Another Post on Rape

I don't know if you know this about me, but I was raped. I was raped just after my 19th birthday; without getting into the aspects of it, I'll explain that it was one of the darkest and most traumatic times of my life. I never saw the guy again, thankfully. Let's be clear though: he raped me at gunpoint, acknowledged that he did it, and may well have killed me that night.

Subsequent to my rape, I ran away to the university from which I would eventually graduate; however, in the time between my fleeing as far away as I could then stand and college graduation, I drowned in a pool of emotion. I became self-destructive. I was depressed and suffered terrible anxiety and panic attacks. I was imploding.

By graduation, I was rebuilt. Somehow, I rose above it all. I graduated with honors; in fact, I was the student of the year. I had the support of the people I cared most about, but they were not the people that most would suspect. Now, of course, the depression seems like a flash. It seems like I woke up one morning and with the blink of an eye, I am where I am. Having experienced the trauma, heartache, and internal death, I realize that the process of rebuilding was by far the most difficult struggle I've ever endured.

Moving back to the city which the rape occured was never part of a plan for me. In fact, since my graduation not-that-long-ago, I have been fortunate enough to travel about briefly, and it was just by chance that I landed back here with a career.

I implore you to understand, reader, that my life is very pleasant now. I hardly ever reflect to my personal experiences with rape. I don't want sympathy because I am a survivor; I fully acknowledge this experience and know that I grew to be a stronger warrior woman after it happened.

And so, my friends, life went on. Happily.

Very lately, I have been out and about and wondered if I would ever run into him again. I've been out and seen someone that looks familiar to him and had to process the idea that he may still be in the city. Call it intuition or something stronger, but I thought that I was bound to bump into him again eventually, and wondered how well equipped I would be to deal with the situation if it ever happened.

And it happened yesterday. I was in the market to pick up a can of peas, and I saw a man on a cell phone pushing a baby. Yet, he turned his head and I saw his face but he did not see me -- until I rushed to another isle to keep myself from having a mental avalanche. And he followed me. And I froze facing canned goods while he pushed a baby in a cart and spoke on the phone. And I could feel him slow down, and even though he hasn't seen me since I was 19 years old and a completely different person, he recognized me. And I felt sick to my stomach and disgusted. And I trembled as he spoke a 'hey, (my name)!'

I didn't look at him. I said 'hey' and ran to the other side of the market for check-out, feeling naked, terrified, vulnerable, and angry. What gives this horrible excuse for a human being the right to live, have children, speak to me as if he didn't -- in everyway imaginable except for the literal -- kill the 19 year old me?

I don't know. I don't have the answers. I am safe and collected; yet, I wonder why the universe is injust. It was a hassle to contact any person for any support; it was a struggle to avoid an internal whirlwind, and an external explosion. And I still feel like my internal London Bridge is falling down.

The thing that is keeping me going today is knowing this: I am better than him and that he does not/did not/will not get the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.

Finally, my first of several counselors post-trauma told me that I was numb and unemotional. (I still hear this very often today when I don't react to situations the way that people anticipate I should. I am rational and reflective, and that does not make me unemotional. That does not mean I am not reacting, it means that I have my own system to process emotions and it is right for me). The counselor explained the concept of "righteous anger" to me; and I tried to be angry that he raped me then. It was not right for me. I truly learned and experienced, only years later, just yesterday, what righteous anger feels like. I don't feel like I am betraying my true self in being angry. I don't feel like I am a coward, or that I am less strong for being emotional yesterday and at this instant. I don't feel wrong in questioning why the imbalance in the universe resulted in the theft of my life, my virginity, and why he is allowed to live. And I recognize that I'll never know or understand, but I feel it.

And I also feel thankful for the few people who were able to help me breathe and process.

Be Righteous(ly angry with me).

The first counselor I saw is the actual reason I end my posts with "be righteous". Whatever I do, righteousness minus a connotation based in religion, is my motivation.

June. Even More Amazing.

I know; after such an amazing Mayo, after the wonderful experiences and all the love, how could June be more amazing a mere 11 days in? After going on my first cruise, my first experiece out of the country, my first real vacation in ages, how on earth could a-little-over-a-week-into June be that much better? Well, for one thing, I got to see my favorite band, The Legendary Roots Crew, live again. This time was a little different from the others. This time was something like a hip-hop fairy tale.

I had been discussing going to Philadelphia for this year's Roots Picnic for months. I love hip-hop, and as mentioned in previous posts, I love seeing The Roots live and ?uestlove is among my favorite people alive because of his talent, drive, intelligence, and contributions to the music world. It's all respect. (Admittedly, my post from last year's show was a bit of an exaggation on my crush. I read back on it and realzed that my sarcasm doesn't always shine through clearly in my writing. D'oh.)

After coming back from the Bahamas, and spending far more money than I intended, I actually worried that going to Philadelphia was not feasible. And quite honestly, had my travel companion not already purchased her tickets and made arrangements to go, I'd have talked myself out of it. You only live once, though, and I decided to go for it. In the interest of saving money, we decided to fly to Philadelphia. Neither of us had ever been on an airplane before; and the day before the trip, we both got butterflies.

The flight was fine. It was smoothe. It was beautiful. It was..short. We landed in Philly about 45 minutes after take-off. We shuttled our way to the hotel, and went to a casino for a while before retiring for the evening. Let's just fast-forward to the show, shall we?

12pm. Saturday, 6/4/11. We walked around, and bounced from stage to stage. We networked and spoke with Phillyfolk.

We bought t-shirts for the music festival. Duh.

We noticed that okayplayer was having a contest. To enter, one either tweeted or signed up for their mailing list. I'm not one for things like this; I don't gamble because I'm not fond of the disappointment you feel when you've not won. However, the winners of the drawing won the opportunity to watch The Legendary Roots Crew and Nas from onstage. We'd be foolish not to try, right?

So we tweeted. And signed up. And had people retweet.

And enjoyed the show. Saw some people I didn't know of. And some people that I did. Some soul, rock, rap. Donn T. Yelawolf. Oh, and did I mention Esperanza Spalding performed with The Roots? With all apologies - I was so excited, I didn't get a much better photo than this:

Sometime during the course of the day, my companion and I tweeted about how amazing we thought Amanda Diva to be. And she tweeted us back. I am fully aware of how nerdy that sounded.

The performances were great. Wiz Khalifa had several special guests that included Freeway and Beanie Sigel. Wiz's set was over at 8:30pm. Once that was over..the winner of okayplayer's contest would be announced.

They only picked two winners.

Amanda Diva came on stage to announce the winners.

My companion wanted to listen. I didn't want to get my hopes up.

Questlove snare roll..

