Sunday we drove to Ft. Greene for date night since he’d never eaten at Madiba’s. According to the New York magazine the quaint restaurant with its native decor was the first South African restaurant in America. After finishing our mushroom [...] Related posts:

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It was one of those rare 65 degree November nights in the city where magic happens. AEON, a new men’s magazine, was having their launch party in the Samsung store on 59th Columbus circle. Imani and I had met the group [...] No related posts.]]>

It was one of those rare 65 degree November nights in the city where magic happens. AEON, a new men’s magazine, was having their launch party in the Samsung store on 59th Columbus circle. Imani and I had met the group of five friends from New Jersey who had founded the mag the night before at a private dinner they had at Duo on Madison Ave. We were invited by Imani’s popular radio host mentor. I reveled in the fact that five men had remained friends (two of which were brothers) for over 15 years, and had capitalized off of several business ventures in various industries. However, they pooled their resources together to create a lifestyle and sex magazine tailored to men.The success they’d achieved in their actual careers allowed them to pursue this without a necessity for profit to pay their bills.

The launch party was like most NYC industry events. Only here would they turn a store that only sells Samsung products into a venue for a fabulous event. Imani and I hit the open bar for several glasses of Barentura Moscato, which did nothing to get me buzzed. We worked the room, mingled a bit. Ok, a lot. The abundance of beautiful black men was unprecedented, at least as far as I had seen. My freshly done 16″ sew-in made for an interesting night of men hitting on me disguised as networking, and it made for even more colorful conversation.

I ran into a guy I’d met at an after work shindig a couple months back. Phil told me he was a designer and his boys bragged about the album cover he’d created for a well known rapper. We talked about my blog that he admitted to reading. Inevitably the conversation trailed down the path of what women and men love to discuss– women and men.

“If I were dating in this city I wouldn’t take any dude seriously,” I proclaimed. “I’d be a chronic dater.”

“Why?”

“I mean, do you know any men under the age of 35 in NYC that are seriously trying to be in a committed relationship?”

“Good point.”

In the summer of ’09 I lived in Jamaica, Queens while interning at VIBE. I was single as ever. It was then I’d come to the conclusion that I wasn’t impressed with the men in NY. Meeting guys was never the issue. It was something about them that I hadn’t encountered in southern or Midwestern men. One of the two guys that stand out was an “entrepreneur.” The other had a good city job doing construction. He was apart of the union so he had great benefits, but worked long hours. Both guys were native NY’ers. Between both of them I always felt as if they wanted me to chase them. The courtship was bare minimum and came with a heap of expectations. In 2010 when I came to NY for my 25th birthday a couple of my guy friends warned me about men in NY. In a nutshell they told me that most of them are not serious about monogamy. They confirmed what my southern belle girlfriend living in NYC had told me that same weekend.

“Women in NY are so aggressive. They’re like vultures. You can’t even talk to a man at an event or bar without 10 other women staring you down, waiting for you to walk away so they can holler at him. Men know this and act accordingly.”

Since then I’ve been to enough launch parties, celebrations of book releases, house parties, networking events, music listening sessions and the like to understand not much has changed. I still wouldn’t expect much from any dating situation. Professional men in the city with degrees, jobs and no children believe they are the creme de la creme. They know that women outnumber men. They also know that for every one woman that takes a bit more effort to date, there’s five more that don’t require much at all.

When I took my random thoughts to Twitter I had no idea it’d turn into a full on two hour conversation. Women (and a few men) chimed in with their experiences all over the globe. What many women agreed on was that the desperation for women to create a nuclear family (get married & have some babies) has contributed to making dating difficult. I immediately wanted to ignore this as just another way that patriarchy plays out by blaming women. Desperate women do not dictate how a man treats a woman or if he’s going to play games. But the larger point, which I agree with, was that if women weren’t operating out of this anxiousness to have a man, any man, they’d raise the bar. By raising said bar men would have no choice but to step up to reach for that bar. In following this argument, women actually have the power to set the tone for what they expect from men when dating. And in doing this women start to set the standard.

Alas, that would be a perfect world. One where sexism and patriarchy doesn’t exist. One in which women don’t think they are doomed if they are single and childless by the age of 30. One in which women don’t validate or sneer other women based on their marital status. One in which men don’t have so many choices so they think they are a commodity. One in which women aren’t constantly fed messages via the media and society at large that they aren’t good enough and must change themselves to get a man. One in which men and women weren’t socialized to conform to heteronormative gender roles. But I digress.

Ironically this conversation was sparked opening weekend for Steve Harvey’s Think Like A Man, which beat out Hunger Games raking in $33 million in sales. The number one movie has an all black cast that tells women to think like men because clearly thinking like a woman is just stupid and will leave you lonely. (Important to note: the screenplay for Think Like a Man was written by two white men). If the growing interest in relationship books, relationship experts and “how-to” relationship movies are an indication of anything, it’s that both sexes desire love. Admitting we desire companionship and life partners is the easy part. Where it seems to get a little fuzzy is what we do to attain what we want. That seems to be a bit harder. Something no dating movie is going to change.

Check out the chirpstory of the insightful conversation we had on Twitter.

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Tears hit my black keyboard as I typed through my anger, frustration, sadness of a seven-year-old girl killed by police gunfire while they served a no-knock warrant at her home in Detroit. Her name was Aiyana Jones. My [...] No related posts.]]>

Tears hit my black keyboard as I typed through my anger, frustration, sadness of a seven-year-old girl killed by police gunfire while they served a no-knock warrant at her home in Detroit. Her name was Aiyana Jones. My head hurt. My heart ached. That was May 16, 2010.

