Death Un-Becomes Me

I have been putting this off for the longest, although by now most of you already know. I just hadn't formally taken the time to share that my mother passed away at the end of February of this year.

I am unsure how this piece is going to unfold since it has taken me seven months to sit down to write about this new phase of my life on this blog. Call it my "Journey Through Grief" era (to borrow a popular overused refrain). I have written a few posts on social media about my Mom and my travels on this road so far, and I will link to those throughout in case anybody wants to know how I felt at any particular moment along the way. 

I can tell you that I have probably experienced all five stages of grief, with varying degrees of intensity. And something about this change in seasons has me more disconsolate, unfocused, and in a state of inertia. I consulted Dr. Google, and my self-diagnosis is either seasonal affective disorder, a nervous breakdown, or perimenopause. (Side note: I am not making the subject of my mental health into punchline, just pointing out how symptoms overlap.) 

Everything has become a contradiction--I feel like I have been avoiding life while also desiring to become more adventurous and daring. That isn't entirely uncharacteristic of me in normal times, but it does seem to be more pronounced. I thought that with this election coming fast and furious, I would jump right in, and I have to the point where I have probably over-extended myself. Somehow, immersing myself into the work of saving democracy seems to be a more worthwhile endeavor than cleaning out my Mom's closets.

A year ago, it was my prayer that my Mom would outlive the need for hospice care by continuing to defy the odds. At her last hospitalization in August, we were told to expect her not to live more than a year, but the early indications were that she might actually thrive instead of decline. So I didn't rush to make any of the final plans that were recommended because I figured that even if we were living on borrowed time, living was the operative understanding. Hell, we're all living on borrowed time for that matter...

However, at the end of September, I made mental notes that each of the pending holidays could be our last...I just never verbalized any of it to anyone. And while she didn't appear to visibly decline, she never really improved to the point of being de-certified from needing hospice; and in hindsight, I wasn't really seeing things as they were. That was until Calamuary January (my term for how every effing thing that could go wrong that month absolutely did). It began when her long-term home care aide went out for a double hip replacement. That same weekend, the furnace in the house went out. I had been fighting with the insurance company over their spending caps and the shortages for months, and that was draining her finances. In response to yet another rate increase (thanks to a corporate consolidation), I had begun to negotiate ways to reduce care hours and creatively fill in gaps. And in the midst of all of that, the hospice nurse alerted me to some ominous physical changes.

Thus, by my Mom's birthday, I had gotten used to receiving a daily update on the list of new catastrophes. A pressure sore that wouldn't heal. Only one partial meal. Weight loss. So when the hospice nurse gave us the definitive unwelcome assessment mid-month and then having my Dad task me with sharing that news with my brothers, the outcome was pretty unescapable. I made some of the necessary preparations on the financial end and went through a few of the motions of mental preparation. I prayed. I visited as often as I could to tell her the things one says when they aren't sure what else there is to say.

On that final Sunday before, it was by pure chance that I had a ticket to see a play at Arena Stage. It was about Anna Julia Cooper, a historical icon who had been a principal at the turn of the century at the high school my Mom attended in the 1960s. And pretty much as soon as I found my seat, I knew that this was all some kind of divine message to prepare myself--that I just happened to be at one of her favorite theatre venues to see a play about her high school alma mater to learn about the life of a celebrated educator (just like my her) on the same day that the alumni had chosen to attend? As soon as the play ended, I rushed to the house to tell her about it. I don't remember if she was awake or know if she heard any of what I said or if she even knew I had been there. 

That Tuesday morning, I planned to get a few hours of writing done before making my way over to the house. It was the routine to visit in between the end of the school day and the start of Kid's dance class. But an hour after I settled into my groove, the hospice nurse called, and let me just say how I wish the rest of the day was a total blur, but...

It wasn't. And honestly, I'm glad I remember every minute because I don't know how I would feel if I had to admit that on the very last day of my mother's life, I was operating in a daze or a fog. I'm glad that I remember every visitor (and there were a LOT), every person who prayed with us, and the fact that wherever three or more Black people are gathered, somebody is going to bring enough fried chicken to feed the multitude. When I tell you that I am grateful for every second of that day, even its agonizing and traumatic conclusion, I mean that. 

I was there, right up until just before the end. After all of the visitors had left, we were transitioning from the afternoon caregiver to the overnight person. My Mom's breathing had become more labored, so she was given morphine. We discussed the plan for the following day, and I sat in the room with her for a few minutes just holding her hand. Then my brother came into the room, so I gave him my seat and went into the living room. It happened in the blink of an eye--my brother noticed that her breathing had stopped and after a few seconds of uncertainty about detecting a heartbeat, my Dad instructed me to call the ambulance. Within minutes, there were red lights, EMTs, and then this enormous suspension of reality between life, death, and procedures...