She announced my companion. And I was excited! But I won't front like I wasn't a little salty. I mean, we came from NC together. We signed up on everything together. I know that it was a supposed random drawing, but it didn't seem likely that the odds were in my favor. So I stood. And waited for the announcement of the second winner.

Questlove snare roll..

Me. I won. I froze. I screamed. I waved. People rejoiced for me. RIGHT HERE. I WON. OH MY GOD. THAT'S ME. IWONIWONIWON. I ran to the side entrance of the stage.

Nas rocked. The Legendary Roots Crew rocked. As expected. They are my favorite live hip-hop act. They're utterly and always amazing. Did I mention that I met Kamal Gray and James Poyser as they walked to their keyboards?

And that Questlove and I kept making eye-contact during his set? Which, I know is probably a typical fanatic thing to say since he was lookign in my direction and I wanted it to happen. I know that it sounds ridiculous. I'm a very rational human being and I don't feel the need to defend myself. I know what happened.

Great show. We hung out, excited, processing the events of the day, when my comrade pointed out Questlove leaving the stage. My thought was, "damn. My only chance to meet him." Yet, who could even be mad after such an awesome day? Not me. Not at all.

Then we saw Black Thought. And talked to him. And took a photo with him. I'd be ruining my no-photos-of-myself-on-the-blog rule if I posted it. And then we saw Yelawolf. And talked with him. And took a photo with him. And I got felt up by him. There was far too much energy for me to process what was going on.

I was hot and sweaty and wanted to go back to the hotel to change clothing before attending the official after-party.

I was tired from standing up all day long. While I pledge allegiance to the fashion, and am quite flexible in what I wear, I'm generally a dress wearing gal for parties. However, I wore ripped jeans, a tank-top, and Converses to the show.

And our hotel was on the other side of Philadelphia.

And we'd been having the time of our lives.

So, screw it. Let's go to the official after party wearing the same clothing that we wore to the festival. We'd be fools to miss the party because I wanted to get pretty! Onward we went.

We sat and ate fish and grits with Phillyfolk. We talked about our excitement.

We watched Questlove walk right into the venue. And I respect the artistic zone, so I was not going to be that girl to disturb his music high while he was on the way to the dj booth. Nope.

We entered the club to party. We intentionally moved near the dj booth. And I lost my five-foot-tall protege among the people inside. I'm standing by myself, listening to the music, just a few feet from Questlove. And a guy unintentionally bumps into me and I nearly fell. I was caught. He was face to face with me and apologized. It was Captain Kirk Douglass. Guitarist of The Legendary Roots Crew. I was stunned. He apologized and moved to talk to Questlove; on his way out, he bumped me and apologized again.

We partied. We went outside for air. We went back inside for a moment, and I danced with a guy from another state for a while, while my homegirl had to handle some business. And while this guy is in my ear, my friend comes back and grabs my arm and takes me over to Questlove. She introduces herself and explains that we took our first flight ever to see him. And that I love him.

And then he grabbed my hand. And I blushed. And he smiled at me, and made his way out.

I wish the story ended with me losing a glass slipper, but I wore Converses to the party. I didn't give him my phone number or scream out my level of devotion to him. Instead, I was civil. Classy.

And it was the best weekend of my entire life.

April Showers bring...MAYCATION!

With the winding down of my incredibly active April, I was quite satisfied - and exhausted - with all of my groundwork and advocacy for Sexual Assault Awareness Month. Though, May was very busy and quite lovely because my best friend/cousin turned twinny-five. Yes, that's right. We're reaching a whole new realm in adulthood.

To kick off her birthday, we saw Mint Condition and Raheem DeVaughn and it was a fabulous show. Raheem-the-dream just don't know!

The next night, we partied. Hard. A bit too hard. I'd bore you with the details of our club hopping and all that but...some things stay just 'tween us girls. It was a success. A very wild and exciting success.

A week later, I traveled out of the country for the first time. That's right folks; she and I went to the Bahamas. And it was an amazing trip.

We bummed. We learned. We tanned. We shopped. We partied. We ate. We had the time of our lives.

There are no real words, but there are photos worth thousands.

To top it off, cousinbestfriend got engaged at the end of the month. It was a good one.

Peace, love.

Coming Up!

Over the last thirty days, I've been incredibly busy. I've seen a few live shows. I've traveled out of the country. I've taken my first plane ride to a state I've never visited. I've seen my favorite band again - except this time, things are different.

I think that the best way to handle this is to break my last thirty days into many mini episodes over the course of the next few days. Be very afraid.

Sugar, Spice...Everything Nice

I’ll be honest, I have a stubborn streak. I know this may come as a surprise to you, dear reader; what – with my gung-ho progressive causes and my work right in the ground zero of womanism. I get how it could be difficult to view me as someone who gets stuck in her own frame of mind. You don’t understand. Even my online friends acknowledge this stubborn streak. Just the other morning, I polled my twitter friends on how long they thought it would be before I got sick of my curly hair flopping in my face. I usually pin it back but I felt pretty good about the style I had going on. Anyway, one tweeter had an entire method to her prediction: she bet that I would be tired of it later in the day, because if people were better against me, I’d try that much harder to win the bet. Clever.

I thought about my stubborn streak just the other night, actually. I thought about my home-life and what makes a “home” versus a “place I live.” It sounds silly. Nit-picky, even. I moved right back to the lovely comforts of my home town in the South, and yet it was only until last night when I unpacked my groceries that the place where I live began feeling like my “home”. The trick? Apparently the trick was finally getting around to buying real spices for my spice cabinet.

I cook often, and I’m damn good at it, thanks; but I’ve maintained a very limited collection of spices and I have a theory as to why: to make myself feel like I’m not “stuck” here. Committed and all. I know that might not make sense but I’ve done this with a number of things: lease signing, long-termany relationships, new friendships and socializing, becoming connected to my new-old place of residence. I mean, honestly, my full-time job is the absolute only absolute with my current place.

I wonder, though; if I decided to really grow to love the place where I live – to find other square pegs to not fit-in with – will the new-old place where I live begin feeling more like home?

Call it an challenge to grow masked as an exercise only for the sake of my sanity, but I’ve had thoughts about feeling wanted, needed, valued, or even at the bare minimum liked. I’d like to make more connections to people I genuinely like and have things in common with, and I’ve recently made progress. In the bigger scheme of things, and to be painfully cliché, I’m looking or the spice of (my) life.

