with them. You never know. Sometimes boys play silly pranks... like pretending to be dead.

They said they didn't know him. They were overall, very nonchalant about it, like it's something they see every day. Other parents were walking by on the way to the school, glancing down at this body, but never stopping.

I pulled out my phone and called 911. I was put on hold for about 5 minutes, then connected to the California Highway Patrol and then transferred to the Fire Department. I explained where I was and what was happening. They asked me if he was breathing. I was close enough to be able to tell them that I was pretty sure he wasn't.

They wanted me to go and check on him but, quite frankly, I was afraid. And I told them that I was afraid. What if he wasn't dead and was just in some drug-induced stupor and then woke up and freaked out on me? I wasn't taking a chance, especially not when my three year-old was with me. The operator told me to wait on the corner till paramedics showed up.

Before I knew it, I heard the sirens screaming. A moment later, a fire truck and an ambulance rounded the corner. I pointed to where the body was and they pulled up alongside him. The paramedics jumped down and surrounded him. One firefighter came over and thanked me for my call.

I walked away to go pick my son up from school. He was happy to see us but wanted to know why we were so late. My three year-old answered first, "There's a dead body down the street!"

Of course, I ended up talking to his teacher about what I'd just seen up the street. Then she explained my son's homework. On my way out of the school, I ran into the Pre-K teacher and talked to her. Before I knew it, twenty minutes had flown by.

I could see that the firetruck and ambulance were still up the street so we walked towards them to check things out. When were a couple of houses away, I could see that the guys were getting back on the truck and getting ready to pull away. I ran toward them and yelled as loud as I could, "Is he okay?"

The driver of the firetruck looked down for a moment and then looked up at me. His eyes met mine. I could see the regret in them as he shook his head.

No.

The firetruck and the ambulance pulled away as we reached the corner. No lights flashing or sirens blaring...and the body was gone.

Yeah, these are the kinds of things I never saw when I used to get home at 6:30 at night. I didn't see this kind of thing while running errands on the weekends either. I don't know what happened to the young man who died on the street yesterday. I'll probably never know. I can only pray he will find more peace in the next life than he did in this one.

Put the "P" in Percolator

I think I've finally recovered from the awesomeness that was last Friday night's Muse concert. It was a really good show. In fact, Muse is so good that watching them for an extended period of time is mentally exhausting.

My husband described the experience best. He said Muse is a little like the genius elements of Prince, Smashing Pumpkins, Rachmaninoff, Jimi Hendrix, Depeche Mode and Queen all in one band. Seriously out of control. Seriously legendary. Go see them if you get the chance.

The only downer was the pot-head sitting next to me. He got mad when I politely asked him to put his joint out. "What are you gonna do, call the police?" he snarled.

Ugh! I can't stand drug use and I didn't go to the show to get a contact high so I told him, "If necessary." He was probably ten years younger than me and I gave him my "teacher / black momma" look so he'd know I wasn't playing.

After 30 seconds of cussing, huffing and puffing, he finally put the joint out and then ended up leaving early...missing over half of a Muse concert to go smoke a blunt. What an idiot.

We got home at around 2 in the morning because the drive home from Irvine took an hour and a half. We were having a torrential downpour and I thought we might die because folks out here either drive 80 mph or 5 mph when it rains . It was our first rain since spring and the first September rain in Los Angeles in over 25 years. Does this mean El Nino is coming again? Do I need to buy another umbrella?

Anyway, even though I'm recovered from the show, I've been sort of brain dead today. I'm sure part of it is that I have a really bad cold. Kleenex is my new BFF!

So I figure it's perfect timing that I've been tagged by the wonderful Ian over at Or So I Thought. My task? I must come up with seven subjects beginning with the letter "P" that are meaningful to me. So, let's get it on and poppin' with my seven "P" subjects.

1) Prayer: I have this picture up in my kitchen. It always makes me think about how I can't figure it all out by myself. I don't have all the answers. And I need to improve myself infinitely. So, I pray.

