Sister-Girl Prayer Circle, Activate!

It was not on my BINGO card to put this sister's name at the top of the prayer list this month, but Kelly Price?

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Sis. On Blue Ivy's internet in the eighth month of the second Trumpocalypse. YOU went there?

I don't even remember what I was trying to find when I saw your name and face trending on the front page of the Bing search engine last week, but there you were. The headline was provocative (they all are these days), but I decided to click anyway and Lawd, I so wish I hadn't. Because now I gotta write this even though the last thing I want to do is go on the offensive and attack a fellow Black woman. But you said what you said, and now I'm gonna say what I need to say.

First of all, I rebuke your rant in the names of Harriet Tubman, Anna Murray Douglass, Fannie Lou Hamer, Aretha Franklin, and every other Black woman who ever faced the circular firing squad of slings and arrows from so-called friendly fire. Because I get that you were hurt and needed to unleash that anger. Sometimes, it be your own people who say the darndest and meanest things.

Starting with our own children. The homemade shank that is the sharp tongue of your own child stabbing you in the chest with some brutal truth you didn't ask to hear hurts like nothing you could ever imagine. My daughter took one look at my new hair cut last Fall and said that I should go back to the salon to have it glued back on. And while I knew better than to allow the words of a nine-year old to penetrate any deeper than a superficial flesh wound, I got a look at myself from an awkward angle and saw Bert from Sesame Street looking back at me.

Then there are the sharp-witted barbs that come flying from the mouths of our own mothers and/or passive aggressive aunts. I cannot begin to count the number of times my late Mom and her BFF, my Auntie, would gang up to offer some "constructive criticism" that had me questioning whether I preferred being bullied at school or at home. 

So Kelly, Girl...I over-stand.

Secondly, we all know that social media has given people truckloads of audacity to say the kind of shit that they would never verbalize to someone's face. As you so aptly called out their keyboard courage, folks are really bold when they don't have to face the consequences of their words once they hit send. Particularly when engaging with some celebrity, most of the trolls assume that their audience consists of other like-minded serfs and TERFs.

One of the hidden blessings of not having a lot of followers on these platforms is that I've barely got a handful of haters. And most of those people don't even follow me, so it is an occasional aberration in the algorithm that enables any kind of toxic engagement. In order to provoke the slightest reaction, I've got to say something rather incendiary, which rarely happens. It isn't in my nature to be petty or cruel.

However, as a public figure, you are wide open to all kinds of criticism. Folks who have nothing better to do than post toxic and hateful messages subsist just to call you names, critique your looks, slam your outfits/costumes, and generally spew hate at you in the comment section. So whatever was said must have been really savage to prompt you to post a live video right after you finished your nighttime routine...

Third (and this is the part that got me all twisted), did you think this through before you went on that tirade against your fan base? Black women are the very people who pay to see you: the ones who get their praise on to your music, claim you as their honored Soror, and didn't abandon you in spite of your messiness on that reality show. Black women have been riding with you since your eRR Kelly and Mr. Big days. You really meant to blow up your career by calling Black women out like that on Al Gore's internet?

Look, I could dissect and analyze the content of what you said, but that's for the raw-meat eaters on the Clock app. As you can tell from my approach, I come in peace. I'm not adding any more kindling to this fire; in fact, all I have is a little glass of water that won't even quench your thirst in this heat. Because it is obvious to me that someone was looking for attention. If the goal was to get folks talking about you in advance of some upcoming project, that part worked. But then what Sis? After you go on a couple of radio interviews and podcasts, what happens once the tour is over and the hype dies down?

Who's coming to see you then, Kelly Price? 

Let's keep it real--it won't be the tech bros who create and broadcast stereotypical Aunt Jemima memes of plus-size Black women on the Gram, the Book of Faces, or the Buzzard apps. It won't be the Konservative Kathie Lee Karens who prefer Chrisian contemporary worship music with their morning chardonnay. And it certainly won't be the ashy hoteps whose raison d'etre is day-trading insults with the tech bros against Black women. We're all we got.

I am very clear that hurt people lash out and hurt others, so the issue here isn't that you were wrong to be pissed. But let's keep it real...Black women aren't the most disrespectful, we are the most disrespected. In spite of being highly educated, dedicated to our families and communities, and advocates for justice and democracy, we're still human. We're imperfect and messy just like anybody else. And the same way that everyone is quick to disclaim being part of a monolith of all this or that, it is peculiar to me that you would stand in a mirror to point fingers and then act like you're blind to who and what is reflected back at you.

Since I am neither a PR nor a crisis communications professional, I don't have any advice or counsel. This might be the proverbial bridge too far. We're both smart and old enough to know how difficult it is for Black women in the entertainment industry once the tide turns against us. Mo'Nique is still looking for some R-E-S-P-E-C-T from Tyler Perry and the Oprah. Before your video rant, I'm sure Chrisette Michele would've happily traded places with you, just to be on the roster with a bunch of other R&B ladies performing at arenas as opposed to touring city wineries. 

Now, I don't believe that you ought to allow disrespect to go unchecked, I just wish you had chosen some other way to set boundaries and expectations for what shalt not be tolerated by an R&B diva of your caliber. I'm curious to know how this kind of clapback hasn't gone viral before now, because you can't be the first Black performer to confront online vitriol. I'm guessing the others have people to hide or delete those kinds of comments in real time. Or in some cases, comments are disabled or restricted to limit that kind of negativity. Whatever it takes to protect your peace, I urge you to implement practices and procedures immediately. Based on the snippet of your response that I saw, you've been reading the comments before bedtime as a nightly ritual, so it is no wonder that you snapped (again)!

Although I don't have any answers, I can offer a word or two of encouragement. As this is a job that is too big for one Busy Black Woman to handle alone, I am assembling a prayer circle.

To do that, we start by invoking the ancestors already mentioned who knew a little something about being talked about, lied on, betrayed, abused, and ridiculed for being their authentic, full-figured, brown-skinned selves. You're not the first, nor will you be the last Black woman to be hurt by the words of our skinfolks. Each of those women endured both physical and emotional wounds and were called everything but a child of God; nevertheless, none of that suffering is what we celebrate about their lives.  It is their perseverance and resolve to rise above the envy, pettiness, etc...