I thought it would be really neat, though, if I began making my actual physical address a bit more like my home. Sure, I live here. And I’ll give it to ya, it’s got style. But I want to make it mine. It’s so standard and typical right now and it doesn’t really fit my personality. It’s like the straight-haired version of me; people loved my straight hair. I waltzed into my workplace like a blast from the past as a result of pure spontaneity and I received so many compliments on my hair. I even liked it a little bit, but it wasn’t me. One coworker talked about how gorgeous and lengthy my hair was, but told me that it was so plane and tame for me. She felt like I’m not me unless I put time and effort into creating a chaotic twist to my style all for the sake of fashion. That’s fair. And very much how I view my home. I have a cute and conservative den and photos of my family about. I have my record player and piano, and a nice vintage kitchen, complete with a stove that dates to the 50s. My bedroom is quite bland. Even my bathroom, though tiny, is very put together and neat. And it all isn’t rockin’ enough for me to call it my own.

As such, I’m coming back to life and illustrating more of me in every aspect of my 2011-life. Does that make sense, or does it just seem plum frivolous? I say, you’ve got to start somewhere and making my home a little more artsy and fitting of who I am is the first step.

I'm going to take a step back from the being stubborn, simply to enjoy my life where I am. They're only things; and if being comfortable means feeling "stuck", there's something else I need to work on: a little thing called perception.

2011.

I've come to a crossroads of realization in my life. What a way to just jump right back into the blog after I apologized for the lack of consistancy in my updates. After I promised to do better. I know, right? Just hear me out.

In all of my moving about the eastern US over the last year, I've done some soul-searching. I've had horrible experiences in the world of dating. I've immersed myself into the world of twitter for a second time. I've straightened my hair for the first time in 5 years, temporarily though. I'm working in the perfect career for me, and I love the work that I do. More recently, I've stared at a lunar eclipse, pondering where I am in life. I've spent so much time planning "what's next" in my life that I've become consumed in where I want to go instead of just going. A silly defect I've struggled with for years.

I've dscovered that in order to be good to myself, I have to enjoy life outside of my career. I know this sounds like a rather simple revelation but I've found that working on the front lines all day long and then coming home to nothing but myself can be relieving if you allow it to be. However, reading news, ranting on twitter, blogging (eh, when I updated more often), diving into news channels...doesn't give much time for an effective emotional detox. This does not mean I'll stray away from social and poltcal commentary while blogging (/micro-blogging). But for the sake of it all, I have to breathe and enjoy life. And so, in my 2011 blogging career, I fully intend to discuss more than social justice.

Now, I'm not one for New Year's Resolutions. It is completely embedded in my beliefs about human nature that if people truly desire to make a change, they do it then and there instead of deciding to wait until the year roll's over and then lapsing into old habits. Color me cynical. I say that to say this: I have to stop planning and start doing. As such, I have goals for myself that I am working toward. These include being more open about new experiences and people, and about who I am. Traveling, forgiving, learning, volunteerng. Much of the same old me, but with a major twist: I must breathe.

So, here's to new experiences! Thanks for sticking with me, dear (few) readers. Cheers.

Obscure Dreams

Yesterday, my really wonderful nomadic earthy traveler friend sent me a text message. She has recently finished volunteering for Americorps and has been all over in such a short period of time. My friend, my sister.

Her message was quite random, but perfectly timed. It read: do you have an obscure dream that you hope to accomplish?

I thought about it; I know that at one point in my life, I had a list of all these perceived absurdities that I had to accomplish, because I'm afraid that I'll have an untimely death and an unfulfilled life. Growing up, it took so long to actually grasp the reality of human mortality. Most kids live as though they're invincible; like nothing can harm us because we are kids and if anything happens, Superman will come flying down to the rescue! I wasn't that kid, and I feel like I grew in reverse. When I was young, I was self-conscious and reflective, a dreamer with little action. It took longer than I'd have liked for me to realize this is all we have. And by the time I had, I had misplaced a lot of my delightful, obscure dreams.

I've been reflecting since I got the message. Reflecting about some of the dreams I've never let go. And about the ones that got lost in the wind. And about my good friend. I like to do my own little sashay to the boom-boom-clap-ting in my head, and for that people find me extreme. Between my friend and I, though, she is the most pure and fantastic form of extremism when it comes to chasing dreams. Our first year of college, she jumped a train and I photographed it. She decided she wanted to be a volunteer firefighter. Also an EMT. Also pose nude for artists to paint. I had surgery my third year of college, and she drove hours to see me get better. On another occasion, and since I transferred to a college at the beach, she decided that she wanted to jump in the ocean nude. It was March.

I'll be working on my list of dreams, but I think the most quiet obscure dream I've had for sometime is to invoke the bits of her fearless spirit that are buried some where deep down.

I'm curious to hear the obscure dreams of others. Let's accomplish them.

Revolutionary but Gangsta Grillz (not much of) a review!

I wanted to take some time to do a full review the new mixtape by Dead Prez, entitled "Revolutonary but Gangsta Grillz", but I'm having a difficult time finding enough direction to spit it out. However, I do have three favorite songs that I just love. The general opinion I've heard from people who aren't too far into it is that it isn't typical of Dead Prez because they're trying to blend and fit in with what's trendy. That's not what they are about, but I don't think that I see it as a loss to their original style or message; instead, I think that they're trying to reach the new "hip-pop" generation by putting this out there and I'm not gonna lie, I love that I was able to sit my 12 year old cousin down and say "listen to this song, it's about natural-hair girls!" It's really worth a listen. The mixtape is downloadable for free-99 on a their website! No excuse to let this one pass you by!

The track listing is as follows:

1. "Intro" – 0:33
2. "Far From Over" – 3:36
* Samples from "Over" by Drake
3. "Soul Power" – 3:00
4. "Exhibit M" – 1:45
5. "The Game Is A Battlefield" – 3:21
6. "Malcolm, Garvey, Huey" feat. Divine – 4:39
* Samples from "Beamer, Benz Or Bentley" by Lloyd Banks
* Includes a speech from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
7. "The Beauty Witin" – 3:06
* Samples from "Nothin' On You" by B.o.B.
* Released on Mother's Day, May 9, 2010 as dedication to the natural beauty of black women
8. "KRS-One Speaks" – 0:18
9. "The Movement" – 1:59
10. "Gotta Luv It" – 2:05
11. "Never Turn My Back" – 3:39
12. "Don't Waste It" – 2:52
* Samples from "Wasted" by Gucci Mane[2]
13. "Lil Ghetto Boy$" – 3:02
* Samples from "Lil' Ghetto Boys" by Dr. Dre
14. "Overdose" – 3:13
15. "Fear Not The Revolution" – 2:37
16. "Let The People Be Heard" feat. Estelle – 3:29
17. "RBG 'Til I Die" feat. Zayd Malik - 3:57
18. "Hood News/Struggle Like Us" – 1:52
* Samples from "Swagga Like Us" by T.I. and Jay-Z
19. "The G In Me" feat. Mikeflo - 3:51

And now for my favorite songs, complete with a little blurb on why I enjoy 'em:

I love that the mixtape opened with this song because Drake (from whom the beat of this song is taken) is the newest cancer - every where you turn, you see Jimmy from DeGrassi rapping with Lil Wayne and Young Money and you can't help but wonder 'isn't he Canadian? Where'd his "rap voice" come from?