I remember how when I was a little girl, I was absolutely afraid to go down into the basement of our house. The only way I could get down those stairs was to say one of the first Baha'i prayers my mother taught me.

"Is there any Remover of difficulties save God? Say: Praised be God! He is God! All are His servants, and all abide by His bidding!"

I believed that God would remove my difficulties and protect me, so I said that prayer on every single step, all the way down, while I was getting clothes out of the dryer, and while I was going back up the stairs.

I've taught this same prayer to my children and my eldest son says it before he goes to bed every night. He tells me that he's asking God to protect him from having bad dreams.

Of course, prayer is infinitely more than asking God for stuff. It's not about closing your eyes and mentally reciting the fantasy material possessions list, as in, "God, I need a new car. Can you help me get a new car? Oh, and I need some new Chanel perfume too."

I really believe that prayer is a process of making yourself better, having a conversation with God, and becoming more humble. We all think like to think we're "the bomb" so when we pray, it's like admitting, "No, I am not the end-all, be-all of this existence. Plus, true prayer needs action. I can have my conversation with God, humble myself, and then I need to decide what action I'm going to take. God doesn't just solve everything for me. Nope, I have to make things happen and make decisions based on something other than my own ego.


2) Parenting: If I'm not a parent to my kids, then MTV, peer pressure, drugs, alcohol, gangs, promiscuity and materialism are all too happy to step in and help raise my sons. I'm clearly not trying to have that so I have to be vigilant about being a good parent. Now that I'm working from home, I have the joy of spending more time with my little boys. Being around my three year-old is such an ego check. He told me earlier today that my earrings are ugly. Then he sniffed my socks and said my feet smell. But he's coming along nicely in Pre-K so that's putting a smile on my face.


3) Peace: I read today that violent crime in this country is nearing a five-year high. That has nothing to do with Al Qaeda.

Then again, there's a whole lot going on over in Iraq that has nothing to do with Al Qaeda...

Yes, peace takes more than letting some doves out into the sky and singing Kumbaya. It takes more than fancy speeches and treaties. Clearly, we need to stage some interventions on our world leaders. Their wars make money for their friends and cause misery for the rest of us.

As far as our own personal peace interventions, we can start off making peace with our families and with our own neighbors. After all, how many of us have some relative that we can't stand? How many of us hate the neighbor next door or the girl who sits in the cubicle next to us. Granted, there may be good reasons to hate the person but sometimes, we have to just let it go. I think I'll challenge myself to make peace with someone I don't like too much. How about you?


4) Please: I am a big fan of people asking for stuff politely. I hear too many demands for service these days and folks just seem to leave the word "please" out. How many times have I heard someone say, "Can I get another Coke?" to a server?

Hello, folks! It's, "May I have another Coke, please?"

Even Britney Spear's latest song is "Gimme More". I don't think I heard the word "please" anywhere in there. Then again, I might have missed it since I haven't listened to her song other than hearing it every time I turn on the news.

Really, I think our entire country needs to go on a manners and politeness binge.


5) Poetry: I've been writing lots of poetry lately. Sonnets have been my favorite form over the past couple of months. I hadn't written any poetry in years, and then, two days before Memorial Day, I got inspired. I've posted two sonnets to this blog. You can read them if you haven't already:

A Sonnet For Dreamers

A Sonnet For Remembrance and Love

I might be posting more in the future. I'm not sure yet.


6) Percolator: All you Chi-town house music heads know this one. It's been FIFTEEN years since this song came out and folks all over the world are still working it out to Cajmere's monster house hit. I will forever associate this song with a particular time and place in my life, one that was heavy on the going out and dancing, especially to home-grown favorites like this. It's impossible not to dance to this song. There are a great many clips on YouTube of folks dancing to this song. This girl breaks it down though.

I don't think my old behind is moving like that anymore!


7) "Personal Jesus: No list on this blog would be complete without a mention of Depeche Mode! And, in case you think that my extolling the virtues of Muse means that they've replaced DM in my heart, um, no. Never.