Can you imagine what would have happened if Harriet Tubman had listened to the doubters who wanted to turn back when they heard the slave catcher dogs? What if Anna Murray Douglass had decided that it would be safer to marry some free man of color instead of risking her own status to secure freedom for her beloved Frederick? You don't think there were Black people who believed Fannie Lou Hamer deserved that beating for registering to vote in Mississippi? And what about the woman we knew and revered as the Queen of Soul? You know good and dang well that Auntie Re-Re didn't lose any sleep over comments written about her on these interwebs.

Next, I am calling in the ladies dressed in white who carry scarves to drape over their knees when they sit so that no one can get an accidental peek at their girdles. The ladies who keep a stash of peppermint, butterscotch, or strawberry candies in plastic baggies to dispense to restless children; sugar-free cough drops for the older folks. If that ain't enough, I am calling on the women of your sorority to gather their poodles and to form an outer ring around those church ladies--a hedge of protection, if you will. If we need more reinforcements, maybe some of your fellow R&B sistren and queen mothers will lend their voices in support.

Finally, because I do want to end on a high note, I sincerely hope that this gathering of Black women ancestors, prayer warriors, sorority sisters, and divas can penetrate the defensive walls you have built around yourself. By and large, Black women are not your haters. From where I sit way back in the cheap seats, ain't nobody who is paying good money to see you deserves to be taunted or belittled. We get enough of that for free on our jobs, in our homes, and whenever we log onto these same social media sites. We may not all be in the same arena, but I assure you that there are more of us here cheering you on than over there casting stones. At the end of the day, we all need the same thing...Healing.

Remembrance: Our Brother Malcolm

I was writing a different kind of piece last Monday morning...ironically on the other male star of The Cosby Show. Based on a series of coincidences, I thought the stars had aligned in such a way that it was timely for me to finally return to some other pieces I began writing months ago on the issue of watching the show anew (in middle age). So when I saw a picture of Malcolm-Jamal Warner on my phone, I initially thought, ah another sign. He must be making news for saying something newsworthy on his podcast or maybe he has a new endeavor? Then I scrolled down...

JUST the previous week my Niece sent me a picture (the one that I posted here) from that iconic Gordon Gartrell shirt episode. JUST this past weekend I happened to see a clip of that unforgettable Grandparents' 49th Anniversary performance that we all adore. JUST a month or so ago, I read about an interview where Warner talked about having made peace with being Theo after years of resenting the character. JUST before he died, he reunited with his TV baby sister Keisha Knight Pulliam on his podcast.

This tragic news JUST stirs up every complicated and devastating emotion imaginable. 

To be honest, there is no way to make sense of this tragedy or to separate in my mind (for the moment) that there is/was any difference between Theodore Huxtable and Malcolm-Jamal Warner. I mean, I know that they were two distinct people--one a fictional creation and the other was the actor who brought that character to life. There was no Theo without Malcolm, so we find ourselves mourning Sondra, Denise, Vanessa, and Rudy's brother. Best friend to Cockroach, on/off again boyfriend of Justine. Cliff and Clair's only son. 

Because Theo was the only other man in a house full of women, it was probably intended that his character would bring a fair number of laughs. That was clearly the tone throughout most of the pilot, with him acting as the family antagonist, punctuated by a shrug and "no problem" as his potential catchphrase, consistent with typical sitcom formula. Right when that contrived lesson on "regular people" and budgeting with play money reached its peak, we all thought the emotional pay-off was Theo's big speech about acceptance. It got the expected live studio audience response; however, it was Dr. Huxtable's irritated retort that delivered the punchline. From this literal flip-the-script moment that abandoned every sitcom trope we had seen in the 20 minutes prior, a different kind of family sitcom was born.

In this new iteration, this urban Black family, different than any other that had been depicted on-screen, made us laugh about a lot of regular and random stuff. Instead of weekly problems caused by the end of the money arriving before the end of the month, there was a funeral for a goldfish and a Father's Day do-over for better presents. There were only a handful of topical "very special" episodes. Every Huxtable kid got to shine and evolve in unique ways: Rudy was bossy, Vanessa was boy-crazy, Denise was flaky, Sondra was the eldest, and Theo was their brother. It was a multi-generational family, so there were grandparents, in-laws, grandchildren, cousins, neighbors, and a lot of friends. They ate dinner together, had family meetings, and the worst fight we saw between the siblings was over an ugly sweater. 

That's the extent of the critical analysis I will offer on the show at this time. Instead, I want to make the bold declaration that in spite of what I just wrote about each Huxtable sharing the privilege of making us laugh, most of our favorite episodes either focused on Theo or consisted of him stealing the scene: getting his ear pierced; the Shakespearean rap-sody assignment; the running joke about his voracious appetite; not making it onto Dance Mania; that helicopter to the prom fiasco; the wild party with the broken furniture that almost landed him in the Army; and those two performances for the Huxtable Grandparents' anniversaries (this was for the 50th). In lieu of developing a signature line (e.g., Dyn-o-mite, watchu talkin' bout Willis, or Did I do that), we got a series of Theo-isms. For example, that Stevie Wonder episode was one of the corniest, yet I dare you not to smile as you read jammin' on the one, a classic Theo-ism. For the past few days, nearly every remembrance of Theo has made a reference to this infamous shirt.

Given Theo's growth and evolution throughout the run of the show, it was fitting that the series finale culminated in a "family" reunion for his graduation from NYU. Included in that emotional farewell to the show was a flashback to that pivotal scene from the pilot. Thanks to syndication, we were blessed to revisit the Huxtables often through the years...until.

In a perverse way, the fallout from Cosby's sexual assault allegations forced Warner and the other actors to forge alternative identities for themselves beyond the show. That proved to be more of a challenge for some cast members, but not for Warner who had begun eyeing various career options and expansion before The Cosby Show ended. In addition to a few cameo appearances in music videos and on other sitcoms, Warner also tried his hand at directing. I found out last year that he was one of the co-directors of Off to See the Wretched (1990)--an episode that has become equally as iconic as that lopsided shirt. He appeared in an HBO TV movie on the Tuskegee Airmen in 1995; starred in a few more sitcoms and TV dramas; made a cameo in a memorable Key & Peele skit; and just kept working. While none of those characters would have the same enduring pop cultural impact as Theo, at least Warner wasn't typecast like so many other child actors. 