This song is my absolute favorite! I actually heard this song a few months ago, and apparently, Dead Prez released it on Mother's Day. I love it; everything about this song is perfect to me and I think it's important that there is music and pop(-ish) music that acknowledges the natural beauty of Black characteristics. This is a beautiful and important thing because historically, we were taught to hate ourselves (ask Malcolm...) and while I don't care who's natural and who isn't, it's important for young girls and women to hear that it's okay to be yourself - you're beautiful.

Malcolm, Garvey, Huey. I love this song. I mean, as it is, the "Beamer, Benz and Bentley" song is kind of a "banger", and I love this much better than the original. Besides that, the mixtape has speeches from the aforementioned leaders (and MLK), and it even has a snippet from "A Love Supreme"!

Anyway, again, check it out. It's FREE, and I really enjoyed it!

Be Righteous.

Personal Strides

You see that awkward IwannasmilebutIdon'tknowwhethertheyarelaughingwithmeoratme grin there? When I was in the sixth grade, I was doing a break-the-ice activity in my homeroom class. We tossed around a ball with all these random questions on it, and when I caught the ball, the question that I was forced to read aloud and answer was "which cartoon character are you most like?" Hesitant and reluctant to answer, I decided upon Lisa Simpson: brainy, socially awkward, the less cool of the (older) siblings, always soul-searching. Yeah, that's me.

And yes, this is another personal, albeit short-sweet-and-to-the-point, post about my personality. My confessions. And so, I confess: I've a bit of a serious personality wrapped in dry, sarcastic humor.

My brother is a funny guy; he's a quick thinker and he was handed down that trait from my father who, himself, always has some pretty darn amusing jokes. I wasn't so lucky, and though I'm a likeable and personable (and reserved all the same), I have a far more serious and intense outlook on things sometimes. I can be funny, occasionally; after a few drinks, I'm a riot. When I'm out with my best friends, I can be hysterical. But 89% of the time, while I'm pleasant and usually very positive, I'm a very focused and direct individual.

And that's a difficult characteristic to turn off. I know people who would probably paint me more as The Grinch than Lisa Simpson, and I tend to be a chronic apologizer because I don't want people to think of me that way. I smile, I laugh, I'm happy, I'm chock-full of sardonic wit! Yet, I do get overwhelmed and sucked into my own personal attributes of being an activist and hoping to touch and change the world in one way or another. I sometimes have a difficult time decompressing.

Of course I realize that people have full ownership of the way that they view me, and of course I realize that I should make no apologies for being myself, but lately I've been thinking that I'm not offering a full and fair representation of myself online. Weeks ago, a friend of mine says to me (via twitter) something along the lines of "hey, it's okay to smile!" And I do. I've smiled while cursing people out.

In speaking to another good friend tonight, I'd finally cracked a few jokes; which, usually, goes rather unsuccessfully when I'm trying hard enough. And he says to me, "you gotta clown to deal with the madness."

Now, this isn't to say I'll try being less heavy with my posts, thoughts, and ways...but for the sake of my own mental health and happiness, it'd probably do me some good to get fired up a little less. My blood pressure can't take all that.

It's All Effie's Fault..?!

First of all, I'd like to apologize for my absence in the last several days. Though this post will be brief, I will be back in full force eventually. You see, I've been living my life like a string of parabolas and the down part of the spiral included a trip-turned-unpaid-vacation down the highway to home(though not incredibly pleasurable). Experiencing a loss is something every person has to grow to experience and accept, and I had to turn on my ability to nurture in order to soothe my family's hurt. A huge pet peeve of mine, though, is people constantly questioning whether or not I'm okay; so dear readers, if any one is out there, I guarantee you that I am absolutely fine and I appreciate your thoughts of encouragement in advance.

I left the city to head home last Saturday morning after punching out at work in the morning, and I was hardly tired. As a matter of fact, I ended up staying at work an extra few (okaaaay, thirty) minutes to finish "The Banality of Heterosexism" before getting on the road. Unfortunately for me, my trek was filled with far too many stops (maybe I was tired, maybe I was bored), traffic, and a phone conversation with a former friend.

Somehow, throughout the conversation, the question of my current love life came to light. I'm not the type of person that delves into my personal life with too many people as it relates to my relationships and decision making, and sometimes less is more. Besides elaborating on my being single and content, I also spilled the beans on a rat guy I was seeing, and actually liking, who actually had a hundred couple other "girlfriends", all complete with the same nickname, other than me. I wasn't incredibly heartbroken, as I dumped him weeks before even realizing that he was just awful. That's right, even with the broken dates and bullshit excuses, there was still some inkling of what I thought was a combination of good person/shitty boyfriend left, and it was the most peaceful "I'm just gonna walk away" thing I had ever done.
...until it wasn't.

Yet, the ugly details aren't included and since they don't really matter, I only shared that the person that I very much liked at one point, and even more quickly bounced back from, turned out to be the very deserving object of my disgust.

The friend on the phone, a Black man himself, allowed me into the world of "how Black men think"; as he began to postulate, I rolled my eyes all the way down ninety five and even caught myself almost kicking my feet up on the dash and munching on popcorn.

The gospel according to him was as follows: since I am a plus sized lady, Black men think that I am easily controlled as a result of a lack of self esteem. Therefore, if I don't want to be treated like shit, I need to be a size two. Easy enough formula, right? As he expanded upon his theory, I did not find myself upset at his preachy "I know Black men as a Black man"-itudes; I giggled because I thought it to be one of the sillier things I had heard. His explanation for this was the "fact" that the only Black men I am to ever attract (by my own fault, no doubt) are looking for a woman that they can impose their views on; as a matter of fact, he even threw this little diddy in the mix: when a Black man dates a Black woman, she's the most shapely, finest goddess that he can find -- but when they go after white women (again, to impose upon), they're always "nasty looking". Yes, folks: it was all Effie's fault that Curtis dogged her

...word? Well, on top of this conversation being utterly random and disgustingly stitched together, I find a few faults with this logic:

1. That some Black men take offense to this idea that any Black man is or could ever be controlling (ergo, abusive) in one context, but will justify it in another.
2. That this one Black man speaks for the lot of Black men.
3. That I'll never have/have never had a "successful" relationship because of my appearance and not my other attributes.
4. That plus-sized = ugly, lowered self-esteem having wenches who are chosen by these men.
5. That aforementioned wenches never have a say in with whom they choose to enter relationships.
6. That skinny women do not have self esteem issues or relationship problems.
7. That non-"nasty looking" white women are not interested in or dating Black men.
8. That plus-sized women are of less value than average-to-skinny women.
9. That any one person is to blame for another party's actions.
10. That there are not men (or for argument's sake, women) who enjoy a little more..erm..fluff.