Luckily, there are several "P" named songs by Depeche Mode that I really enjoy. I was tempted to pick "Policy of Truth", "People Are People" or maybe "Photographic". But the live experience of "Personal Jesus" is truly something to behold.

The song came out in my senior year of high school and even though I'd been a Depeche Mode fan for many years at that point, hardly anyone else I knew listened to them. "Personal Jesus" changed all that. It was Depeche Mode's first really really big hit. And no, the song isn't literally about Jesus. The title is a metaphor for Priscilla Presley's relationship with Elvis. So if you think about what you know of that relationship, you'll understand it.

We've probably all put our faith in people in ways that we shouldn't, elevated them to a status they don't deserve, pinned all our hopes on them when we should've known better.

Or at least if you've never done that, I know I have.

So there are my seven "P"' related things! I can't remember how many people I am supposed to tag for this. But, I think I'll pick three lovely ladies living in the Chi because I'm missing home today and I miss you all a bunch:

1) Mamita Umita

2) Ready, Set, Blog

3) If I Only Had A Blog

If anyone else wants to take this on, go for it! Let me know and I'll come by and read your responses.

Black Friday

The Jena Six Rally may be over but I'm still dressed in black.

What can I say? Advocating for justice is an everyday thing. And black is my favorite color. In fact, I have enough black clothes that I could wear a completely different all-black outfit every day of the week. Someone put me on "Tim Gunn's Guide to Style" so I can learn how to incorporate color into my wardrobe, okay?

I also have another reason to be wearing all black: I'm possibly mourning one of the drunks down the hill.

Yes, one of my warm beer drinking "buddies" may be no more. I mean, I clearly want these drunks gone but I don't want them dead, you know?

When I walked by around 2:00 yesterday afternoon, he appeared to be passed out under his favorite tree. That in itself is nothing new. That's par for the course. However, when I drove by around 5:00, it looked like he hadn't moved. That definitely concerned me. Usually, he moves from the tree to the sidewalk, and then back to the dust that passes for grass in drought-stricken Los Angeles.

I called LAPD on my cell phone. They said it sounded like paramedics were needed and then connected me to the fire department. The Fire Department operator asked me questions like, "How old is he?"

I had no idea. I mean, it's not like I've ever stopped and engaged in conversation with this man. He's always very dirty and disheveled and his face has that hard-core alcoholic look to it. I've never felt inclined to ask, "So, how old are you? Do you prefer warm beer or whiskey?" Nope, we've never talked. I've had nothing to say in response to his slurred, "Hola, bonita!"

I told the operator that he looked older than 35 but younger than 60. I could hear the pause on the other line, like the operator was thinking, "Okaay, that's a 25 year age span. What a dummy!"

I felt distinctly unhelpful. That feeling got worse when the operator asked, "Can you walk over and check if he's breathing?"

Um, NO! I wasn't about to get that close. I'd walked by earlier on the opposite side of the street and besides I'd just seen him when I was driving by on my way to the bank.

The operator sighed, thanked me and asked for my cell number. I sort of hoped it was so he could call me back and say, "He's fine. Just a little too much Jim Beam knocked back today."

Twenty minutes later when I drove back home, the drunk was no where to be seen. One of my neighbors said they'd seen an ambulance zoom up our street with it's lights flashing and sirens blaring.

Today, the guy isn't there. His three buddies are there, but he's not. Does this mean he's been arrested for public intoxication? Does this mean he's dead? Is he in the hospital? The cops never called back to tell me anything. I'm left wondering.

I'll keep my black outfit on tonight since I'm going to see Muse out in Irvine. I definitely need a little amazing guitar playing to start off my weekend. Watching this clip of Muse playing "Stockholm Syndrome" live absolutely convinced me I had to see them. I'll tell you, the last minute of this has some of the best guitar riffing I've heard in quite awhile.



And people wonder why my youngest child wants to be a rock star...

Wearing Black, Being Black

Yes, I'll be wearing all black tomorrow: Black pants, black shirt, black umbrella if it rains, black eyeliner on my eyes...but I'll skip the black lipstick because I'm not really going for the goth look.