On social media, several of my friends have posted personal remembrances of encounters with Warner, and I have my own fame-adjacent story to share from more than a decade ago. He appeared in a local stage adaptation of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner in 2013. I attended a stage talk with my Mom and got my parents tickets to see the production as a Christmas present. Until that moment, I had never looked at Malcolm-Jamal Warner as anything other than a play cousin. Suddenly, here was this handsome man, taller than I realized striding to center stage, and for the first time my head tilted to the side and my Mom sat up straight in her seat. And I thought to myself okay I see you Malcolm, looking like a burger...deluxe with the works (cue Theo-ism at 0:59).

Mind you, at this point he hadn't been Theo for 20 years. And the point of recalling that wasn't to admit to ogling but about taking notice of just how far we'd all come since his first TV role. It was his confidence and graciousness that got our attention, his openness about tackling new challenges as an artist, and his accessibility. It was like reuniting with a childhood friend, picking up where we last left things, and realizing just how much we've missed their presence. It was so refreshing to see Malcolm on his own terms.

Warner's untimely death means that I need to rethink the other concurrent pieces on The Cosby Show I have waiting to be completed in the drafts. I started writing about the show last Fall after I began to watch it again, as well as the other piece I alluded to about Cosby that I started writing this past weekend. While I try to sort out how to proceed, I want to do so with sensitivity to the emotions that are swirling around everyone who knew and worked with Warner, including Bill Cosby. Ironically, in the immediate aftermath of learning of Warner's death, my thoughts went to his TV Dad.

I vividly remember when Cosby's son Ennis was killed in 1997. We were all aware that the fictional Theo had been modeled on real-life Ennis Cosby, and at the time, Cosby was still regarded as America's Dad. Until he spoke out about Warner's death, it was unclear if they had remained in touch or how their relationship had been impacted by Cosby's dramatic fall from grace. It wasn't surprising to learn that Warner remained in contact with his mentor because in spite of what we know now, what we saw on camera for all of those years wasn't just a working relationship. 

Thus is the nature of life and death--it's complicated. Contrary to what I wrote initially about feeling like we've lost Theo, the truth is that we haven't. Theo Huxtable lives on, forever suspended in youthful, syndicated immortality. For those of us who have access to The Cosby Show in reruns, we can pretty much enjoy his antics on a regular basis. We can cycle through the seasons and watch Theo grow up and graduate in perpetuity.

However, we have lost Malcolm, our brother, best friend, on and off again teenage crush, and for some, our son. We lost our homie and what he embodied: a very smart, intentional, deep thinking and thoughtful, strong yet vulnerable brother. We lost that mad cool dude who vibed with us like smooth jazz on a Sunday afternoon. We lost the voice of a poet, an artist who had so much to say. His family lost a man who had taken on what he believed to be (and was) the most important role of his life as a husband and father. In recognition of his namesake, we lost one of the best examples of our living Black manhood, a shining Black prince. And in spite of his 40-year career, it still seems unfair that we lost him too soon. 

Our Brother from Another Mother

I cannot believe I am writing this piece in this moment, but I could not just go on with my day and not acknowledge just how heartbroken I am upon learning of Malcolm-Jamal Warner's untimely death by drowning.

This is literally me writing in the moment, while I have a brief window of time before I have to snap out of this and get back to life, back to reality. Errands, getting my daughter from camp, thinking about what to fix for dinner...and trying to write, finish, and publish several other drafts for this blog. Including the one on Warner's fictional father that I started yesterday.

Talk about timing.

My Teen Niece just sent me this text last week --->

I just happened to have had a conversation with someone wherein we agreed that Malcolm and Eddie (1996-2000) was a terrible show.

In one of those random Facebook timeline recommendations, someone just posted a video about secret Hollywood couples which included Warner in two. I actually knew about one but was reminded about the other. 

There are so many coincidental reasons why Malcolm-Jamal Warner had been popping up all over the place, mostly Cosby Show related, but also just not too long ago because of an interview he gave wherein he addressed not wanting to be remembered only as Theo Huxtable.

So I just don't know how else to feel, because as far as I am concerned, we just lost Theo for real and it sucks because it is more appropriate and accurate to say that we just lost Malcolm.

We lost Malcolm, our brother from another mother.

If you understand what that means, we're not mourning like we lost a sitcom character or the actor who portrayed that character as if we didn't know him. Most of us didn't know him. But we knew him because we saw him grow up on television, and if you are of a certain age, we all grew up together.

And he was one of the key members of a fictional family that we loved. There is so much to say about that character, but now isn't the right time because I need to go in 5 minutes and I just need to keep the focus on Malcolm...

Because Malcolm was more than Theo and maybe it isn't fair that contrary to everything else he did, we will primarily remember him for that singular character. Sure, he had other roles, tried his hand at directing, and like many of us, has a family that is similarly reeling in shock.

So I will try to figure out how to come back to this and say something more meaningful. For Malcolm.

Other People's Business

It never ceases to amaze me how some people can see a row of red flags flapping in the breeze, ignore what they see with their own eyes, and then act surprised when the very thing they were being warned about happens. 

Yes America, I am talking about you and this Regime of fascists that 77 million of you elected...but not yet. Before we get political, I am referring to a particular individual who chose to reconcile with her ex after a decade of being apart. They now have a baby, a reality show, and probably other big plans for their future together. And in all sincerity, I hope that we're wrong because Lord knows there ain't nothing worse than making a mistake that everyone else saw coming. 

But come on Ashanti, what made you decide to accept this Kobayashi Maru?

I won't delve too deeply into matters that are none of my business, except to say that if you don't want people all up in the mix, then don't give out tasting spoons! I would have been content to just shake my head, even after your man agreed to perform for the Abomination, but y'all decided that we needed to know why he did so by dragging out the explanation over eight episodes. 

I won't be watching this reality show for all of the same reasons why I stopped watching these shows years ago. I do not enjoy car crashes. I just had one in May, and I would not recommend it. Having done a stint of time as a church trustee and as a family law attorney, it isn't that I can't take knowing people's business. It is that I adhere to that old adage that when you know better, you do better. And Sis, it's been 20 years, so what is it that you don't know better by now?

Y'all been see-sawing back and forth in and out of each other's lives for 20 years. During that time, you had a complicated situationship with the late producer Irv Gotti. Your man made headlines for some sexual assault allegations that we ain't forgot about (and shouldn't in the wake of what we learned about Diddy, but let's not linger on that for now). At some point after being coy for years, y'all admitted what we had suspected when you had a very painful break-up. So whatever lessons should have been gleaned from your previous relationship, hopefully were taken to heart. While I'm watching all of this from the cheap seat and minding my Busy Black business, YOU know.  