Almost two months later, July 8, 2010, ESPN televised “The Decision” featuring LeBron James. He would announce his decision to leave the Cleveland Cavaliers to join the Miami Heat. I didn’t care about that. More importantly that day the trial verdict of BART Police Officer Johannes Mehserle was announced. Mehserle was convicted of involuntary manslaughter of shooting a handcuffed (unarmed) Oscar Grant in the back as he lie face down on an Oakland train platform. Mehserle’s was sentenced to four years in prison. The grief of Grant’s parents, family, friends may last a lifetime.  Once again I wrote about the lack of justice. I wrote it so I’d never forget his name.

Of course there was Amadou Diallo. Latasha Harlins. Eleanor Bumpers. Sean Bell. Kathryn Johnston (who was 92-years-old). Danroy Henry. All unarmed. All killed by those who view blacks as a threat.

Seven days before my 27th birthday I marched for Trayvon Martin. His only crime was being black in America. At 17-years-old he was gunned down with only having a can of iced tea and Skittles in his pocket. His murderer, a captain of the neighborhood watch, is still free. I chanted for justice. I yelled his name hoping that onlookers taking photos and recording video would remember. Hoping the same onlookers would go home and be moved to action. Really, hoping they remembered his name.

A week before the march I cried. I cried because, once again, we were here, at this place. A place where the ugly stains of racism in America had reared its ugly head. For the zillionth time. Only this time it wasn’t a police officer who pulled the trigger. With the large outcry and help of social media, mainstream media finally took an interest in the case. If it had been a police officer who’d shot Trayvon his death would have been swept under the rug like countless others. For the umpteenth time a black family was left to mourn the life of a child who should still be alive. I felt helpless as I had so many times before when there was no justice for a murdered black life. I was outraged that black life, again, meant nothing to America.

On Friday, March 17, the 911 tape of George Zimmerman calling in what he thought was a “suspicious” person was released. Another 911 tape of a witness calling in the gun shot she heard from her apartment was also released. I regrettably listened.  Zimmerman told police “they always get away.” Later it sounds as if Trayvon Martin is pleading for his life. Almost 30 days later the murderer of Trayvon Martin remains a free man.

Unfortunately, the end of Trayvon’s life isn’t new to black Americans. He is one of thousands killed by racist, bigoted vigilantes and police who don’t see a human, but instead a black boogeyman. We are left to pick up the pieces and demand justice. Instead of the right thing being done by our justice system, we have to sign petitions, call the police department en masse to demand justice, write emails, send letters and organize marches while Zimmerman remains a free man.

Everyday black males are in jeopardy of being gunned down. Not because they have committed a crime. Not even for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But because of the fear that society at large has of black males. And that the media continues to perpetuate in news, television, print and film. Black males are charged with the onus of being non-threatening so that the little old white lady doesn’t feel the need to clutch her purse when she sees him. They are charged with not wearing a hoodie so that someone doesn’t mistake them for being “suspicious.” Black males run the risk when driving a luxury car through a suburban neighborhood of being pulled over for driving while black. It is their obligation to avoid these types of situations. Never is it the obligation of our country to fix the ill it was built on.

I was sitting in traffic in route to the Million Hoodie March while Trayvon’s parents spoke in Union Square. Trayvon’s mother said: “This is not a black and white thing, this is a right and wrong thing.” Media headlines quickly honed in on that soundbite.

Danroy Henry’s parents made a similar statement in October 2010 when their college student son was killed outside of a club by Westchester County police. I understand why both the Henrys and now the Martins want the justice of their sons to appeal across racial boundaries, as it should. They know, like most people who live in this country without the privilege of never having to think about race, that the quickest way to receive a push back against your cause is to make it about race. If those parents had said, “Trayvon was killed because he was black, and the criminal justice system that hasn’t prosecuted my son’s murderer is an example of systematic racism,” some delusional Americans would have cried out, “They are playing the race card. Why does race always have to be brought up?” Sadly, it would also prevent people from caring or getting involved. So I get it.

But Trayvon’s case is about race. He was killed for being black. He was deemed “suspicious” because he was black. Zimmerman said, “They always get away,” the they implying blacks. He followed Martin (after the 911 dispatcher specifically told him not to) because he was black. Trayvon was killed for being black. Zimmerman hasn’t been arrested because the victim is black, and because he is not. The Sanford Police Department have tampered with witness testimonies because the victim is black and the murderer is not. Also they are too incompetent to handle a case of this magnitude with their sketchy history of other incidents revolving race. The police immediately believed Zimmerman’s claim of “self-defense” because the victim is black and he is not. This has everything to do with race. The media’s reshaping of Zimmerman being Hispanic (as if that matters) and honing in on the mother’s soundbite about it not being about race is a way to shift the focus. It serves to ease the guilt of Americans of the racist system they remain silent on far too often. Until we can have honest conversations about race and racism in America we will not progress.