Life. She was gone. We all knew it, but in the same stubborn refusal that had been her way of barreling through and fighting back, we went through all of the motions of doing everything humanly possible not to accept reality. When the EMT arrived, I told them that she was end-stage Alzheimer's and was about to mention hospice when my Dad interrupted me. Do all you can, he told them, so I deferred.

Death. After 15 minutes, one of the EMTs told me that they would continue, but not to expect a change. By this point, my younger brother had returned with his daughter and the afternoon caregiver. I had exiled my Dad to the living room because it was too much to expect for him to watch. The day had been excruciating enough, so I stood there in the doorway--equal parts sentinel/supervisor/witness to the futility of trying to resuscitate her. Not because I had lost faith in miracles; on the contrary, it was my hope was that her ordeal would finally be over.

Procedures. The EMTs made the call and respectfully left. Unbeknownst to us, the police were on the scene to determine if any foul play had been involved, but the officer conducted his investigation with the understanding that there was nothing untoward. The hospice nurse called, and then informed us to expect another nurse to certify the post-mortem. As that nurse went about her examination, disposing of and reclaiming the medications, completing paperwork, I asked if giving my Mom morphine was the right call. She told me what I needed to hear, because in that moment that must have been routine for her, I was in a state of reassessing every single decision and choice that had been made that day. Not to assign blame or liability, but for reassurance. Once she left, my Dad, our neighbor, and I sat in the room to wait for the funeral home. 

I remember wondering how we were supposed to fill the silence, with idle conversation or nervous housework? Depleted of energy, I nodded off in the chair at her bedside while my brothers waited in the living room. My Dad opted for idle conversation with our neighbor, who politely obliged. It was after 2am when the people from the funeral home finally arrived. I noticed that the gentleman who handled everything was dressed in a three-piece suit. I wondered if that's why it took them so long to arrive--was this dude getting dressed? How much time did he spend searching for a matching tie and pocket square? Why did that annoy me so much?

(Now that I've recollected and reflected on that particular detail, I realize my resentment was misdirected. I should have been mindful that this young man took the time to look presentable because he was coming to our home to remove our heart...so instead of looking like he rolled out of bed in pajamas or dirty sweats, he got dressed in a suit. I don't know how many of these transfers he's done from private homes in the middle of the night, and I can't imagine what it must be like to have that job to perform at the most vulnerable moment in a family's pain. So, my apologies and gratitude, sir.) 

My first real meltdown took place a day or so later at the Marshall's. I shed a few tears the morning after, in the still quiet of being the only person awake in the house. But that felt like a normal reaction, especially as I stood in the doorway of the empty room where my Mom had been alive hours earlier. There was no need to get emotional during the meeting with the funeral home nor during the flurry of phone calls and visits. However that night (or maybe the next), one of the deacons at my church called to offer condolences, and her words loosened the faucet. Immediately after that call ended, I left to get some gas from the Costco, where there was a Marshall's nearby that was still open. I decided to pop inside to purchase the undergarments the funeral home had requested--just another errand that made sense to get done.

Except this was not just another errand, and I barely made it through the purchase before I was overcome by a torrent of ugly tears and hyper-ventilating. I don't know if I audibly screamed or if it was the echo of the thoughts in my head, but all I kept thinking was Dear Jesus why is this happening? Something told me to find my phone and call for help. Whether it was in response to a text she may have sent me, or because of the alphabetical arrangement of my contacts, I called one of my cousins. And though at the time, it felt like it was some random out of the blue choice, she was the exact person I needed to listen, calm my hurt, and provide me with assistance.  

It would be weeks before I would cry again (though not at the funeral), and months before another uncontrollable gusher of grief hit. Typically, my emotional collapses coincide with the date--each successive month on the day of or in proximity to the date of my mother's transition. But it could accompany any sentimental memory trigger as well. In March, it was taking the girls to see The Wiz on Broadway for Easter. In April, it was walking up the hill on Howard's campus towards Crampton Auditorium...and then almost getting shot the following weekend by some chick in a parking lot over some bullshit. In May, it was being back on Spelman's campus. The June episode was over my frustration with ageism after that Presidential debate debacle. Mid-July hit me with the double whammy of losing my dance teacher and first professional boss in the same week, punctuated by Joe Biden's bombshell exit from the Presidential race. In August, I just decided to lean into the fact that it had been six months, but also a year since my Mom had entered hospice.