...and that is just to name a few. Now, I didn't take this as a personal attack because obviously, I think this is utter foolishness. Could I stand to drop a few lbs? Sure, but when I do, it isn't because I'm attempting to draw attention from another person. I don't think that I should even seem combative in saying that I date; I've documented a few dates on here on the blog and the people that I encounter are interesting enough. I don't think I should even have to harp on the fact that I'm satisfied with the person that I am/am becoming, and that my singlehood is by my own volition. Sure, we would all very much enjoy companionship, but having no anchor to anything right now (and being the personable anti-social that I tend to be), I can up and move away as I am currently contemplating any time the mood strikes. And honestly, I believe I'm always "fly" (actually a nickname given to me by an former boyfriend) and of all the attributes that might keep me single - Black power fueled with feminism, opinionated nature, inability to produce a successful joke, Billy-Bad-Assedness, heavy flow (read: straight-up-inappropriateness when I'm trying to tell a joke, ha!) - my appearance is the least of my concerns. Lastly, I don't think that I should have to elaborate on the fact that the way I am online - forward, opinionated, sometimes-bitchy (and even sometimes offending) - is exactly the way I am when I click "sign out" - which pretty much rules the no-confidence-and-lowered-self-esteem malarkey instantly. More than anything, this was all very amusing before I opted to hit him with the shrug-and-"I'mma let you finish"-move; I hung up and continued rolling down 95 as pleasantly as I began my journey.

I don't have control over another person's actions; that mickey-fickey decided for himself to cheat and go in the direction that he would - and he has total ownership of that. Other people's problems are...well, they're their problems.

Know that. Smile. Be Righteous.

Happy Friday!

Just the other day, I was sitting around having my nightly coffee, and for some reason I had a flashback to college which, believe it or not, was not that long ago. In my last year, I became close with a new professor who shared my love of the Beatles. I try to avoid using the ideas associate with the term "typical", but I am sure that when people think of fans of the Beatles, young Black women don't necessarily come to mind. Yet, as someone who is musically inclined (and generally a glutton for all types of music), I can't help but brag about having every Beatles album released -- including solo projects! Yes, my darlings, even when George Harrison and Ringo Starr kept plugging away with white noise.

At any rate, I remember seeing this viral video of a kid singing "Hey Jude" and falling in love. I remembered my advisor lecturing me for my plot to jokes about kidnapping him and raising him as my own. If I ever decide to have children, I want them to be talented enough to belt out "Hey Jude" by the time they're two, too. Oh, I also want them to be able to describe Star Wars, like this little darling.

This is soooo embarrassing. I usually don't take pleasure in the internet's exploitation of talented children.

Bigger Than Hip-Hop

Okay, hip-hop. As a music lover and a member of the Black community, I don't feel I can completely turn my back on you. I've often expressed a confused-love-hate relationship of hip hop music as a result of the disrespect that Black women live with in the music and the glorification of certain degrading social situations, but that doesn't make these situations less relevant, prevalent, or invalid as experiences faced within Black culture and the hip-hop listener's community.

I take issue with the idea that there are disingenuous and unauthentic self-claiming hip-hoppers that are being unexamined in terms of, not only the quality of product they are producing, but the accessibility of poor messages to children (which, I know, speaks also to parenting). Some artists don't fail to acknowledge the fact that their audience is 12-15 year old children, and with that acknowledgment comes an uncaring attitude.

There are so many good qualities in hip-hop. Having had my upbringing, I experienced life in different communities. I used to play kick-ball in the street with what seemed to be the kids from "Hey, Arnold!" I got a boom-box for one of my earlier birthdays and it had a double tape-deck, and I sat on the deck during sticky-hot North Carolina summers listening to mix-tapes that I made of singles from the radio. I've always been an over-thinker and I can even recall when my thorough examination and interpretations of music began: I was around ten and had heard an unedited version of "Mo' Money Mo' Problems." And, of course, I figured if they weren't one of George Carlin's 7 Dirty Words, it isn't off limits. I didn't stop to think that there might be a reason the radio bleeps the words out! So, I'm listening to the song in the car with my dad, and I was boppin' my head, proud to know that they sampled Diana Ross's "I'm Coming Out" so perfectly, probably wearing one of those horrid looking jumpsuits worn by Mase and Puffy in the video and giggling with thoughts of "Ma$e Gumble" and "Puffy Woods", and - of course - rhyming to Biggie, and said the phrase "triple beam, lyrical dream - I be that cats you see at all the 'vents bent". Generally, my dad could appreciate my love of music and ability to recite any song after hearing it once; musically minded, I also have a talent at identifying and perfecting pitch. However, also being an early scholar, I hated (and still hate) when people challenge me to make me stupid, as my father did plenty of times growing up. Immediately, he turned the radio down and said, "do you know what a triple beam is?" Well now, I knew it was that thing my teacher taught us about during the science part of our day. Proudly, I told him this. And he explained to me that it is a device used to measure drugs. Truly, this experience might be the reason I question everything to the point of annoyance; I like to know the origin of words and phrases so that I don't mistakenly look buffoonish.

Yet growing up in hip-hop has made me appreciate the things that I can relate to, and even experiences that I cannot because I feel how real they are. Despite what some may tell you, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I've grown through more experiences than a lot of people are privy to; a lot of those situations intersect with old school, new school, and pop-culture hip-hop. However, I also experienced social situations that aren't exactly understood to be what is portrayed as "the Black community" - complete with "talking/acting white" - and I don't think that this invalidates my opinions as a scholar and interpreter of the message or experience.

Since I don't completely have a work-sleep-blog-leisure schedule worked out yet, I tend to catch up on the happenings of the week on Sunday mornings after I get off work. Finally getting around to episodes of The Michael Eric Dyson Show, I was excited to be able to listen to a(/nother) hip-hop discussion. The tail end of the show featured Thomas Chatterton Williams, author of "Losing My Cool: How a Father's Love and 15,000 Books Beat Hip-hop Culture". Now, I don't like to judge a book by it's cover (or title), but...well, just fast forward through all the really informative (and very well stated) stuff about the President and financial regulation and have a listen:

Is Hip-Hop Culturally Valuable?
(I couldn't embed the soundclip, but the link will take you straight to it)

I don't think Mr. Williams' argument was well-rounded enough for the show, and taking task with Jay-Z is not exactly a careful examination of hip-hop culture's realism and societal importance to the minority communities that experience what is spoken about. While I may not like to listen to much of the bullshit music on the radio, I'm more anti-listening-to-the-bullshit-music-on-the-radio-without-proper-interpretative-skills. I don't hate hip-hop, I hate the complacency associated with our culture's allowing such vulgarity and outdated ideas to be recycled and allowed such a substantial influence on how our culture is portrayed. I'm sick of parents not explaining to children what's what. If my dad hadn't challenged me to understand the rhymes I was recycling, would I even be as thorough a thinker as I am now? Granted, I have my own definition of what "real" hip-hop is, but that doesn't discredit the bullshit music and musicians to whom I refuse to listen.