After 20 years of watching reality television relationships implode, you also know that your chances of living happily ever after get bleaker with each episode. I can't cite exact statistics, but most of those Housewives have divorced. Given that reality, I'm mad that you still agreed to do this, as if we are owed some explanation about the inner workings of your lives. Why? That whole part about "repaying fans" sounds like you owe refunds on defective merchandise, a whack performance, or having been party to a massive scam (wrong dude, that was Ja Rule). So again, why? 

Unless...somebody's check is still in the mail, or it bounced. As we know, a certain person, himself a perpetual reality TV presence, has been known to stiff folks or to delay having to pay them. Therefore, if the reason why you're leaving your blinds and shades wide open is to earn a little extra money, I'm still not understanding. I thought you owned your masters, and I could've sworn that Hot in Herre gets sampled for a new ad campaign every summer. 

But get this, Imma stop asking why and get to the point because honestly, I don't really care to know about your finances. I'm more fascinated by your response to the declaration your man made on camera that he's not waking up in the middle of the night with you to tend to his child, and how that sent a bunch of folks to pull out their phones to take sides on Blue Ivy's internet. Did anybody expect him to be a more enlightened or evolved kind of man? This same dude who swiped a credit card between a woman's buttocks in a music video? Granted, that was 20 years ago...back when you were dating him the first time around.

However, he is the same dude, when asked to explain the sexism and objectification of women in that video to the very audience of college students whom he was hoping to use as props, who refused. Because how dare they not be flattered by the attention and publicity of his altruism? I don't know what role you had in that decision, and again I don't care because I'm not interested in revisiting that incident in detail. You stood by your man, which was your right and choice. Just as it is his choice to roll over at 3am, ignoring you and the cries of his son. 

Given that you have known this man for the better part of 20+ years, and he's been a father that entire time, surely you had some idea how that would look and play out for your child. You observed him with his other children and must have been privy to some of his family drama. He starred in another reality show premised on his particular brand of fatherhood! That you seemed taken aback that a man who was on tour for 93 dates in 2024, including the day you reportedly gave birth...(I'm not making this up, here's some video from his DC date with Janet Jackson on July 12, 2024, six days earlier). According to that schedule, he was traveling and performing while you were recovering and going through those first few hazy days/nights of new parenthood. So no, my dear sister in Christ, he's not going to be there for much else unless there is a camera crew involved. 

As for that quip about not wanting to be a 50-something running after a toddler, quite a few of us can relate to that sentiment in theory. In practice, I've seen plenty of older and/or second time around Dads out here trying to prove that they can keep up (even if reality is the opposite). For his part, the Hub is revving up a rigorous fitness regimen to get out on the basketball court with our Tween; I might secretly return to yoga class so that I can show this girl how flexible I used to be. Where there is a will, there's a way. However, what your man articulated a will to do was to wait for this baby boy child to reach the age and mobility level where he could hang out with Dad and his crew. I would be curious to know if the same intent would have been expressed if this child had been a girl, but let's not speculate. 

Instead, let me widen my lens from focusing on the minutia of your life choices to addressing the larger picture here which is the pendulum swing back towards this Detached Dad ethos that defines parenting along gender roles. Actually, it goes a lot deeper than that as it began with this push for a return to the old nuclear family ideal. As opposed to embracing the "modern" family in its myriad combinations: inter-generational, blended, matriarchal, or composed of a chosen village versus everyone related by blood or marriage, we have gone retro to the Father Knows Best era. While it has been framed as a reaffirmation of traditional values, it's just misogyny broadcasted in reruns and on-demand.

Which suggests that this is more than a reactionary moment of backlash, but a pervasive movement that doesn't just yearn for the nostalgia of the past, but which actively seeks to restore patriarchal "order". It demonizes childless women, single mothers, and any other woman who doesn't stay in the lanes that men have chalk-lined to contain our ambitions. For example, I recall thinking that when Keke Palmer got called out by her then-partner for enjoying her Mom's night out a little too much two years ago, y'all were just taking sides. Mind you, there would have been no outcry or controversy if her man had been photographed getting a lap dance. Some of your men blow their half of the rent money at the strip club; yet she was called out, became fodder for the podcast bros, and now she's just another baby mama. 

Not a wife.

That's the ultimate punishment--not getting to be any man's wife, even if he does the bare minimum or the most harm. The message to women is not to complain, just comply and maybe he will put a ring on it and help you pay half the bills. As for any expectations for him to take an active role in parenting, he's the man of the house, and with so many of you eager to uplift and amplify traditional notions of fatherhood as more manly, he gets to decree and declare what he's not going to do. 

Once upon a time, men were defined by the things they did, not by the things they wouldn't do. In the past few years I've seen that notion turned inside out, with men asserting their manhood by not drinking from straws on the shallow end to boasting about the things they won't do for their children on the deeper end. I've seen men record videos of themselves attacking mannequins and destroying store displays over their rainbow decorations. The number of grown men who can't figure out how to put food on their plates and brag about that level of willful ineptitude is astonishing. I believe the ATIA genre is mostly a collection of scenarios where men go to whine upon learning that their happiness and satisfaction isn't the Holy Grail of existence for the women in their lives. 

The absurdity of it all is summed up in the re-elevation of a certain person as the avatar of true manhood--the world's greatest cosplaying showman! A man who only exerts himself to scribble his name to a bunch of cruel edicts resulting in wrist cramps. A so-called man's man who looks real tough in his ill-fitting suit, bad comb-over, and clown makeup. A cad who cannot stand to be challenged by confident women, yet he always ends up having to pay for sex (either to procure it, as part of the prenup, or as punishment).

The man for whom your man felt honored to have been invited to perform. Maybe they have a lot in common 🚩🚩🚩

To be clear, I would never criticize a man for working hard to provide for his family. I heard your man reveal in an interview that he didn't have the same kind of traditional nuclear family unit that you were blessed with, so I applaud that he has sought to provide the structure that he believes is best for his children. For that, in addition to adopting his late sister's children, your man is to be commended. Full stop. 

Therefore, I'm just going to wrap this up in a bow because you know who you married and unlike the rest of us bitter bitches, Ashanti's got a man...on tour.  