Which brings me up to date. And the confession that it hasn't always been depression or fury, but a complicated range of everything, everywhere, all at once. In April it was the irrationality of standing my ground against the unknown, and then having to admit the absurdity of my recklessness in endangering the lives of my family. In July, it was taking an unexpected detour into the cemetery to locate my Mom's grave (which I did, easily) compelled by the anxiety and dread that I don't feel safe to confide my emotions with anyone but her. Last week, it was this profound sense that I am a fraud, a self-declared "Busy" Black Woman in name only as opposed to everyone else who can seemingly rebound after the death of their loved ones by throwing themselves into some meaningful distraction. 

So what the jobu tupaki is wrong with me?

Let's revisit the meltdown at the Marshall's, the memory of which I failed to suppress (in spite of my best efforts). I stood in front of a display of discounted panties and bras and had a panic attack as I attempted to figure out sizing, color, and if you can believe this even crossed my mind, COMFORT! My brain pondered the quandary of my Mom being buried in comfortable underwear, and that dear readers, is what caused me to nearly pass out in the dang parking lot before I found my way to the car. Then there was a similar experience at Target the following month. While lollygagging through the aisles, I was dismayed to learn that Target sold full Jockey brand slips superior in quality to whatever store brand camisole I found at JC Penny's. If only I had walked to the opposite end of our ghetto mall...but now it was too late. The hysteria of being haunted by my mother for the rest of my life over hasty shopping choices was real.

Before the funeral, I was irritated that the morticians chose the dark purple designer suit instead of one of the white dresses I indicated were my preferred options. Since I didn't expect for her to be wearing the suit, I didn't think to bring a shell (and my Mom always wore her suits with a shell). There was a scarf, but that was to accent one of the dresses. And instead of wearing the necklace I gave them, it was placed in her hand like a rosary even though she wasn't Catholic. I had to insist that they reapply her lipstick because there was NO WAY that I would have been content with her wearing pale pink gloss! In the end, my Mom was buried in her good suit, a scarf in place of a shell, some crappy slip I bought on sale from Pennys, and discounted underwear that may or may not have been the most comfortable option. 

If you are questioning why any of this matters, it is because if I didn't obsess and overthink things, who else would? I inherited her tendency to notice e-v-e-r-y-thing, and as my mother's only daughter, attention to her final details became the last meaningful act of caregiving I could render. 

It dawned on me that as I considered the length of time since my grandparents passed, I hope to remain alive for some unknown amount of time. One day, this could be my daughter. She could be mulling decisions about what to do with me since I'm not organized or morbid enough to leave instructions. I will have to trust her judgment knowing that this is the same child who likes to wear mixed matched shoes and clothes. Hopefully she doesn't get bogged down in the existential crisis of my ghost outfit the same way I got all twisted about my Mom's purple suit...

The comedian Kevin Fredericks posted this video about his grief at the loss of his brother, and I felt every word. Every one. Because death undoes. It takes reality and turns everything inside out. It makes you question the point of life. Why does it matter if I drink too much if I'm going to die anyway? Why do I need to make healthy life choices if some random chronic illness can come along and it won't matter that I exercised daily to prevent that very illness? What does it mean to be a woman of great intelligence and many talents, only to lose it all? Why accumulate all of this stuff, only to have it all given or thrown away by people who don't appreciate what it meant to me? What does it mean to be gone, forever? How long is forever?

Death takes an entire life and reduces it to a pile of fucking paperwork. 

I am so over this. I am ready for this era to end. Mind you, I'm not wishing for a resurrection like The Monkey's Paw scenario; instead, I would like to wake up one day like Pamela Ewing to find my Mom in the kitchen. Or maybe in a different dream, I will wake up at my Grandmother W's house and she's in her kitchen or my Grandfather is driving his station wagon while my other Grandmother is pruning the bushes in her yard. The fact that I got used to not seeing them for all of these years makes it that much more painful to imagine what the next few years without my mother might feel like. I hope not as hard as watching dementia slowly chip away at her for the last 15 years.

This is supposed to be cathartic...and in a way, it is since I hadn't verbalized any of this until now. I don't know if I would have the courage to reveal these thoughts to a therapist and I don't dare breathe a word of this to anyone else (no worries, they won't read it). When asked, I've been evasive. I've deflected. I've focused my energy on everything else but my feelings. I go into the room where she died every day to open the blinds, and I replace the flowers on the dresser at regular intervals. I haven't donated any of her belongings yet, but I have worn some of her clothes (and I imagine her snarky oh so you can wear a size 8 now, in response). To the extent that I haven't gotten on with my life, I have re-positioned it around my grief. She isn't gone, she just isn't here. She's no longer rendered mute or physically incapacitated by that terrible disease. And so long as I remain open and receptive to the idea of her presence in this more ethereal existence, then we can have the kind of conversations and interactions that were impossible those last years of her life. Maybe that's how I keep on living.