Also, I have a problem with the fact that Mr. Willams is so caught up on Jay-Z and drugs. At one point, he seemed to be heading in the direction of the often blatant disrespect of Black women, but didn't. What about the women in and affected by hip-hop? Have we, yet again, been othered?

Maybe I'll purchase Mr. Williams' book tomorrow, just to hear his argument. It's difficult to read a man in a snippet of the conversation; yet, from what I hear? Bullshit, son.

Be Righteous. And also, be insightful.

Got an Award, Y'all!

I've been dealing with a minor setback over the course of the last few days; I'm sure it always seems as though I've got some minor set back on but the definition of of "livication" is making a living devotion to causes and a high priority cause for myself is survival. I guess that's life!

At any rate, it is nearly 2am where I am. Typical of this wee hour of the morning is my listening to Al B. Sure! on my ipod (hey, I grew up in the 90s..) and going through my neglected google reader, as I try to (and usually fail at) sleep during the day. Today was a great day for me; I got an "I-love-you" package from my younger cousin in Hawaii, complete with a teddy bear, chocolate covered toffee with macadamias, and squid jerky (yum!). Also, I am now county certified to do basic mediation, and I've done some networking and made some connections throughout the class. I got a lead on a job! Annnd, while at work going through my reader, I read the latest update from Keep It Trill, and I've been awarded a Beautiful Blogger Award! I'm flattered to know that someone understands the words coming out of my mouth!

While I never intended for my blog to become as personal and intimate about my own life as it has, I think that I've poured enough of my personal experiences and characteristics into the posts and I refuse to bore anyone who may be reading with who I am. I'm seriously humbled and it was a pleasant surprise to know that someone thinks enough of my thoughts to include my blog in their daily cipher. Thanks so much for listening to me bitch reading. I'm glad someone is paying attention.

Be Righteous.

The Dating Game Revisited

I work nights. Not just nights, but nights on the weekend. And I'm okay with that, because my priority is making money and becoming (more) established on my journey. I've been meeting a few losers folks here and there, but I still don't find myself going out much. At any rate, a couple of months ago I met a guy from the islands at a restaurant and we got into a political discussion about Black conservatives. We exchanged numbers and began communication; there was no instant attraction on my part, and I was seeing a 30-year-old-kid someone, but it's nice to know someone in the area. I'm all about meeting people - especially people who are able to actually vocalize an opinion on anything political.

While at work Saturday night, and totally out of the blue, this guy sends some texts asking me to come over after I got off at 8am Sunday morning. I didn't think much of it, though we actually never hung out beyond the conversation at the restaurant. It didn't take much, but I acquiesced. I mean, what else do I have to do on a Sunday after work? He lives five minutes away from my house, too, so it wasn't like I was inconveniently making my way though traffic to spend thirty minutes with him. So, I went, expecting coffee and breakfast. It wasn't a date but my naivete thought that perhaps we'd be kickin' it and discussing Climate Legislation over fresh fruit. Right?

Well, I walk up the stairs to the apartment. We talked about life, caught up a little bit and all. His apartment looks as though he just moved in - he has an airbed in the living room and a huge plasma tv there as well, but the only chairs are at the bar. And then..he asked for a hug and grabbed my butt! Of course I corrected his behavior and walked to the other side of the room for my bottled water. And...I spied with my little eye a huge Lord and Taylor bag (with dresses hanging out), an Arden B. bag, and a bottle of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion (and I know my Bath and Body Works!).

Now, I wasn't as naive to think "well, maybe he has a roommate" since he smelled like the lotion. I excused myself to the restroom, disgusted, and turned the sink on so that I could snoop around brainstorm. I'm a cop's kid; I have quirky antics and move into CSI-mode when I'm trying to find out info about people. As a matter of fact, I've researched guys that have been interested in my best friend before she decided whether or not she wanted to go out with them; it isn't an obsession and I'm not a female Hitch and I'm not big on prejudgments -- I just think that knowing certain things about people before involving yourself with them could save a stress headache and a lot of time. Further, even guys like my ex-boyfriend that present as "normal", well balanced and successful individuals can turn out to be total toads. Ask me how I know?

I don't have trust issues until I've been faced with evidence that I shouldn't trust someone. In a flash, I pulled back the shower curtain - only one towel, no women's body wash. I looked under the sink and still nothing. But then, I noticed shed hair on the bathroom floor and the sink. Having been a sister with relaxed hair at one point in my life, I know how disgustingly non-natural hair sheds once you brush it. My 58-second bathroom sweep was good enough for me, and I flushed and walked out. I passed a room with a door closed and walked back to the living room area, to find this Negro stretched out on the airbed; he was fully clothed. I wasn't interested in sitting, just because I kinda knew where it was headed. And then my detective eye spotted something else - two hairpins on the opposite side of the bed.

I expressed that I was getting tired from working all night and that I was going to go. He hugged me and there it was: I got poked, and saw in that instant a condom was on the airbed where he was laying. Huh? Negro, PLEASE! Who cares if you live a magnum lifestyle? You're a jerk. And I am leaving. The more I recite this story, the sicker I get with myself for even thinking that breakfast was a rational option at 9am on Sunday morning.

I suppose this story is the foundation for a larger question that is not as long winded; my question to you is...SERIOUSLY??

It's The Small Things...:)

There's something about taking advantage of the small things in life that lends a sense of liberation. For instance, every now and then likewhenhellfreezesover, I'll turn my Blackberry off. Or cut all of my hair off (though that's a different sense of liberation all together!). Janet Jackson and Luther Vandross had a song once upon a time, and you know something? They were right: the best things in life are free. To me, though, there is absolutely nothing in life like deleting someone's number from your phone.

Okay, listen. I'm not typically into passive-aggressive bullshit. It isn't my style. There's very little about me that says "passive". There's just nothing like going through my phonebook and saying: "Self, I'm gonna delete so-and-so's number since we don't ever talk at all any more." See? No beef there, right?