And that's what y'all claim to want, according to the tweets--the kind of man who works hard so that he can afford a nanny on call for those 3am feedings. It took Ashanti and her man 20 years to get to this point, so we ought to be happy for them. No more struggle love, because now she's been promoted to wifey, and there are worse fates (like doing bad all by herself). 

There's An App for That

I had another menopausal meltdown recently, this time in public...but that's not the main impetus for this overshare. I've been toying with the idea of introducing 'Menopause Memoirs' as a new blog label, so the test run is recounting a recent encounter I had with automation and "efficiency" and how those twin illusions have done more to ruin, instead of enhance my overall quality of life.

If you are rolling your eyes and thinking, OK Boomer, first let me remind you that I am Generation X, and you need to watch your tone. Second, I am not a child, but that doesn't mean I want to be called Ma'am or urged to calm down. You can see I'm agitated; so be helpful, not patronizing! Third, I rather like being feared like the mutant Storm whenever one of my rants is doing the most. So if you can't assist me without resorting to condescension, then find somebody who can and just take cover...

Perhaps the word ruin is an exaggeration, but you tell me, how has automating everything made life so much better? From where I sit, y'all have been steadily gaslighting us because every six months there's a new and "improved" version of some system that just makes life more complicated. I didn't ask for any of this. But when I need to ask someone to explain it to me, no one knows how it works or why it was implemented. And after ten minutes or more of going in circles, I am annoyed about that lost time and the realization that this could have been avoided if you had paid somebody to do their old job!

For example, why must I download a new mobile app for every different parking garage within a ten-mile radius? Can we all agree that is the opposite of efficient? Because what if I don't want to set up another account and have my information stored in a database somewhere, only to get a letter in the mail a year from now informing me of a data breach? I just want to park my doggone car while I conduct my Busy Black business at this establishment. Why can't these building management companies work together and agree on a universal system in the same jurisdiction? Or better yet, do not overcharge me an arm and a leg to leave my car unattended in a parking garage where no one bears responsibility for loss or theft even as there are cameras everywhere?

Yep, the fuse for this parking app rant was lit by the Hub because he thinks he knows EVERYTHING, and that was the reason for my meltdown. Mind you, he's wrong 50% of the time, but he's a man and Donald Trump is President again, so that's all I have to say on that. So in my best Sophia Petrillo voice: Picture it, suburban Maryland in the middle of a weekday afternoon, and we're heading to lunch at a hotel on a rare childless outing. He chose this place because it was close to where the Kid was in camp for the day, and they were familiar with this particular restaurant. 

He also recommended this place because it had validated parking. Folks who know me in the real world know that the quest for free parking is kind of my personal hunt for Moby Dick because I refuse to pay more for parking than I would for a meal. (We all have our quirks, and I have been known to park up to half a mile away from my destination). Anywho, upon this reassurance, we drove to the hotel, but as we approached the mechanical arm to access the lot, there was a sign instructing us to scan a QR code. The Hub confidently declared that this sign was inapplicable to us since the restaurant validated parking. Though dubious of his claims, I drove around looking for a space but misread another sign which led us to the facility exit. There was no way to back up or to turn around, nor was there an attendant or booth to provide assistance, so we were forced drive towards the arm in hopes that we would be released. We were able to exit and re-enter the lot, but it was unclear if we would be charged for this mistake. 

We found a space on our third rotation located near another sign with the QR code. The Hub continued to insist that scanning the code was unnecessary, but I scanned it anyway. However, I must have unchecked or clicked something inadvertently that kicked me out of the main menu. I kept trying to undo or return, but it kept routing me to a different set of options. Once we got to the restaurant, there was a sign that confirmed the Hub's claim about free validation which required scanning a second code. I will spare you the intricate details of how I wasted the next ten minutes attempting to navigate this app while the Hub chatted and perused the menu. Just know that he placed his order while I remained stuck in an endless loop on my phone with no insight into how the parking was supposed to work or what I wanted to eat. The waiter informed me that I did need to download the app (which I had tried to do several times at this point) and that's when the Hub said flippantly: geeze, it's just an app.

Dearly Beloved, the fact that he still has his head is a miracle of restraint, but he still got quite a few neck chops. And days later, he still hasn't acknowledged that he was halfway WRONG about the parking app! But don't worry; the Busy Black Woman remembers...

Exasperated, I stormed out of the restaurant to make my way back to the garage in order to let off some steam and to re-scan the QR code. Before I reached the escalator, I decided to inquire at the front desk about how to access the app. The two women were kind enough to explain that this new parking system had been in place for about two weeks and still had a few kinks to work through. Then I was blessed with some in-person, old-fashioned customer service that enabled me to return to the restaurant with a plan to troubleshoot in case there was a problem in a few weeks (because deferring resolution of a pending problem is another fallacy of modern-day efficiency). 

Hence the question that keeps loading and re-loading like a 404 error--what do we gain in exchange for making life so transactional and efficient? To save time for what and for whom? Everything requires an app, a new password, and no way to get assistance or clarity from a human being. None of these innovations make my life easier if it shifts the burden of labor and I have to resolve my own problems. For example, have you noticed how 800 numbers rarely exist nowadays? If you haven't, try finding a phone number to call a company about an issue or inquiry about an order. Nine times out of ten, you won't find one. You'll find a contact form or a generic address to send an email and then wait for up to 24 hours for some kind of response (if you're lucky).

Case in point: I placed an order with a small business in mid-January that hadn't arrived within two weeks. I received a follow-up email from a third-party survey site asking me to rate my purchase, to which I responded that my order had not been received. No response or acknowledgment that my complaint had been received or was under investigation by the vendor. Weeks later, the same order was still missing and after several attempts to contact the seller through that third party site and directly on their website contact form, I sent one final email wherein I threatened to dispute the charge with my credit card company if there was no communication by a specific date. And I kid you not, my order mysteriously arrived two days later...still with no acknowledgement or even an apology for the weeks of delay. Since I haven't received any subsequent solicitations, I must have been dropped from their mailing list. If everything is automated and efficient, who's virtual feelings got hurt?

In the rare cases when you are able to call customer service, you probably aren't speaking to anyone physically working at the company. You end up routed to a call center with someone who may or may not be able to process your request/complaint without putting you on hold while they contact someone at the actual company to resolve your issue. It is not your imagination that many of the people who answer those calls have foreign accents. I saw an ad on my X timeline for this company in the Spring that promotes below American minimum wage remote work abroad. Efficient ain't the e-word to best describe what that really is...