I suspect that this won't be the last time I write about this topic. Just a few months ago, I wasn't sure if I could ever return to writing, but here I am rediscovering my voice (it wavers and cracks, but I still hear it). I have watched several of my friends navigate this same journey through the years, and we all take different paths in learning how to readjust or realign with life after the death of a loved one. A large part of this process will be to redefine myself in the aftermath of 15 years of caregiving. That's longer than I've held any job. I don't regret that I took on the responsibility of caring for my Mom, as I would do it again. It was integral to my identity, part of what made my life so busy. Now I have rewrite, revise, and reimagine what it means to be someone other than Audrey's only daughter. 

It Takes a Village

Nearly 30 years ago, Hillary Clinton wrote a book It Takes a Village (1995), a phrase she borrowed from an African proverb. Because it was an idea being promoted by Hillary Clinton, the most polarizing woman in America at the time, there was partisan derision and a lot of noise about traditional family structures.

So the phrase and the sentiment were written off as a call for government overreach, and per usual, the inherent value of extended and more communal family structures were not celebrated until recently. Apparently, when conservative-minded men realize that it was a good thing that their Mamaws and South Asian mothers-in-law took an active role in raising their grandchildren, they get to take credit for articulating a role for post-menopausal women that no one quite knew how to previously define.

Initially when I saw James David's suggestion about enlisting the assistance of grandparents in childcare, I tweeted from a space of grief and frustration for my own situation. I don't regret sending this out, because it was/is my truth--I didn't get to rely on the support of grandparents in helping to raise my child in her formative years. In fact, due to a combination of factors, my Dad is only just now available to provide some support to us, which we appreciate and definitely do NOT take for granted as a given.

I want to provide some context and offer an expanded analysis of what he suggested by sharing more about my situation as both the beneficiary of grandparents who were very much involved in my upbringing, as well as from the perspective of a parent who did not have able-bodied caregivers at my beck and call. For me, and I suspect for a lot of my peers, this is a very complicated and sensitive issue. And what we need from policy makers, regardless of their politics and regardless of what kinds of family structures they articulate as ideal, is a lot more than suggestions based on nostalgia for a bygone era.

First, some perspective as this topic comes along at an interesting time for me. I hope to write more about this before the end of the year, but obviously, this has already been quite a year. As such, I find myself looking back and reminiscing, particularly on life as it was for me 40 years ago in 1984. That year was pivotal for me in so many ways, and for the purpose of setting the scene for this piece, it was sometime in the fall of that year when my paternal grandparents both developed chronic illnesses: my Grandmother had Parkinson's disease that progressed to a more disabling point and my Grandfather suffered a massive paralyzing stroke. Suddenly, our caregivers needed us to provide support and care for them.

Earlier that year, I graduated from elementary school, so there were already several changes underway for me. I was to start a new school without most of the friends I had known for the past six. The previous summer, our family moved into a new home and my youngest brother was ready to start school. To ensure that they were in school together, both brothers transferred to a closer elementary school. And if memory serves, my Mom was also reassigned to a new school, so everything was in flux. I recall that the school year began with promise, but things quickly unraveled by Thanksgiving.

Because life comes at you fast. 

My paternal grandparents had absolutely been integral caregivers to us in our formative years. Both were retired by the time I was born, so they had time to dote on us. I was enrolled at the elementary school two blocks from where they lived because pre-kindergarten was half day and someone needed to be available once my day was done. At the time, of course I had no idea that was the reason, but looking back I realize the dynamics of having a younger brother, a working mother, and a father who was living out-of-state to complete graduate school meant that we had to be in the care of hired or family help. 

I recall early on that my Grandmother would walk me home from school, but eventually, my Grandfather would park his blue station wagon directly in front of the building every day at 2:45pm to wait for us. It became something of a running joke among the school staff that no one else could park in Old Man Hawkins' spot. After he drove those two blocks, we headed straight to the kitchen where we got dessert for snack (I am not making this up) and it was glorious!

It was the beginning of second grade when the first series of major life changes began. My Dad graduated and moved back to DC; we moved into our own place; and my Mom announced that she was expecting another baby. My Grandmother seemed happy, but I overheard a conversation between my Mom and Aunt about how Grandma had expressed reservations about her ability to care for another baby. Years later I learned the reason was that she had been recently diagnosed with Parkinson's. So when my brother was born, Grandma helped out until he got to the mobility stage, then he went to nursery school. Granddaddy would get two of us from elementary school and then got my youngest brother from a nearby church. On off days, half days, and sick days, we were at Grandma and Granddaddy's house. 