*******

At one point when we were marching back from 42nd Street to Union Sq. (14th St.) I saw an older black woman to my left near the brick wall of a building. She watched and waited as we all walked by chanting and holding signs. I teared up as I saw the pride in her beaming eyes. I imagined she knew a lot about marching, standing up for basic human rights. Then I thought of all my ancestors. The abolitionists, the everyday people during the Civil Rights Movement, the revolutionaries of the Black Panther Party. I thought about how tired they must’ve been fighting. I envisioned the photographs I’ve seen of hoses being let loose on children, women and men. And the photos of police dogs attacking blacks in the streets for peacefully protesting. I again thought of how tired the ancestors must have been. But they kept fighting. They kept fighting not so much for their own benefit, but so that future generations could live in a world where blacks were seen as human, as equals.

As tired as I get from writing, protesting, signing petitions, marching, writing local and state officials, I must keep fighting. We all must keep fighting.

His name is Trayvon Martin.

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We were standing at the bar of a very low key venue in Soho. It was the joint birthday party of two of my editors and the night was young. Imani and I were laughing at something when a couple of [...] No related posts.]]>

We were standing at the bar of a very low key venue in Soho. It was the joint birthday party of two of my editors and the night was young. Imani and I were laughing at something when a couple of guys introduced themselves. We all chatted before we split into one-on-one woman/man conversations. Emile was a chocolate Ivy league brother from Haiti. You could tell he was used to easily impressionable types who swoon over a man’s intellect. Everything he wanted to discuss was political or community oriented. I didn’t mind, as these conversations are ones I have daily. But it was a party. Eventually the conversation took a turn down a dark road I rather not travel. I loathe the simplistic comparison of the success immigrants in America have had despite coming from nothing versus the plight of Blacks and their socioeconomic status today. But we found ourselves there.

“In the morning during rush hour all the Arabs, Asians and Indians are catching the train to Brooklyn while Blacks commute into the city for their jobs,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that immigrants aren’t trying to assimilate into white mainstream,” he responded. “They understand the value of the black market, which is why they own everything in our neighborhoods. They couldn’t care less about going to work for some firm on Wall Street.”

I replied with something sarcastic about that being a generalization and not the full picture. His response was myopic, explaining that the Asians who were in his Ivy league MBA program were not at all concerned with using their degrees to work for any Fortune 500 corporations. They got the degree(s), he said, and in most cases went back to their native countries to circulate money in their own communities, or they opened businesses here to send money back home. It all sounded like the tired, lazy argument that immigrants have been able to pull themselves up by the bootstraps, so blacks should be able to do the same. He wasn’t saying that, but was walking a fine line. Unexpectedly he blurted out, “Black Americans have an inferiority complex that keeps them down more than anything.”

Wait, what?

As a Haitian his ideals of blackness were not the same as black Americans. He also never dealt with being embarrassed of other blacks (as American blacks often are) because of the racial makeup in his country. His argument was that black Americans are too busy trying to prove to white people that we’re “good enough” because of the residual affects of slavery. He also argued this should be the furthest thing on our agenda.

********

Yesterday, Sean Combs (Puffy) announced he will launch his cable music network, Revolt, in a partnership with Comcast that is scheduled to debut in 2013. His announcement of course overshadowed the news that Magic Johnson will launch ASPIRE network (also in partnership with Comcast), which will feature programming depicting blacks in a positive light. I happily tweeted about being proud of Puff, and excited about the possibilities of Johnson’s ASPIRE.

Less than 24 hours later I read Puff’s timeline to see what he was saying about his new business venture. I was taken aback when I read his tweet, “FYI #Revolt is NOT a “BLACK NETWORK!” I just happen to be Black-Lol. This network is for all colors-all races…TechniColor RT!”

Sigh. Double sigh.

Prior to reading those tweets I had tweeted how much I respected Puff for always recognizing his target demographic and never pandering to mainstream. Unlike Jay Z, who recently said, “We don’t envision ourselves as an urban brand or streetwear brand,” in an attempt to rebrand Rocawear, I applauded Puff for never going that route with Sean John, Ciroc or any of his other brands. What a difference a day makes.

I get it, Puff. Revolt is not a black network. I’m not mad about that either. This post is not about his network not being a black one. It’s about the disclaimer that I can’t help but feel like was an attempt to separate himself from anything that could be perceived as being only for the Negroes. It reads as: “This here ain’t jus fo’ the Negroes, sah.” As if there is something wrong with something being solely black or created for a black demographic. And when has a wealthy white person ever launched a new business venture with the caveat that it’s not a “white business,” but one for all colors?

Why do we always have to pander to mainstream? When will we recognize the power in the black dollar? Oprah’s OWN network isn’t a “black network” either. How’s that working out for her? I say that with no malice, but to bring attention to the inherent idea that mainstream automatically means more successful. Targeting the black demographic is ok. Don’t let mainstream shame you about it either.

*********

Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer sat down with Tavis Smiley recently to discuss the controversy over “The Help,” in which both Davis and Spencer have won awards for their roles. Smiley kept it real about his ambivalence about the celebration of two black women playing maids in 2012. Just like the academy awarded Denzel Washington the award for “Training Day” where Washington plays a corrupt cop, Smiley, like most us, questions what the academy chooses to reward when it comes to African-American depictions. In the interview Davis and Spencer admitted they understand where the controversy is coming from. However, Davis was compelled to express the heavy burden placed on black artists:

And I will say this – that very mind-set that you have and that a lot of African Americans have is absolutely destroying the Black artist. The Black artist cannot live in the place – in a revisionist place. The Black artist can only tell the truth about humanity, and humanity is messy. People are messy.

Her stance was that black artists cannot exist only in a place that represents the best of blackness. Black people, our history, our stories, are complex. An artist who only takes roles that are uplifting, that tell a pretty story, is limiting to the black artist. Spencer, on the other hand, said she had not one hesitation about playing the maid or representing for her race.