But this is the new world order. Folks get on Al Gore's internet to opine that no one wants to work anymore, while failing to notice how variations on "efficiency" have made a lot of what used to be considered work obsolete. I'm bagging my own groceries at both the self-checkout and with a cashier because they won't assist me in packing my bags if I'm trying to be environmentally conscious by bringing my own reusable ones. I can get some assistance at the post office if I'm mailing a package, or I can fumble around on my own and hope that I filled out the correct forms. I can deposit a check from my phone, manage my accounts online, and withdraw cash from a machine so that I never have to venture into a bank to talk to a bank teller. There are no more record or video stores because we can stream music and movies (for a brief time, bookstores almost went extinct as well). Malls are dying because we shop online, watch movies at home, and get our meals delivered by Door Dash and Uber Eats.

A bunch of headlines and podcasts warn of a loneliness epidemic among young men, and it makes sense if there aren't many reasons for them to leave the house. Where are they going to hang out and not get harassed since half the places where we used to socialize regard teenagers with suspicion? Between lax gun storage laws and sex offender registries, who can we trust? So we keep them inside, plugged into their video game consoles or computers (apps) and then wonder why no one has any manners or social skills. As the mother of Tween (yep, time to upgrade her status), this is equally applicable to young women, not to mention the rest of us.

How do we stay connected, interact with each other, and organize events? Through social media apps. We conduct many of our meetings, job interviews, and trainings on platforms like Zoom. Singles meet through online dating apps and if it proceeds to the IRL stage, they film the experience for their TikTok followers. If there isn't a love connection, there's online porn...and from the looks of some of those female avatars, you might want to check in and make them keep the door open. EVERYTHING is available on an app.

Much of this isolationism was necessitated by the pandemic; however, a movie released a decade before predicted this current movement towards social detachment via technology. It has become clear that a significant segment of the population prefers that kind of solitary existence to living in a society where we need to interact and engage with others. It fuels these broader questions that are driving all kinds of decisions--why we don't need to want to feed other people's children, why we don't want foreigners living in our country, why we don't care about anyone or anything...

But all of that deep contemplation takes this discussion to the existential realm, and I just wanted to vent about how I don't want to download another effing app!

Because I don't want all of my bodily functions measured and recorded on my phone. Yes, I did like your video; no, I am not subscribing to your YouTube channel. I'm not donating to any reputable charity through cashapp. I didn't open the e-card you sent me from my phone because the print is too small. I don't want to keep my credit card numbers on file in a virtual wallet. If I cannot remember the previous 6 passwords I made up, then I am unlikely to remember some encrypted computer-generated gibberish as an alternative. No, I don't want to give you my email address to receive special offers because I have over 100,000 unread emails from every other retailer where I've made previous purchases. All I did was Google a random symptom, so why am I receiving spam about erectile dysfunction? 

Unless somebody invents an app to keep my moods from swinging and democracy from ending, I'm not downloading, upgrading, or scanning another blessed thing. 

Off With His Head (A Change of Life Story)

The Hub used my bath towel again. I have told him 50-11 times that I don't like that, each and every time after he claims to have "forgotten" that I don't like it because I have observed that he's used my towel. So I snapped, and that's why he's walking around without a head your Honor.

Disclaimer: No husbands were harmed by the writing of this piece (not yet), but the next time he uses my towel...so help me!

On Sunday morning, the Kid had to be at church early, so the Hub made her breakfast and left the kitchen a grease-spattered un-wiped wreck because he wanted to make sure that she arrived on time. He made himself coffee in the French press, left out the agave sweetener that only he uses, and didn't throw out his eggshells from the breakfast he made himself that he left in the sink. I'm sure he pissed me off in a number of other ways, but it doesn't matter because he'll play dumb and accuse me of nagging. And if I grumble to any of my so-called girlfriends (all of whom have come to his defense for the past 23+ years), they will excuse his bad habits because none of them live with his messy azz! That's part of the reason why I need to tell my side of the story so that everyone knows how to react when they cart me away for accidentally/on purpose taking off his head.

For the last year, I have not been my normal self. I haven't become some other woman; I've just decided that I have had enough of the bullshit I've been putting up with to keep the peace. I'm done letting it slide and quietly tolerating what might be classified as the "small stuff". All of the isht that has always irritated me that I have chosen not to mention is now fair game for a knock-down, drag-out fight because dangnabit, at your big age you should know how to fold a paper bag since the folds are literally imprinted on the gotdamned bag! This ain't origami, so what the hell?

Since the piece I started to write for my 50th birthday that declared how I would approach life after the half century point is buried under a year and a half of other drafts, and distraction has become my constant companion on the road of good intentions, let me cut to the point--perimenopause. I have no idea where I am in the process, but the change is a-coming and I am not happy. I already expressed my feelings about that here, but I feel the need to really unload because I get crankier and less tolerant by the day. We are only a week into the 2025 hurricane season, and though there is no chance that a storm will officially bear my name (because of biases against ethnic names, no doubt) it's just as well. As long as this category 1 Hurricane Ayanna doesn't destroy too much property, you might survive, but you still need to be prepared. Because if things continue on present trajectories and gain more strength, my warning is for these meaux faux to evacuate or hunker down.

I am not playing.

And because God is a woman with a wicked sense of irony, puberty is also forming a tropical depression to cause her own wave of destruction and nonsense. This girl-child of mine is nearly as tall as my 5'10" self and wears a woman's size 6.5 shoe! Y'all already know that she's only just 10 years old, so how much more growth do you expect from this particular spurt before she's wearing my clothes? She still believes in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus...

Before you judge me, judge yo' mamma! Because as long as my Kid is repulsed by the kissing scenes in the live action versions of Beauty and the Beast (2017) and The Little Mermaid (2023), yes, she absolutely can still believe in whatever imaginary friends and fairy dust magic that exists in the world. Borrowing the title from one of my generation's coming-of-age movies, reality bites. So don't spoil anything unless you're a man with six fingers preparing to die.

I said what I said.