I'm wearing all black in support of the "Jena Six" rally that will be taking place tomorrow in Jena, Louisiana. If you haven't heard of the "Jena Six" by now, Google it and you'll get to read about yet another ridiculous example of racism in the good ole USA. I think about incidents like this every time I hear someone say that my little boys are sooo cute. Yeah, they're cute, but cute won't stop someone from trying to convict black males for some craziness.

Speaking of blackness, today as we were walking home from school, my six year-old says to me, "Mommy, I'm the only black boy in my class."

This is 100% true. One other student is Asian. Everyone else is Latino.

I asked him if someone had said something bad about his skin or hair, and he said, "No."

I told him how if anyone did, he should tell his teacher and let me know so I could whup someone's ass help solve the problem. But he only replied, "How come there aren't any other black kids in my class?"

I know how my son feels. I feel like I've been asking variations of this "why am I the only black person" question my whole life. In most school or work situations I've always been the only black person, or else there was one other black person around. And, in moments like this, as much as I love my neighborhood (despite the drunks that were back again today), I wish there were more black folks around here. Or rather, I wish there were more black folks with school age children around here. The young black hipsters are starting to migrate this way and I see them out in all their childless, boho-chicness.

Folks tell me I should move to Inglewood or Baldwin Hills where I can see black folks the minute I walk out of the door. Plus the schools have greater numbers of black children. I've been told that my child is going to have identity issues if he doesn't go to a school with more black children. That way of thinking assumes that his race should be the primary identity for him, and indeed, for many people, race is their primary identity. But we are all more than the sum of racial politics.

So, I really hope you wear black tomorrow, not just to ask for equality and justice for black folks, but to ask for justice and equality for all of us. We all deserve so much more than what passes as racial equality in this country.

We all need to raise the bar.

The Drunks Down The Hill

The house across the street that's renting for $3500 a month still has a "For Rent" sign up. So much for the landlord's boast that he'd have the place rented in a week, no problem. I sort of wonder if prospective tenants balked at paying that much when there's a pack of drunks hanging out at the bottom of the hill.

When I walk my kids to school in the morning, the drunks are usually not there. I guess I should be grateful that most days they don't get started that early. But midmorning, when it's time to pick my youngest up from Pre-K, the booze is cracked open and there's four or five weatherbeaten guys knocking 'em back.

By afternoon when it's time to go pick up my eldest, they are laid on on the sidewalk, passed out across parked cars, swinging from tree branches, and yelling, "Hola, Bonita!" at my shadow. And no, I don't have a picture of them because I'm not stupid. The last thing I want is for these guys to think I'm paying any attention to them at all and taking their picture.

However, after a week and a half of their drunken insanity, I've had it. I'd personally love to pack them up and cart them over to Beverly Hills just to see what would happen. I'd deposit them right in front of some jeweler, Tiffany's or Bulgari would be great picks. But, I don't have that option. So, I decided to call the police.

My local police station is called Rampart. If that name doesn't sound familiar to you, Rampart is also the largest police corruption scandal in United States history. Seen "Training Day"? Well, the rumor is that's based on what went down here. Despite this bad rap though, our officers are usually really nice around here, but, like teachers, they're really overworked. I honestly thought that because of this, they'd have a little bit of an attitude on the phone once they found out that there was no murder, robbery or assault going on.

Instead, they were glad I called. They promised to send an officer right away to break up the "party" and they thanked me for calling. Now, whether the drunks will be gone when I leave the house in 20 minutes remains to be seen. And whether they'll be back again tomorrow is also an unknown.

But trust me, if they're back, I'll be calling again.

School And Society

Yesterday my youngest son officially became involved with one of the most powerful entities in this city, the Los Angeles Unified School District.

It was his first day of Pre-K and he was not too thrilled to be going. He refused to wear the lanyard-style name tag. In fact, he threw it on the ground. I could see tears beginning to well up in his eyes as the teachers told the kids to line up at the Pre-K entrance to the school.