*******

To Emile’s point, perhaps he’s onto something about this inferiority complex.

The black artist doesn’t want to be seen as a black [insert profession]. They just want to be seen as the thing they do. Black writers, black painters, black filmmakers are essentially writers, painters, filmmakers. The qualifiers aren’t necessary. Artists also want the liberty to create their art without it automatically being deemed “for black people.” And that’s our right as artists. It’s also totally reasonable. Blackness is convoluted. Like black people, black artists aren’t a monolith. Perhaps those things that are traditionally considered “black culture” aren’t relatable to some artists, therefore you have black artists who create art outside of the realms of blackness. I can live with that.

But I have to question the motives to shy away from the label “black.” Why are we so desperate for mainstream’s inclusion? Is it because we’ve been excluded for so long? Is it because we inherently think mainstream (read: white) is superior? Is navigating the space of mainstream the indicator of ultimate success?

As an artist I understand it all. I’ve had countless conversations about not wanting my hypothetical book to only be in the African-American literature section of Barnes & Nobles, or if the section should even exist. I’ve had even more conversations about wanting to break into writing for mainstream publications. I have to check my motives as well. Why am I so pressed about getting into mainstream magazines? Is it because I subconsciously think a clip in Cosmopolitan means more than a clip in ESSENCE? Of course I don’t. But the questions are worth analysis.

********

Puff is as successful as they come. His drive and business savvy took him from intern to mogul. Yet even with that level of success he’s asking that his Twitter followers “retweet” his tweet about Revolt not being a black network.

One day I hope we’re truly free. Free from trying to prove, still, that we’re good enough.

*Update thanks to one of my brilliant Twitter sisters @arieswym. Puff, Johnson and other minority’s were granted the opportunity to own networks with the Comcast/NBC merger because of the Memorandum of Understanding created by African-American organizations and Congress. Under the merger the FCC and Congress required Comcast to increase independent minority owned networks. As @arieswym said in the comment section, it’s ironic that Puff is tweeting about Revolt not being a black network when what I’ve outlined above is the only reason he has the network. See links below.

** African American Leadership Organizations and Comcast/NBC Universal Announce Memorandum of Understanding

*** Comcast launches minority-owned channels to meet regulatory commitments

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“I don’t even want to cry. I think about her daughter, her mother, the people in her family. And I just think ‘how dare me cry.’”- Kelly Rowland

How dare we cry at the loss of our beautiful, soul belting beloved [...] No related posts.]]>

“I don’t even want to cry. I think about her daughter, her mother, the people in her family. And I just think ‘how dare me cry.’”- Kelly Rowland

How dare we cry at the loss of our beautiful, soul belting beloved icon when her mother, daughter, her family mourn her loss. That hasn’t stopped the tears from falling. Rowland’s sound bite plays in the back of my mind every time I choke up singing along to one of her top charting hits played on the radio in her honor. How dare I cry. How dare I cry.

It was a cold wet Saturday afternoon. I was headed to Washington D.C. with my significant other for Valentine’s Day weekend. I was in mid sentence of Chimamanda Adichie’s “Half of a Yellow Sun” when he asked me, “Have you been on Twitter?” Irritated that he’d interrupted my reading I snapped, “Why would I be on Twitter?” He patiently responded, “You may want to check Twitter. Whitney has been reported dead.” “No. No! You know Twitter’s always killing off somebody. She’s not dead,” I quickly responded. “I just read the AP article confirming her death. You may want to check for yourself,” he concluded. I dropped my book in my lap and held back tears, not wanting to cry in front of the two guys seated in front of us who were now eavesdropping on our intense conversation.

From my iPhone I headed straight to the AP article. Then Twitter. For once this wasn’t some twisted hoax concocted by bored, evil people. It was real. And she was gone. I could no longer fight back the tears. I silently cried in my seat, and instantly knew what millions felt when MJ passed. Whitney Houston meant to me what Michael Jackson meant to others.

I immediately tweeted: “Not Whitney. At 48. Lord that’s too young. Poor Bobbi Kristina. #RIPWhitneyHouston.” My mind still hadn’t processed the enormity of the loss. Trying to snap out of it I thought of someone beside myself–her family. “This is just sad on so many levels. A daughter burying her mother. A mother burying her daughter. And us, mourning a legend,” I tweeted.

It was a tragic way to go for such a tremendous talent. Whitney Houston meant everything to little brown girls across the world. She was a stunning natural beauty without the extra enhancements. Her beauty with a lean figure to match took her far as a highly sought after teen model. She was the first black girl to grace the cover of Seventeen, which led to spreads in Glamour and Cosmopolitan. Thankfully, singing remained her first love.

I was born 14 days after Houston’s debut album, Whitney Houston, was released. I was two by the time the second album, Whitney, dropped, and five when her third album was released. Her music was the soundtrack to my childhood. As a fully grown woman I can sing many of her greatest hits word for word (ad libs and all) because her music and my childhood are forever linked. What black girl didn’t sing Whitney’s songs into a hair brush guised as a microphone while gazing into the mirror? I knew nothing about romantic love at seven, the age I was when Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” became a hit. But the song brought tears to my eyes, as did most of her ballads. “Count on Me,” “The Greatest Love of All,” “I Have Nothing,” “Miracle” and “Why Does It Hurt So Bad” were all tear jerkers well before I could fully understand the depth of what those words meant.