I don't know if I get any sleep because I am always tired. That could be the rainy weather, but my knee isn't aching. I'm craving salty foods, but also chocolate. I need to go grocery shopping, and I made a list, but I know I am forgetting something that I want and probably need but won't remember until after I'm in the self check-out line with my 20 plus 2-4 extra items and I can't remember which phone number might be in the system for the discounts. At least I always remember to bring my reusable bags, because as much as I resent bagging my own groceries, the cashiers won't use my bags, and I hate having to pay .05¢ each for the plastic bags they will use. It's like asking me to tip the hostess at the restaurant for pronouncing my name correctly as she hands over my takeout order that I am picking up myself. I always add the tip though, because I don't want to be thought of as cheap (but just know that I don't appreciate feeling guilty).

Yeah, I hate a lot more things now. I hate that all of these plastic bags kill aquatic animals and cause unsightly litter. I hate how bike lanes have increased my commute time between points A and B by at least 10 extra minutes and how no one ever uses them! I get stuck driving behind some dude casually joy-riding an electric scooter when I'm trying to get somewhere. Like seriously, walk or take the damn bus! You look like an overgrown child--scooters are for kids to ride on the sidewalk while their parents walk them to school.

Stuff that I used to find mildly annoying or inconvenient, I hate. Like commercials. I'm trying to understand why every other commercial is for weight loss drugs or these obscure conditions that no one I know has ever been diagnosed with, like the treatment for eyelash mites. Why does that need its own ad campaign? Are y'all just making up ailments in anticipation of some massive outbreak of dust? And look, I'm definitely not against more advanced treatments for diabetes that have the beneficial side effect of aiding weight loss. I'm just wondering why all of those commercials look like those Carnival Cruise Ship promotions with Richard Simmons. Or when the marketplace for car insurance got so competitive.

Speaking of, you wanna know what commercials really annoy me more than anything? Those radio ads for Top Dog Law. They are inescapable if you listen to urban radio anywhere on the East Coast (apparently, they are all produced by this guy). First of all, does Mr. Top Dog, Esq. have a real name? And if he is licensed in several states, he's not going to represent you both in Richmond and Philly. You're getting one of his Scrappy Doo associates, and they're going to take a third of your settlement to pay for more of those annoying commercials. 

I almost forgot what I was here to complain about--that I am surrounded by eediots who do things to annoy me and act shocked when I get mad about it. Like dude, do you know how to turn off any lights when you leave a room? Nobody shits roses, so use the Lysol and close the bathroom door! If you aren't losing your hearing, why is the TV up on sonic blast levels? Little precocious child, why are you playing in my expensive skin care products? This is not Dexter's Laboratory and you are not getting extra credit for these ridiculous science experiments. Do you people think I live only to clean up after you?

As I try to accept the things I cannot change, and given that menopause is inevitable, I feel like it should have come with better warnings. All we were told during middle school health class was that our periods would stop, but there was a LOT of other information that was withheld, and I demand to know why! Why not offer us another updated health class at 40 since we now know that our mothers didn't tell us anything. There's a long list of things they didn't warn us about us about but let me stay focused...the point is that it ought to be mandatory that we get some coming-of-age movie that explains what the hell is going on because Steel Magnolias (1989) barely scratches the surface.

I hate feeling blind-sided.

I hate that every attempt to address menopause in pop culture leaves out all of the real scary shit like heart palpitations, facial hair, and the litany of chronic health issues that all have the same symptoms. That one episode of The Golden Girls where Blanche thought she was pregnant only addressed her one missed period, yet no one ever mentions about how misleading that was? She got a definitive answer from a gynecologist after one visit, then continued to have the same libido for the next five seasons? In a house with three women in their 50s living in Miami, did I miss the episode when they compared the severity of their hot flashes? What the heck did they discuss every week over cheesecake???

To be fair, the show actually did address some of the various health issues that accompany menopause, they just didn't make it obvious. At least now I understand why Dorothy was in a perpetually bad mood. The Cosby Show also addressed the issue outright once, and a few other times as well, but we weren't paying close enough attention. Now seen from the perspective of a 50-something year old woman, the anger Clair unleashed in that Wretched episode was about more than Vanessa's stupidity and getting entangled in her lies. However, the most accurate depiction of what life has become is the episode when Clair comes home exhausted from work and after the family gets on her last nerve, she goes off to some cabin in the woods where she is met with more chaos and calamity. If I were writing that episode today, it wouldn't have mattered if she had retreated to that cabin or a 5-star hotel in Manhattan...the punchline would have been that she never went back home.

I am serious.

There is one Law & Order episode that mentioned more symptoms and ways of coping, but it did so by leaning into many of the stereotypes society has of powerful women. In essence, if nothing else can knock a bitch down, menopause surely will. And I hate that, because all it did was cement a litany of tropes that demonize women for not always being sweet and lovable. As if some of you aren't the most self-centered, inconsiderate, and helpless bunch of babies who can't handle simple dilemmas, like where you left your stuff that you need right now so I have to stop whatever else I am doing to find it for you or else your life is over. Yeah, it's definitely my hormones that are causing all of my irritation...

I'm not advocating or justifying violence; I'm just not ruling it out. Because now I empathize with the women in fairy tales who got fed up with those trespassing children eating the candy off their houses. Where is all the righteous disgust for their cowardly Daddy who abandoned them in the woods? (Don't even get me started on how whack the full story is or how the Brothers Grimm obviously hated women.) If you saw Wicked, then you should be reconsidering whether the real villain in Oz was the woman who lost her beloved sister and her magic designer shoes in a freak accident involving a falling house. Because if you recoil at the sight of the lady with the green skin instead of being disturbed by the lies of the con man game show grifter and the bubblegum fairy who pulls the levers of chaos behind the scenes, you've missed my entire point.

All I know is if the Hub uses my towel one more time, Imma go Red Queen on him and I don't want to hear nothing other than plans to help me hide the evidence or reassurance that you've got enough money to pay for my defense. And for the love of all humanity, it better not be that Top Dog Law dude.

Mother of the Dance

Last July, I received a phone call that quite literally took my breath away. It came amidst a period of upheaval and chaos, not personal but national--it was the Monday of that same week that would upend the Presidential election. Imagine me thinking that the worst thing that could possibly happen in a year was the death of my Mom. Sadly, one of the ironies of life is it's hold my beer or glass of sweet white wine¹ way of reminding us that things can always get worse. So, I instinctively dreaded that when I got a call from an old friend (her daughter-in-law) in the middle of the afternoon, the reason why she was calling was not just to check in. It was to inform me that my long-time dance teacher, Mrs. Rosetta A. Brooks (Mrs. B) had passed unexpectedly.