His teacher came over and told him he was going to be okay. She kindly smiled at him and took his hand. His lip trembled a little but he held onto her.

I only let the tears roll down my face when he was safely out of sight. I cried because it's hard to see your baby experiencing such a milestone. And I cried because I worry about what this school system has in store for my little boy, a black male, especially since he has an "artistic" temperament.

Schools don't do too well with black boys with artistic temperaments.

But, I have confidence in his Pre-K teacher. My eldest son had her and she's great. We understand each other and I grilled her two years ago before my eldest entered her room. I know she was initially surprised when I asked her how she would deal with my son being called names or being teased because of his skin color or hair. But she recovered quickly and was open to hearing why I asked. When an incident did happen, she dealt effectively with it. And she was not afraid of my son's blackness and what that means for him in our society. She loved him instead of tolerating him and looking down her nose at him with a sense of superiority.

This is not how all teachers behave. I can tell you without a doubt that bad teachers come in every color. Racist teachers do too. But I've had a whole lot of experience with young white teachers coming in to teach poor children of color.

The things I'd experienced in my personal life and also seen in my own teaching experience gave me a prime opportunity to think about who I was working with. Who were these people coming to teach poor children of color? The majority were young white women who were admirably idealistic. They were eager to teach in low-income communities and change the lives of their students. They believed it was immoral for poor children to not get a decent education.

That belief is, in itself, a noble and wonderful thing. However, many of them were unprepared for the myriad ways race would play a factor in their teaching experiences. There was definitely a palpable desire to believe that race wouldn't be a big issue, even if many of them were afraid that black and Latino students wouldn't accept them because they were white. And they figured the veteran teachers who weren't white wouldn't accept them either.

Most of them had never had a very close friend who was black. I'm talking about a girlfriend they talked with every day. Someone who did the anorexia intervention on them during their sophomore year of college. Someone whose shoulder they cried on when they went through a bad breakup. Someone they were roommates with.

Many had never been to a black person's home. They'd never sung the Black National Anthem or been to an Ebony Fashion Fair Fashion show. Never been to a black beauty shop or smelled the chemicals of hair relaxers.

Of course, they'd read in sociology classes about the black male being an endangered species. Perhaps they'd even gone through an experimental phase where they'd slept with a few black guys at college. If they liked rap music, they believed it gave them the street cred they needed to relate to their students. They didn't stop to think about whether the black boys in their classrooms were being socialized to be 50 Cent. After all, he's a rich guy, and who wants to be Barry Manilow?

Many of these teachers didn't want to think about how little trust black folks have in schools that have failed their families for generations. None had ever thought the historical interactions between black and white women in this country needed to be taken into consideration when dealing with their student's mothers. They'd missed the history lesson on the jealous revenge white wives would take on black female slaves because their white husbands were spending time down at the slave cabins, raping those slaves.

Then they'd complain because when they'd tell mothers that their child had misbehaved, the mother would mistrustfully ask the teacher, "And what did you do to my child?"

They didn't know what was going on when the little black girls in their classrooms wistfully stroked the waist-length hair of the Latina girls. Instead they'd agree with the black girls who'd say to the Latina girls, "Your hair is so pretty."

And when those black girls came to school with hair extension braids, the teachers would ask,"Is that your hair? How did it get so long overnight?"

They'd complain that the black children were the worst behaved children in their classrooms and they didn't understand why those black children were still not achieving academically, despite having them, the awesome and motivated first year teacher.

Some were angry when I'd point out to them that they were treating their black and Latino students unequally. They didn't believe it was true. And then I'd share that when the Latino boy talked out of turn, they'd ignored him. But when the black boy talked out of turn, they'd yelled at him and given him a negative consequence.

"Are you calling me a racist?" They'd say. "Because I'm not a racist."

I'd tell them I was just objectively sharing what I was seeing. I was usually too chicken to say, "Yes, you're a racist." Instead, I'd ask what leadership opportunities they'd given the black student, what positive contact they'd had with the family, what encouraging praise and affirmation they'd given.