Houston would go on to break records as only a legend could. I’ve written in detail for BlackEnterprise.com about her sales, No. 1 hits, money grossed from her tours, movies and television appearances. I do not want to do that here. But I encourage you to Google her if you doubt the magnitude of her iconic status. 415 awards won setting a Guinness Book of World Records. The first ever artist to sell over a million records in a week. The ONLY artist to chart seven consecutive No. 1 Billboard Hot 100 hits. Nearly 200 million records sold. And on and on. But it wasn’t the album sales, the breaking through glass ceilings that connected so many of us to Whitney. It was the voice, the music. Not to mention her down-to- earth girlfriend-esque Jersey roots. She never forgot where she came from. We saw ourselves in Whitney as black girls in our adolescence.

In 2006 I was in my last year in college at Tennessee State University. To support myself I was working at the Cheesecake Factory in Green Hills. Celebrities frequented the establishment so it was never a big deal when it was time to provide service to a celeb and their entourage. I, myself, had waited on super producer Teddy Riley and eight of his friends. Big ups for that $110 dollar tip, TR. Cece Winans (who has strong ties to Nashville), Whitney Houston, an unknown child and I believe Bobbi Kristina decided to dine at the Cheesecake Factory during one of my many shifts. I can vividly picture the corner booth they sat in. I begged my co-worker to let me wait on their table. I pleaded about how much this would mean to me, even offering to split my tip with him. He declined my offer but gave me the go ahead to bring out their drinks and bread. I smiled, said hello as I was a little shaken with nerves. Both Whitney and Cece gave me warm smiles, “hellos and thank yous” as if they knew what it would mean to me as a young black woman. After setting the drinks and bread down I said, “I just want to tell you both how much your music means to me.” I didn’t want to slight Cece Winans, but my comment was meant for Whitney. “I wanted to wait on your table. But at least I got to come over to say hi.” They both laughed and Whitney said, “Thank you so much for telling us that. See how God works?” She was referring to the chance I took approaching the table while working. That was Whitney. Strong in her faith no matter where she was or who was around. She looked good. Happy even. In that moment she nor Cece were mega superstars. They were girlfriends sharing a meal with their loved ones. That moment is permanently sketched in my memory.

My co-workers went on to make jokes about Whitney’s cocaine addiction with the managers laughing and joining in. I never laughed. Me not laughing wasn’t an indication of being such a prude that I didn’t find their jokes funny. I just knew Whitney as more than an addict. I knew her as a darling that little black girl’s everywhere had adored.

When someone of Whitney’s influence passes I reflect on how we, the public, treated them while they were here. Did we forget she was human? Did we forget the skeletons in our own proverbial closets? Were we glass houses who probably shouldn’t have thrown stones? Yes to all the aforementioned. But Whitney was a public figure. One subject to have her life scrutinized under a microscope for the world to see. Maybe instead of rooting from the sidelines, or the press vigilantly watching and documenting her downfall, we could have done more. Said more. Or maybe none of that would have done any good anyway.

Whatever she felt that afternoon while sitting in her bathwater was without a doubt an indescribable pain. A pain we sat by and watched play out as a public spectacle for years. I can only hope that as she rests in eternal peace, Whitney Elizabeth Houston knew the mark she left on the world with her nearly perfect voice. I hope she knew we loved her.

My darling Whitney, may you finally know peace. I will always remember how your music makes me feel. And for the gift you blessed this world with, I will always love you.

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I’m not a teacher. I work with students at one of the best charter schools in the city. My technical title versus what I actually do is complex, hence the “I work with students.” Like most New Yorkers I have a [...] No related posts.]]>

I’m not a teacher. I work with students at one of the best charter schools in the city. My technical title versus what I actually do is complex, hence the “I work with students.” Like most New Yorkers I have a day job and a few side hustles. The day job serves as a consistent pay check, but is not necessarily connected to the “dream” that I moved to the city to pursue. On the side I pursue my passion by writing for every publication that will pay me to opine or report. In addition, I work independently with clients who hire me to edit their work or assist with their independent projects.  But back to my day job.

About a week ago all of the classrooms in the building started working on their special projects to honor Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. for MLK day, which this year falls on today although his actual birthday is January 15. I scoured over the pictures of MLK that my first graders had colored. I carefully read their two sentence interpretations of his famous “I Have a Dream” speech. And I even read one of the elementary school reading level book Happy Birthday, Martin Luther King. The book, similar to the projects teachers had created for their students, similar to revisionist history, all completely watered down the legacy of Dr. King. Every thing taught to the students was only a short excerpt from his “I Have a Dream” speech. No wonder so many Americans have this fairytale, romanticized ideal of who Dr. King was. The sad thing is all they have to do is read what he actually said to realize he was not this singular passive man who just wanted to sing kumbayah and hold hands. He was angry about the conditions Blacks faced in America. And he called people out.

In college I was one of the righteous ones who thought King wasn’t militant enough. I was a Malcolm X girl all day. I rarely wanted to hear much about the contributions of Dr. King because it was my belief that he kow-towed to white people and their power structure. I was uninformed and wrong. Thankfully I had the honor of taking a class with Dr. Amiri Al-Hadid who co-authored Between Cross and Crescent: Christian and Muslim Perspectives on Malcolm and Martin. He was also the head of the Great Debate team, which I was a member of on the El Hajj Malik El Shabazz (Malcolm X) team. Dr. Al-Hadid encouraged us to expand our simplistic beliefs of who both of these men were, which required a lot of time and study.