Truth be told, it always feels best when you have a vendetta; real or imaginary, it's all the same. The emotion has to be there. Can I be real, son? Like real-real? My favorite part about ending any sort of relationship is looking at my phone, after I've said everything I needed to say, and proclaiming aloud (but not to the person because once I've decided to delete their number, there's no more room for an argument): "Eff YOU, this is ME being the bigger person; I'm taking control of the situaton and moving forward without you! Youaretheweakestlink - GOODBYE!"

That shit is real. It's therapy. I'd like to challenge everyone that gets caught up with a loser to try it. You don't even have to be as gully as I am with it. Just take a deep breath, make your mind up and say "if I can delete this number, I can delete this jerk out of my life."

Some ties are okay to cut. Some stress needs to be released. And if you can't make a drastic change like cutting off all your hair or quitting your jobs and moving states away semi-spontaneously, I'd suggest opening your address book, finding the person you never speak to (or the most worthless mofo in your life), and deleting their number. Especially if they've begun to fall in your liability column. I do believe in direct communication, but some things are circumstantial. And anyway, it's waaaaay better than a text message break-up, no?

To the small things in life -- cheers!

Sassy Jazzy Asiatic Queen

It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. Oh, what's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet; so Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection to which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name! And for thy name, which is no part of thee, take all myself.
-Julet, "Romeo and Juliet"

As an assignment for my job, I need to come up with a confidential alias under which I will conduct business. I began thinking of names, but something I don't have in common with most people is my adoration of my own name. I honestly don't think another name would ever fit me; me and my name were meant for each other. My first name is poetic and commanding, my middle is melodious. At any rate, I got to thinking: if I had to be called something else, what would it be?

As a classic over-analyzer, I began thinking this through, as though I'm really getting a new name. I came up with quite a few names, though none were my name. I then began texting away to the people close to me, wondering what names they could think up and how I was really perceived.

It's funny; as someone who is so quick to dismiss and run away from most labels, I think that there is a lot of value in a name. Like every other female I've ever met I've thought of names I could name children if such an occasion presented itself.

Many of my close friends came up with similar names, and even many of the same names that I thought of. And a friend of mine, not understanding the question, decided that the most fitting name for me would be Sassy Jazzy Asiatic Queen.

That one put a smile on my face.

Be Righteous.

Am I Trippin'?

I often find that, in relationships, I try to see the good in people. I loathe excuses and I don't settle for less than I feel my worth to be. Yet, once I decide upon "liking" a person, I'm convinced that they will always consistently maintain the positive qualities that I initially saw in them. Call me crazy, but I hold people to the same expectation that I try to hold myself: remain sincere and change for the better.

I don't think that good people change for the bad (or exhibit their lacking) overnight; and as a matter of fact, I think that more often than not, the changes are unintentional. Of course, this begs the question of how "good" they really are since they spiraled to a real of this different persona, but I'd prefer to see the light in people. I also think that, in relationships, some people put on a facade and exaggerate their better qualities (or the qualities that you want to see) and it fades because it's difficult to push yourself to be a person that you aren't. Na'mean? Anyway, call me crazy but I like to be real-real all the time. Sometimes relationships don't work. They don't have to end negatively. And they can certainly be resolved by two responsible adult persons amiably if both people are upfront and direct, yet respectful.

Despite whatever way my last relationship ended (and without ultimately blasting my own business and appearing disrespectful), I'm well versed in the art of letting people go and moving forward. I'm risiliant; and I have always been able to weather any storm. As a matter of fact, I was explaining my new job to a friend of mine, and explained to him that some people were just born to deal with trauma. And I'm that person; I've dealth with every end and aspect of it and I'm built for it.

I went on a literal trip today, and eased down the road and away from the city to a cozier, more familiar city states away that I am proud to call the place of my origins. I figured it was an awesome opportunity; my uncle happened to be driving down for the weekend and I had a free-99 free ride. My uncle and I have a wonderful relationship; he is like a father to me. I do have my own father that I love very much, yet if I should ever take the plunge get married, I want them both to walk me down the aisle. Though I am very private, I can confide in him. He knows my attitude and origins. He knows who I am, without needing the unneccesary details about most of my relationships. He does know a few exes, and doesn't care of them but he (usually) respects the fact that I can fight my own battles.

So what are the odds that over an hour south of the place where I currently reside, my uncle decides to stop in a town I hadn't heard of until a few months prior to get coffee. The town where my ex works. Where I first met him. Where I was convinced that, though I felt as if I had been duped, I could grow to enjoy being with him. When I just knew he was a wonderful, relatively "perfect" guy, even in his imperfections. I closed my eyes for a second and pictured the moment I met him. I could feel that instant. It was a happy moment. I can hear him in my head, "what are you doing driving this big truck?" I remember the butterflies I felt. And the blushing. I can tell you what he wore. I can tell you, with confidence, that he was happy.

It was different before the change, whenever or however it occured. Intentionally or unintentionally. It was a different time, a time before the mine fields and repeated forgiveness of neglect. I was over the relationship, having removed myself from it. I was totally over it, but when we got off the highway, I could only think of him. Of a different version of "us".

My mind raced. The second we pulled off at the exit, the good I saw in him, the transition to the bad, the sour taste he left in my mouth after unfulfilled promises, the dissatisfaction with more personal situations. These thoughts all came to me, swirled in my mind at once and created a quilt of unusual emotions: I wasn't confused a bit. I don't want him after how he regarded me for attempting to be respectful about his shortcomings. I don't want him after all the nights I sat in the house on dates that were broken. I don't want him after he backed me into a corner so that I would break up with him. Yet and still, the thoughts swirled, mixing the amazing qualities I saw in him initially with the way things were.What if I run into him. What if he took a Starbucks run at the exact same instant I decided upon a latte? No Starbucks for me then, I'll have coconut water. What if, in the second I dashed through the supermarket, trying not to miss my ride to the good old Dixie, I bumped into him on the foreign foods aisle? How would I feel? Would I want to kiss him? Would I want to break his face? Would I be able to ignore him? What if, when we stopped for gas at the station he once directed me to, he was also pumping gas? If I saw him would he ignore me? Probably. Would I be pissed at him for not being able to behave as an adult and discuss an issue with me? Would my uncle, always ready to challenge an opposing fraternity member, be ready to jack him up for leaving his favorite niece bitter? Would he push me to the dark side with his refusal to remain real with me? I can probably see his car from here...would he respond if I sent him a message?

While this seems as though it would have been drawn out, it wasn't. These thoughts all hit me for a split second and I took a deep breath and traveled on for coconut water. Being the initiator, I wasn't upset by the break-up, but by the change. I wasn't crying or caught up, and my bounceback only took a minute: instead of sitting in the house miserable for a change, I was out and enjoying life. It was a beautiful Spring in the District and I was enjoying it with good company and family.