They'd just reiterate that they weren't racist. "Liberal" and "socially progressive" were the labels they'd given themselves. After all, who else would come teach in these schools? Who else would take the time for some poor children of color? Sure they were afraid of a black mother whose tough questions would be seen as normal if they were coming from the mouth of a white mother. But that fear wasn't racism, right?

The thing about our world is that teachers aren't alone in their denial. We desperately want to believe that everyone gets treated the same at work, when they're buying a car, when they're looking for housing, when shopping at Macy's, when walking down the street.

And if they don't, it's not racism. It's some sort of personal issues between two people.

Even more, we want to believe that we are not the perpetrators of racism. We all want to believe that racism is for people who from the South, are married to their cousin and are missing teeth. Racism is for people who wear white hoods on the weekend and voted for George Bush.

Yes, my son takes one more step into growing up in Los Angeles, a city where the chance of a 30 year old black male being murdered is 15.9 in 10,000.

And if he was white, it'd be 0.6 in 10,000.

Teachers are a part of that statistic, whether they want to admit it or not. We're all a part of that, whether we want to admit it or not.

Remembering in Silence

The first time I visited New York City, I was nineteen. I was with my parents and we went around on one of those tourist buses and saw all the sights. I loved Striver's Row in Harlem and I adored Chinatown. I laughed with the rest of the bus as the tour guide loving referred to the Twin Towers as the "washer and dryer".

As my family left NYC for the D.C. area, I watched that washer and dryer from the back window of our car. I watched till the buildings disappeared from view. I promised myself then and there that I was going to move to New York one day and come back for a visit.

I kept my promise and moved to New York six years later. I remember thinking back then how architecturally inferior the Twin Towers were to 99% of the buildings in the Chicago Loop. But there was something captivating about them, something beautiful that drew me there. I liked to go over to the buildings, stand at the bottom and just stare up, particularly at night. It made me a bit dizzy but I got a kick out of doing that.

I only went once to the observation deck of Two World Trade Center. I'll never forget the feel of the breeze on my face as I gazed out over New York City.

That September morning six years ago, I got up around 5:00. I took a shower, got dressed, made my lunch and got my stuff ready to go to work. I got my almost nine month-old baby up, changed him and dressed him. I remember sitting on the couch to nurse him and I flipped to the local news stations to see what was happening in the world.

I was just shocked by what I was seeing. I couldn't believe a plane had crashed into one of the towers. I figured one of the pilots must have had a heart attack or been drunk. I had no sense of possibility that anyone would survive such a horrible fire. I remember thinking that there was no way for firefighters to be able to put such a huge blaze out.

I think I'd only turned on the TV a couple of minutes before the second plane hit. And when that second plane did hit...I will never forget that sick, horrible feeling.

Matt Lauer and Katie Couric stopped speculating about whether air traffic controllers had screwed up. I yelled for my husband to come out of the bathroom. I called my mother and told her to turn on the TV. Then I remembered that my friend Mikelle was flying to NYC that morning. I called her cell phone over and over again and she finally answered. Her plane was sitting on the runway at LAX waiting for takeoff. I remember telling her what was happening and screaming that she needed to get off that damn plane no matter what. Then I called my boss who told me she wanted me to come into work regardless.

She actually told me, "It's not like it's going on here in LA."

I refused to come in. I was terrified and absolutely convinced that something was going to happen in LA. I started talking to my husband about how we were going to get out of the city given LA traffic. I was really certain those were the last moments of our lives together. The world seemed out of control. Something had happened at the Pentagon, but it seemed unclear what it was. The news people seemed so calm, so controlled. I didn't understand how Tom Brokaw was managing to keep his voice so even.

And then Two World Trade Center, the building I'd once stood on top of, came down.

I still can't explain what I felt in the moments after I saw that happening. I know that I cried a lot but I don't know what I said, what I did. I do know that by the time Tower One came down, almost a half hour later, I felt numb with grief. The loss of life, the loss of the buildings...the fruits of mankind's disunity were manifesting themselves and it hurt so much.