In honor of Dr. King I reread his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” and “The Other America.”  I ask myself: how can educators or parents teach children about Dr. King beyond the surface of what they’re learning in their dumbed down textbooks? It may seem like a simple answer, but I can assure you many of the parents of my students don’t know Dr. King’s legacy themselves, let alone understand what the school is teaching is watered down. Perhaps if we start with the babies we will eventually have less Americans who love Dr. King’s hope of people being judged by the content of their character and not by the color of their skin, but couldn’t tell you the first about his stance on poverty, the war, pulling oneself up by the bootstrap and being disappointed by white pastors who refused to align themselves with justice. I don’t have all the answers. But I recognize the disservice being done to our youth and Dr. King when we refuse to learn (and teach) the complexity of him as a man, a father, son, a husband, a Pastor, a leader, a speaker and an activist.

Happy Birthday, Dr. King. May we never stop learning.

From Dr. King’s speech: “The Other America” March 14, 1968

I want to discuss the race problem tonight and I want to discuss it very honestly. I still believe that freedom is the bonus you receive for telling the truth. Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free. And I do not see how we will ever solve the turbulent problem of race confronting our nation until there is an honest confrontation with it and a willing search for the truth and a willingness to admit the truth when we discover it. And so I want to use as a title for my lecture tonight, “The Other America.” And I use this title because there are literally two Americas. Every city in our country has this kind of dualism, this schizophrenia, split at so many parts, and so every city ends up being two cities rather than one. There are two Americas. One America is beautiful for situation. In this America, millions of people have the milk of prosperity and the honey of equality flowing before them. This America is the habitat of millions of people who have food and material necessities for their bodies, culture and education for their minds, freedom and human dignity for their spirits. In this America children grow up in the sunlight of opportunity. But there is another America. This other America has a daily ugliness about it that transforms the buoyancy of hope into the fatigue of despair. In this other America, thousands and thousands of people, men in particular walk the streets in search for jobs that do not exist. In this other America, millions of people are forced to live in vermin-filled, distressing housing conditions where they do not have the privilege of having wall-to-wall carpeting, but all too often, they end up with wall-to-wall rats and roaches. Almost forty percent of the Negro families of America live in sub-standard housing conditions. In this other America, thousands of young people are deprived of an opportunity to get an adequate education. Every year thousands finish high school reading at a seventh, eighth and sometimes ninth grade level. Not because they’re dumb, not because they don’t have the native intelligence, but because the schools are so inadequate, so over-crowded, so devoid of quality, so segregated if you will, that the best in these minds can never come out. Probably the most critical problem in the other America is the economic problem. There are so many other people in the other America who can never make ends meet because their incomes are far too low if they have incomes, and their jobs are so devoid of quality. And so in this other America, unemployment is a reality and under-employment is a reality…

…The first thing I would like to mention is that there must be a recognition on the part of everybody in this nation that America is still a racist country. Now however unpleasant that sounds, it is the truth. And we will never solve the problem of racism until there is a recognition of the fact that racism still stands at the center of so much of our nation and we must see racism for what it is.

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I’m fighting sleep on the LIRR as I type this on my Blackberry. Today I logged on to Twitter (I know I said I was taking a hiatus, but focus mayne) to see two veteran writers had tweeted one of my [...] No related posts.]]>

I’m fighting sleep on the LIRR as I type this on my Blackberry. Today I logged on to Twitter (I know I said I was taking a hiatus, but focus mayne) to see two veteran writers had tweeted one of my recent posts. Meant very little to them to tweet it and mention admiration me for writing it, but it meant the world to me.

In November 2009 I started blogging without really knowing where the blog would take me. But I knew as a new unknown writer/journalist I had to have one. Its been two years of ups and downs. But in 2009 I would have never imagined that I would receive a number of emails per day from readers and aspiring writers saying I’ve inspired them, or asking me for advice on how to break into this industry. Trust, I’m still trying to figure out the answers myself. Today I realized I’ve never shared some of my favorite writers who have influenced me along the way. Admittedly, I’m apprehensive as hell to write this list out of fear that I may leave off a writer whose work I adore. But off the top, before I ever had a blog or a published article, here are the writers that make me want to throw away my pen and burn everything I’ve ever written.

Gloria Naylor

I fell in love with Ms. Naylor as an English literature major when I was 17. Dr. Rebecca Dixon, one of the smartest women I know, listed Naylor’s Linden Hills and Bailey’s Cafe on our syllabus as required reading for the semester. Linden Hills had me hooked from page one. Creating circles of hell similar to Dante’s Inferno with black elite characters dealing with a host of family issues was genius to me at 17-years-old. Her most notable work, Women of Brewster’s Place, was made into a movie featuring some of Hollywood’s budding black actors and actresses, including Oprah. Naylor’s storytelling capabilities are worth more praise than she gets.

 Flora Nwapa

Efuru is one of my favorite books, and one of the best I’ve ever read. You become Efuru as you read. I don’t know if Nwapa purposely wrote with a feminist perspective in mind when she wrote the book in 1970, but one cannot help but applaud the independent women in her novel. Nwapa must certainly be on the top of any African literature list. I love her for this one book alone.