I had intended to publish this tribute back in September. I wrote a version of the second half (after the jump) in August and had hoped to have it read at her memorial service. But for a variety of reasons, things didn't work out, so Plan B was to post it here right before the implosion of the election. Then came the holidays, more distractions, and the realization that maybe it isn't my imagination that I'm finding it a lot harder to focus or finish anything lately.

Instead of lamenting that particular downside of aging, I figured that at the right time I would eventually make my way back to finishing what I started. Eight months later, we were driving back from New Jersey and while listening to a late afternoon gospel music program out of Baltimore, I heard a song² that I thought I knew but couldn't place how or why. Normally, that kind of disconnect would have caused me to fixate until solving the riddle; however, by the second verse I recognized it as part of a suite of familiar dance pieces. 

According to the calendar, it has been a year since the last time I saw Mrs. B at my daughter's dance recital, June 1, 2024. Each week, I sit in my car not far from the very spot where we had our last conversation. To think that interaction almost did not happen...but God. In a seemingly random series of ways, everything divinely aligned. Instead of leaving immediately after the show, I had my daughter pose for pictures in both of her costumes, which took time. I'm sure that I got to chatting with some folks whom I hadn't seen in a while as that is the nature of these kinds of event. When I made it outside, I saw my Dad's priest wandering past, so I stopped to talk with him. Then finally, on my way to my car, I saw Mrs. B slowly trudging her way across the courtyard to her car. Although I was used to seeing her walk with a cane, she seemed to be moving a lot more cautiously, almost dragging her body alongside a much taller walking stick that was twice her height. As always, she was toting more than one bag including one that held several bouquets of flowers she had received in honor of her being named director emerita of the studio.

My daughter had given her one of those bouquets, which turned out to be another one of those random impulses that God must have whispered into my spirit. I had dropped the Kid off to get ready for the show, and with a little time to fill before it began, I made a quick side trip to Trader Joe's to buy wine and flowers. I snapped up a few bouquets for my dancer, her teachers, and since I knew that Mrs. B was expected to attend, I grabbed one for her as well. Until the previous October, she had been one of the Kid's teachers too. 

Until that previous October, it would have been inconceivable to think of St. Mark's Dance Studio and not have a simultaneous thought or memory of the ubiquitous Rosie Brooks. The very suggestion of her retiring was taboo, even if she was the person floating that trial balloon. Thus, when she had to take medical leave unexpectedly, we all hoped it would be temporary. In 40 years, I had never known her to get sick or injured enough to miss teaching classes. Paradoxically, it should have occurred to me that if she needed to take a medical leave of absence, then whatever the cause was a lot more serious than we wanted to believe. Therefore, I never imagined that our catch-up in the parking lot that day would be our last. Or that as we chatted about my Mom and she reassured me that I should take all of the time I needed to grieve, I would need to apply that same advice to my feelings about losing her.

In life, we aren't always given opportunities to let our loved ones know how much they mean to us. Sure, we have special holidays, formal observances, greeting cards, etc., but transitions don't tend to coincide with those moments. We become aware in hindsight or once we've missed the moment and promised to do better the next time. What happens if there is no next time? How to cope with the reality that you didn't make good on that promise to stop by one afternoon while she was teaching? Nor get to drop in to take a class for the first time since the pandemic? Nor just come to sit and chat like we used to in that big gap of time she had midday before her afternoon classes? How do you accept that you really never told her how much she meant to you because you had all of these ideas about how that should be communicated in some grand fashion, but she died before you got to formalize the proposal, let alone implement any plans?

Maybe that's why the church folks always tell us that we have to give people their flowers when they are able to smell them. Because six weeks later, I got that phone call and that meant I would not get to make good on any of my promises to visit. Instead of the retirement celebration I had envisioned to include testimonials and revival performances of some of her classic pieces, there was a memorial service. 

That I had to watch online from the road because of a scheduling conflict...

Presuming that eight months of procrastination can indeed be blamed on brain fog and aging, it could also be that I felt a bit ashamed and a heap of guilt that this would be the only way I would ever get to express any appreciation for this relationship that spanned 40 years. Had I known that I wouldn't get another chance to do anything meaningful, what more could I possibly have said in that parking lot? Thank you? For not dismissing me as some gangly limbed freak when I showed up to start ballet classes at the ripe old age of 10? Thank you for seeing whatever it was you saw in me that kept me dancing all of those years. Thank you for being tough and honest and pushy because I needed to be challenged, disciplined, and encouraged. Thank you for loving my daughter. Thank you for being more than a dance teacher because you were also a confidant, a mentor, a life coach, and most of all, a friend.

It hasn't taken me all this time just to say thanks. It has taken me almost a year to confront my guilt and release my regrets for not being able to show up as I would have wanted. If writing this was the least I could do, then leaving it unfinished to languish in the drafts has been the worst. So it was not mere happenstance that something as subtle as a song inspired me to return to this piece. It was a nudge and a reminder that this was never supposed to be about me...but about her. 

A year ago, some of her former students, my daughter among them, got to dance for her. Instead of being worried about the behind-the-scenes technical stuff, Mrs. B got to sit and watch the show. For all I know, this might have been the first time in 40 years that she wasn't running everything. In that unscripted, serendipitous encounter in the parking lot, she praised how well everything had been managed in her absence. It must have filled Mrs. B with pride upon seeing what she had built, with confidence that we could carry on, and with reassurance that she had trained us so well. In essence, she had received something far more substantial than bunches of grocery store flowers--she got to bear witness to all she had done at and for SMDS all these years. Assurance that her legacy would endure and flourish is the kind of gratification that is priceless and beautiful beyond words. 

My daughter in costume from
Mrs. B's recital piece in 2023

The next part is what I wrote for the memorial service on behalf of the disbanded dance company/former students/current parents, but for the sake of expediency in the planning process, it got dropped from the program. Then because I couldn't be there in person, it seemed appropriate to convert my remembrance into a reflection to be read privately by her family. However, there was no way I could allow 800 words to suffice as my final farewell given the nature of our 40-year relationship. The version published after the jump is longer than what was submitted to the family...one of the perks/pitfalls of editing my own blog. 

 -- ADH