In the hours after the collapse of the second tower, I continued to watch the news. I prayed. I talked to relatives around the country and friends here in LA. I watched my baby crawl around on the floor. He was smiling and laughing, completely oblivious to the tragedy that had taken place.

Now, six years later, that baby is now a healthy 1st grader. Sometimes he tells me he wants to be an airline pilot, but mostly, he wants to be a pediatrician.

I also think about how after the attacks George Bush told us all that we should go about our lives as usual. He told us to go shopping. Essentially, he told us to embrace the religion of materialism and shut off our brains, our hearts, our very souls.

Today as I ventured around LA, I heard lots of people talking about Britney Spears' performance on Sunday night's MTV Video Music Awards. Not one person mentioned anything to me at all about today being the anniversary of the September 11th attacks. In fact, this morning, I thought out loud to a woman at my son's school. I told her I couldn't believe it's been six years and I wondered if the teachers were going to do anything special in the classrooms with the kids."

The woman asked me, "Why would they do anything special today?"

I felt simultaneously sheepish and angry as I said, "Because it's September 11th."

She merely replied, "Oh, yeah, that's right."

Earlier this evening, I found myself thinking again about that feeling of being on top of the observation deck of Two World Trade Center. None of us will ever do that again. But, about a year ago, while poking around on YouTube, I came across a promo video that Depeche Mode shot in 1990 for the song "Enjoy the Silence". They filmed it on that observation deck. It makes me cry, but it helps me remember what once was.



Truly, there is too much pain, too much lost beauty in our world.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Do you want to be my neighbor?

If you're willing and able to pay $3500 a month, then you can move right across the street from me. Well, technically, you need $10,500 to get started since they want two months deposit plus the first month's rent upfront.

I know. That's a whole lot of cash. But, if you're just dying to move to LA and you happen to have the money sitting around collecting dust, then seriously, you should come be my neighbor.

Let me tell you a little bit about your potential new home. It's a small, one-story house that used to be so ridiculously run down that cobwebs and black cats hung off the front porch year round. I was never sure what color the house was before. After all, the paint looked like it used to be a peachy beige color, but it was covered with such a thick layer of dirt, that I just couldn't tell.

Some old lady that we never saw lived there for a long time. She bought that house around 25 years ago, back when houses went for $50K in this neighborhood instead of for $800K like they do now. And then she died and her kids chose to sell. The new owners decided to rehab and rent out the place.

These invisible owners hired these gross contractors to slap up some stucco siding on the outside and replace the windows. I've watched these guys work all summer, sweaty potbellies on full display. I was grateful when they migrated to the inside of the house. Eww.

This morning, I finally saw a big "For Rent" sign hanging out front. Since the door was open, I strolled over to check things out and ended up meeting the new owner. I told him I live across the street and asked if I could check the new and improved house out. He showed me around, proudly pointing out the hardwood floors and faux marble countertops. There are three bedrooms and two full bathrooms. Gosh, I could really use that second bathroom about now because I am sooo fed up with living with three males who seem to need some Cheerios in the bowl for aiming purposes. There's also good storage space but in the bedrooms, the closets have those mirrored sliding doors. I positively hate mirrored sliding doors.

I also found out that whoever lived there would still have to pay all the utilities. And the big backyard that used to be behind the house? Well, they're building a small apartment building back there so the yard is completely gone. So if you're longing for grass and a garden, this might not be the place for you.

The owner asked me if I thought he was asking too much money for the place. I told him yes, the price seemed high to me. Then again, I shared that I moved to this neighborhood eight years ago, back when one bedroom apartments were $500 instead of $1800 and a two bedroom was $650, not $2400. He laughed and told me I was lucky I have rent control.

I absolutely agree.

He then told me he's pretty sure he'll have the place rented within a week, no problem.

I wonder. Has LA really come to this? Will folks really pay $3500 to live in a house with a torn up front yard, construction going on in the backyard, and mirrored closets?