Jill Nelson

She is the reason I went to grad school for journalism. If I had to recommend any book to young writers it would be Volunteer Slavery: My Authentic Negro Experience. What she endured working for the Washington Post as a black woman will both move and anger you. Her story is compelling and witty. It’s a page turner worth every word on all 256 pages. I’m not kidding when I say I read her book and started researching grad schools for journalism. After reading her story I thought I could be the change I want to see in media.

Joan Morgan

This should be obvious on so many levels. She’s in my freakin’ bio. Morgan’s When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost is also another reason I went to grad school to study journalism. I saw major similarities between Morgan (based on her book) and my twentysomething self. The love for hip-hop, loathe of sexism, embracing feminism, being a writer– the influence was instant. Chickenheads is a must read. And the fact that I can read it repeatedly is a testament to her writing and the necessity of this book.

dream hampton

Can I be honest with y’all for a minute? I wasn’t up on dream until mad late. My first time hearing of her was in ’09/’10. I know, I know. As a journalist who wants to cover music this is like blasphemy. When I finally learned who she was I spent hours reading her work. In addition to her mastery of the craft, dream is brilliant. She knows so much about damn near everything. Nerds rock. If I’m off Twitter her timeline is the one I will check. Her writing is poetically beautiful. She makes words sing. dream is hands down one of the best writers of her generation. Free the Girls says it all. I’ve tried to imitate her. I can’t. Never would be able to. No one can. She’s that fucking good.

Danyel Smith

Journalist. Author. Former Editor-in-Chief. Current EIC. Commentator. I can go on and on about her accomplishments. I love me some DSW. Shoutout to VIBE for archiving those 90s issues on Google books. I hit up Google books for hours and read her old articles. If there was anyone’s career I’d like to mirror my own after it would be this woman. Who do you know that can leave the game, go get an M.F.A. in Creative Writing, write two books and come back as the EIC of a legendary magazine? Exactly.

Denene Millner

If you don’t know you better ask somebody. Way before relationship gurus hit the scene there was What Brothers Think, What Sistahs Know by Denene and her hubby Nick Chiles published in 1999. My mom still has that purple book in her personal library. She is a NYT Bestselling author who has penned over 19 books. Yes, 19. Damn I’m slacking. Denene is an amazing writer and journalist. Her piece “The Attack Against Black Girl Beauty” gave me chills. Actually, I think I shed a tear. A true testament to her skills.

Percival Everett

Read Erasure. #enuffsaid

Alice Walker

The Third Life of Grange Copeland was the book that made me a believer that Walker was not all hype.

Ta-Nehisi Coates

I subscribe to The Atlantic because of this dude. Well, The Atlantic is one of my favorite magazine so that’s not completely true, but hey, it sounded good. Seriously, few people slay the way he does. His intellect is razor sharp. And not intellectual in the way that makes his work boring and difficult to understand. Reading Coates makes you go look some shit up if you’re uninformed. Every time I read him I pray that my writing can only be 1/4 as smart as his. Jesus Buddha Joseph Mary, about that unanswered prayer…

Shakespeare

Don’t know nothing about the allegations that Shakespeare didn’t write any of his works. What I do know is that I’ve read majority of Shakespeare’s comedies. Merchant of Venice and As You Like It are at the top of my list. Here’s why I personally like Shakespeare: not only was the writing Shakespearean, he wrote storylines that were straight up some everyday life drama. No, seriously. If you could get past the language it was mostly tales of infidelity, sex, betrayal, jealousy, greed, judgmental folks, family quarrels and more. Gangsta.

Virginia Woolf

Lover’s of literature praise Woolf for A Room of One’s Own. I, however, personally dig Mrs. Dalloway, which is said to be in the top 100 best books of literature of all time. I wouldn’t say her writing inspired me per se. She’s a notable writer nonetheless. Plus, I can’t have y’all thinking my library isn’t diverse. I got some Wally Lamb, Salman Rushdie, Anita Diamant, Edith Wharton, Graham Greene and Steven Pressfield in my collection.

Linda Hobbs

Linda is so lowkey she will probably tell me to remove her name from this list. But I won’t. She’s one hell of an investigative reporter. She broke the story of the Chris Stokes molestation allegations in VIBE. I don’t care if Linda rewrote the phone book, I’d read it.

Demetria Lucas

This chick right here? I discovered her blog a couple years ago. Here was this woman living out this dream life in NYC as a writer. To top it off the transparency in her writing was totally relatable. She quickly became one of the writer’s whose blogs I checked daily. I’ve even read some of her blog posts three times. A Belle in Brooklyn didn’t disappoint. When young writers hit me up I tell them to go read Lucas’ and Aliya S. King’s blog so they understand, this writer’s life ain’t easy. But it’s well worth it.

Aliya S. King

Speaking of Aliya S. King, Aliya is just awesome all the way around. I read Platinum in one sitting. Before that I would devour her blog dedicated to helping new writers. I have read every single post on this woman’s blog. Does this sound creepy? No? Ok, good. I say it all the time, I don’t stan for celebs. I stan for great writers. What I like about Aliya is she is still very much that down to earth chick from Jersey. I emailed her as a semi-unknown writer in ’10. It took her months, but she got back to me answering my questions. When I met her in person she had that  same warm and inviting spirit. Her dedication to helping young writers is admirable. I hope to give back in the way she has.

Greg Tate

Greg breaks it down so it can forever be broken. If there’s one person who I think was born to write, it’s Greg. He has an undeniable natural gift. And this man truly makes me want to quit writing forever.