I'm not crazy. I don't like dramatic break-ups or unnecessary performances that draw more attention to a situation than is required. I don't believe in focusing on the bad; I never once muttered all of the bad to my best girlfriends, even. What's the point? I'm only human. I want to believe that he is too.

We pressed on. On through our journey, our trip to the South. And in that instant, I pressed on through my trip. I'm glad it's over.

Fiction, a free-writing experiment.

"...You see, long before the time we know, the sun was black, and the world was dipped in the darkness provided. And I was there."
The company still at the dinner party, many of them drowning in the dark wine provided by the hosts, my own host, merely laughed their drunken giggles at the concept I was providing them. And I felt the burning inside.
A younger yet graying woman sensed my discomfort. I could smell her sweat across the room, and I gave her a sideways grin. This meant that, the tiniest bit of her believed what I was saying; and though it was completely against the logic that she knew...she knew.
I am not like them.
"I am not like you," I breathed, forcefully to the drunken fools. I felt the inner burning again.
The uncomfortable graying woman shifted and shot her dizzy husband a look of confused terror. My dark skin began to fill with a flushed rose tone, and I needed to stand.
Eddie Porter walked over to be with a glass for water in hand and offered it to me with expressed concern. Eddie was the man that many women in town flocked toward; a city mouse himself, he presented as sly and intelligent. If I were the same species as he, I would readily offer my love to him; yet, knowing that I am not, that I do not love, that I cannot offer a heart that I do not have, I have to remain focused on my goal: these townspeople need to know that there time is narrowing.
"When the sun was black, the earth was at its warmest and my people, the dark people, were birthed from the depths of the soil. Out of the pit of darkness came a species of soot-colored warriors."
Eddie didn't speak. No one spoke. They were at an intersection where their inebriation contained their fear, but their logic spoke to the seriousness of my tone.
"These warriors ruled the world before the sun's transition to the color of its brighter burning."
The burning within me was glowing and the time was nearing. I winced; the heat was moving toward an unbearable sensation. My skin began to sweat.
"You have to listen to me!" I shouted, but really, I was pleading. For their benefit. Honestly, I did not know what to expect past the anticipation of this burning in my abdomen. I had no guidance. Years ago, the dark people left the planet, and left me behind. The humans were our enemies, and I, being half human, could not be trusted. My dark skin mattered not; the lineage of my immortal brethren made me immortal. Yet, the mortal drop of the unknown in my blood confused the very biology of my inner warrior and my nature, too, became a mixed array of emotions and logic as the Return neared. Something was happening. And I had no guidance because I was one-of-a-kind.
It wasn't until I noticed that the looks of unease became horrified that I realized I was screaming in a pitch like a foreign language, and could not stop it.
The burning was visible.
Something was happening. The long and thick rope-braid of my hair became untangled from my dainty up-do and my bush-like hair thickened.
The graying woman began shaking, tears streaming from her face.
The room was silent and I had the floor. They were listening.

Weekend Cypher

While most of my friends and family enjoyed their religious festivities, I had one of the best weekends I've had since moving. My personal rundown? Well, let's see: three dates in two days (hey, a rolling stone gathers no moss), movies and family time, beautiful warm weather, great music and...becoming employed!! Beyond that, I remedied a little pest problem and it actually kick started the kickassery of my weekend.

Other than that, some happenings of the weekend in my cypher include:

The Roots dropping a J Dilla tribute album, downloadable for free here

The 42nd anniversary of the Assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The iPad drops. Not sure how interested I am, but Dwight K. Schrute Rainn Wilson just tweeted: "I wish my iPad were smaller and made calls, or that it folded up and had a keyboard attached." Ha!

Last week, Common posted the Just Wright Mixtape on his blog, another free download, and it is sooooo good. Love me a good R&B Mixtape!

Erykah Badu is getting heat for her new video...faces a fine of $500. (I also awakened Sunday morning to find that one of my peoples had delivered the new album -along with tons of other great music- to me. LOVE it!)

Earthquakes hit SoCal and Mexico, and also Northern California

Stephanie Meyer is putting out another vampire book (based on a minor character mentioned in Eclipse) for my fellow Twi-hards. I'm. So. Stoked.

And the MLB season is upon us. Even though the Yankees lost last night, I'm super excited. Plenty of games to go, Yanks! Let's win-win-win!

...other than that, the world is still a crazy place and I'm still the same ol' G. See?

My First Love/Love of My Life

Few people besides my classmates know that I began college as a double major in Creative Writing and...vocal music. Music has always been a very important part of my being. As a matter of fact, allow me to explain:

Back in the day, in the late 70s and early 80s, my pops was a DJ. Before they were Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five (link for all the peeps who don't know music), my pops did a little DJaying for them. Also, my first cousin was Big DS in the group 90s rap group Onyx; he would go on to leave the group and he passed away when I was in high school because complications with Hodgkin's Disease. I have New York roots, which might be why it's so hard for me to give up on hip-hop. When I was born, my father named me. My nickname from him (and often my alternate ringtone) is D-Nice ("takin' out you suckas and you don't know how I did it!"). My middle name, and the name that only a few people with the exception of my Mom refer to me as, comes straight from a song; though originally a Paul McCartney song (Michelle), my pops heard my name is Slickk Rick and Doug E. Fresh's "The Show" and...there you have it - MeChelle was born (andyabetterspellitright)! I was born music.

Before I could talk, I was wailing music. I've heard stories of my screaming and crying in the crib when my dad would sing "Roxaaaaaaaanne" to me, because he wasn't singing it right! I've heard stories of my singing Keith Sweat while in my carseat. I sang in choirs from the time I was able to be in public until my sophomore year in college. I was in the top choirs in my high school (and we sang at Carnegie Hall); I sang for Bill Clinton and Bob Dole in college as well. I can read and write music; I can play only a little piano. I decided, though, that you can love music and be talented at it without spending thousands of dollars in a music program at a school that isn't specifically known for their music program. That you don't have to study music in university to have a career in it; and so, I decided to go into a more "professional" program so that I could actually get a job.

At any rate, you can always tell when I'm in an exceptional mood because I sing.

This morning, I jumped in my truck tore it up searching for my "Miseducation of Lauryn Hill" cd. It's one of the only albums I can listen to straight through without interruption. When I couldn't find it, I popped in a number of other cds and I sang myself an hour away to an interview with my incredibly bright mood.

So, I figured I'd share five of the songs I sang as loudly as I could up I-95. Ready?

Couldn't find the original, but I listened to both and Alicia rocks out on hers..

The version with my twin Jill Scott is my favorite version of this song.

No subliminals; it was a great musical morning.

Peace.