I suppose so. Some trio of hip, young artsy types will move in. They'll maintain their LA slimness because they aren't eating. Nope, the money that would go to food will be going to pay the rent. They'll park vintage BMW's out front. They'll throw a party where someone strums an acoustic guitar and tries to channel Alanis Morrisette. They'll fall in love and then have very loud, public break-ups that I'll overhear at two in the morning.

Then they'll move away from LA, disillusioned with the sparkle and glitz that at one time seemed so promising.

Yes, the new landlord will have no problem renting that house. Folks will pay the money for the rent because the only "affordable" option is somewhere in South-Central LA. And, um, that's not really the hot neighborhood right now.

So come be my neighbor if you'd like to take a whirl. In eight years, it'll be your turn to marvel at someone else paying way too much for a place to live.

In Illegal Pursuit of a Spiderman Backpack

When it's too hot, people tend to act a little crazy.

Combine a week of temperatures over 100 degrees with stressed out parents freaking out the day before school starts, and you have a recipe for LA insanity.

I wish I could have avoided venturing out into that insanity. Unfortunately, yesterday afternoon, after doing a final inventory of my six year-old son's school supplies, I realized a new backpack was needed. Last year's Batman backpack...well, the Batman decorations were falling off. As much as I didn't think this was a big deal, my son definitely did.

Was I going to be the parent who sends their son to first grade with a jacked up backpack? It was tempting. After all, I'm only a couple of days off of hanging out with Amish people in Indiana. They do just fine without a whole lot of stuff. Surely my son could do without a new backpack?

Alas, I loaded the family into the car and we headed to the Target at the Glendale Galleria. Once there, we headed up to school supplies central on the second floor. Slim pickings were to be had. Nothing but pink and leopard print backpacks. Clearly, none of those were going down with my son.

Then I spied a little sign that said, "More Backpacks On Third Floor". So, we trekked up to the third floor where we totally lucked out! There was one Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle backpack and one Spiderman backpack left! Whew!

My son quickly chose the Spiderman backpack and then we headed back down to the second floor to check out the crayons. And that's when this loony lady decided to try to jack my son's Spiderman backpack out of our shopping cart!

It's not like I'd abandoned the cart or anything like that. Nope, I was crouching right next to it, digging through the school supply rubble. My three-year old was hanging off the side of the cart. He's the one who raised the alarm.

"Hey! That's not your backpack!" I heard him yell in his loudest, most outraged voice.

I looked up to see this awful woman clutching the precious Spiderman backpack in her meaty hands. Her expression clearly showed that she couldn't decide whether or not she wanted to put the bag back or take her chances and run with it. I was absolutely shocked. My kids though...well both of them started yelling at her.

"It's a backpack stealer!" screamed my six year-old. "Get her!"

My three year-old jumped off the side of the cart, ran toward her, and, to my horror, pulled his fist back and slammed it forward into her gut!

The woman let out an anguished squeak, threw the backpack back into the cart and then turned and fled. My eldest son yelled down the aisle after her, "YOU BETTER RUN! YOU STEALER! THIEF!"

The little one just had his dukes up, yelling, "I'm gonna kick your butt!"

What in the world??? It took a couple of minutes to calm them down. They were busy giving each other high fives and victoriously shouting, "We stopped that thief!"

Yes, they definitely had...but what the heck was going on? Attempted Spiderman backpack theft in Target? Who in the world does that? I can only think the heat must have had an effect on homegirl's sanity. And as awful as it sounds, I'm sort of glad my little boy socked her in the stomach like that. Of course I gave him a little speech about not hitting people, which he still believes does not apply to thieves. Gosh, he really thinks he's tough now.

This morning, I successfully got my six year-old out the door with his brand new backpack all filled with folders, crayons and pencils. He's excited to tell all his first grade friends about his adventure with last night's wannabe backpack thief.

As I walked him down the hill to his school, I noted that his version of events had expanded to the wannabe thief cowering in terror all night long.

Whether that's the case or not, the thief probably slept a little more comfortably last night because the much needed cool-down rolled in. Let's hope that means her (hopefully) heat-induced backpack thieving insanity has come to an end.