Others notable mentions: Octavia Butler, Toni Morrison, Jean Rhys, Edwidge Danticat, Chinua Achibe, Edith Wharton, Terry McMillan, Zora Neale Hurston, Nella Larsen, Walter Mosley, James Baldwin, Karen Marable Good, Akiba Solomon, Vanessa Grigoriadis, Shanel Odum, Elizabeth Mendez Berry, George Nelson, Lola Ogunnaike, Dan Charnas and kris ex.

Who are some of your favorite writers? And what books are a must read?

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“If I don’t like it, I don’t like it, that don’t mean that I’m hating.” – Common

I don’t even like the word. I also don’t use it in every day conversation.

My recent post, “An Open Letter to [...] No related posts.]]>

“If I don’t like it, I don’t like it, that don’t mean that I’m hating.” – Common

I don’t even like the word. I also don’t use it in every day conversation.

My recent post, “An Open Letter to Tyler Perry,” has been quite the buzz for the past week. It has been reposted on various online publications and discussed on local radio stations (shoutout to 97.1 in Greensboro, NC for reading an excerpt on their program Sunday). Readers set the comments on fire with their agreements and disagreements with my position. Total strangers on Twitter and Facebook have hit me up with their thoughts, and my email hasn’t stopped buzzing since the day I posted the blog. In the majority of those emails both women and men have thanked me for writing the “truth” about TP’s depiction of black women. What I found interesting was the number of people who expressed that in their attempts to have this same discussion in the past, they were immediately called “haters.” People accused them, just like some commenters accused me, of hating on Tyler Perry because we disapproved of the tropes he uses in his works.

Black people, this has to stop.

It has been nearly a decade since the term hater has been frequently used by the masses. Loosely translated, we consider someone a hater if they hate seeing someone do well or doing better than them. When hater became the latest pop culture catch phrase, rappers went in the studio to lay tracks about their haters. Pastors preached from the pulpit on Sunday morning about letting God take care of your haters. And folks couldn’t wait to tell you how many haters they had. “She’s just hatin’,” your bestie would say. Then they’d rattle off a laundry list of everything people were allegedly hating on: “She’s hating because her man wants me.” “He’s hating on me because he’s broke.” According to some, everyone was a hater. And everyone had haters.

Due to our history in this country black people have had an unspoken rule that we don’t air out our dirty laundry for white folks to see or hear. Any internal issues within the black community we must air them out behind closed doors so the white folks can’t look on and pass judgment. Doing otherwise would result in major backlash and could get you accused of being a traitor to the race. But the truth is that within the black community we’ve always had public disagreements. We’re not monolithic so everyone isn’t going to be on one accord.

Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. DuBois publicly disagreed. DuBois and Marcus Garvey had a major public beef. Malcolm X and Martin Luther King were heavily critical of one another’s ideologies. Despite what Alex Haley wrote in Malcolm X we learn in Dr. Manning Marable’s book that in actuality Malcolm X was never moving toward aligning his ideas with integration as inaccurate history will suggest. Langston Hughes was an extremely vocal critic of Zora Neale Hurston. Only during those times the Internet didn’t exist so one’s critique of another artist did not spread all over the world wide web. But the critiques still existed.

Clearly I don’t subscribe to the notion that blacks should not critique one another in the public sphere. Nor am I of the belief that because something is black it should automatically be supported (even though I try my hardest to support things that are black owned, black written, black produced, black art, etc., but if I don’t like it I don’t like it). We have to think beyond this philosophy that someone not being a fan of someone’s artistry means they’re hating. It’s illogical and an anti-intellectual lazy argument.

Critique and dislike of something does not equal “hating.” It really does us a disservice to continue thinking along these lines.

The other day I wrote about finishing Assata’s autobiography in two days. One of the passages that stuck with me was toward the end when she was describing joining the Black Panther Party. She went on to explain the party she fell in love with was no longer what she’d envisioned, which eventually led to her leaving the BPP. What struck me was her personal opinion of one of the major reasons she believes the BPP didn’t thrive beyond a certain point. She writes:

…That was one of the big problems in the Party. Criticism and self-criticism were not encouraged, and the little that was given often was not taken seriously. Constructive criticism and self-criticism are extremely important for any revolutionary organization. Without them, people tend to drown in their mistakes, not learn from them.

Preach Assata! Constructive criticism is necessary. We can still wish someone well while holding them accountable for what they produce for the masses. We can critique President Obama, but still vote for him in the upcoming election. We can gripe about how Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson did not train up our generation to take their place while still giving them their due props for all they’ve done and continue to do in the black community. Or we can just plain ol’ critique folks without outlining anything good.

How one can come to the conclusion that myself or anyone else who doesn’t support what TP does as hating is beyond me. It’s the same argument I hear when I divulge that I am not a fan of Bey. Do I congratulate their success and the strides they’ve made as black people? Yes. But I don’t have to like it because the masses may. It’s not personal. True constructive criticism seldom is an attack on the actual person.

We absolutely have a right to question those things that we consume, what is constantly fed to us through the media and those things we support with our dollars. And we have the right to do so without being called haters. Just know, when you’re discussing a topic with someone who is expressing their distaste for whatever it is you’re discussing, and all you can come up with is, “You’re a hater,” well, let’s just say you lose all credibility. And people typically stop listening to you at that point.

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I finished Assata: An Autobiography in two days. I should have read it years ago. It a page turner down to the very last word. I read it every chance I got– on the subway, in Starbucks, at work, at home. [...] Related posts:

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