Our maternal grandmother still worked a few days a week, but we also spent a good deal of time with her as part of an even larger extended family. Her house stayed full of extended family, and whenever the three of us were in the mix with the five to six cousins who lived with her, plus two of her grown sons, and a cat--you do the math! Of course, we grew up like siblings, so I recognize and appreciate the communal family concept James David alluded to in suggesting the participation of relatives in providing childcare.

But...and this is where my emotional tweet thread becomes relevant--not all families can rely on that kind of arrangement. A lot of people don't live near their families. For example, the Hub lives 250 miles away from his four siblings and I know plenty of people who come from families that are scattered across the country. Once upon a time, families used to live in closer proximity, but that is no longer a reality to be taken for granted. As you know, I went to college in Atlanta and at least half of my peers stayed down there for school, job opportunities, and the lower cost of living. Here in DC, most of the people I meet are transplants while many of the native-born Washingtonians (and yes, we exist) live throughout the DMV (District, Maryland, and Virginia area...pronounced urreyah). Which could mean that someone still owns and maintains Big Mama's house, but the various grandchildren, nieces and nephews, etc. could live just as many as 250 miles (4 hours) apart.

And as much as I LOVED growing up with all of those cousins, in hindsight that was a LOT on my long-widowed Grandmother! She raised eight children of her own, so perhaps she was used to that level of chaos, but to look back and realize she was in her 70s, and on any given day her home was inundated with half a dozen grandchildren. Now I'm convinced that is one of the main reasons why she worked until she was 80--so that she could get some peace and quiet!

But let's return to the point 40 years ago where my idyllic childhood memories took a dramatic turn. My paternal Grandmother had an operation from which her health never fully rebounded. My Grandfather was caring for her when he had his stroke. My Dad, an only child, had to figure out caregiving for two parents while raising three school-aged children. For a time, he stayed with his parents on the weekends. It was determined that we all needed to live under one roof, so we had an addition built onto our house. My grandparents moved in the year I started high school. 

The reality about depending on family is that circumstances change. What works in one year might not be feasible the next year. Before we moved into our own house, we lived with extended family, but that became unsustainable as everyone got older. Even in ideal situations, life happens and there have to be reasonable alternatives to fill in the gaps. For my parents, it meant needing afterschool care and transportation for my brothers while I became the classic Generation X latchkey kid. 

James David and his incoherent running mate can make off-handed suggestions about childcare costs that minimize the real-life struggles that so many people face because they have advantages that they take for granted. Donald Trump was, at best, an absentee father who never concerned himself with childcare because paying the nanny, the cook, assorted mistresses, while stiffing small business owners is just one of the perks of being a rich asshole. Usha Vance's mother, Lakshmi Chilukuri, took a leave of absence from her job for a year, and then she went back to work. I presume that when their subsequent children were born, the combined proceeds from his book sales, his Silicon Valley earnings, and his wife's law firm salary meant they could afford a nanny. And that's perfect if it worked for them. It's great that his mother-in-law had the kind of job that allowed her to return to it, unlike so many working mothers who barely get three months of unpaid leave. It's great when parents earn decent middle-class wages or higher. 

It's great when everybody lives nearby and stays healthy. My late mother-in-law lived in New York and as much as I would love to believe otherwise, there is no way she could have packed up her entire life to move here to DC. My Mom only got to assist with my Mean Teen Niece for a short time before we noticed things that revealed concerns about her health. The same way Parkinson's caused noticeable issues for my Grandmother, early-onset Alzheimer's had an immediate impact on my Mom. Like his father, my Dad doesn't seem to mind being Grand-Uber to his granddaughters because that's the extent of his childcare duties. 

It's great when every piece comes together seamlessly. Everyone gets along and there are no differing parenting philosophies. Boundaries are healthy and no one oversteps. Cultural differences are manageable and respected. No one is toxic or manipulative or duplicitous. Family gatherings are a lot like this iconic commercial:

Yeah...

For everyone else who lives in the alternative multiverse where monthly day care costs are equal to mortgage payments and relatives do not live close by, the village is where we must look for solutions. That might mean that the local church provides the day care because that is the most affordable option. Your kid might need to depend on the carpool driven by the parent still working from home who can provide drop off and pick up because their hours are more flexible. I read about 24-hour child care centers and on-site day care at certain jobs I think that makes a lot of sense for those parents who work shift jobs like essential health care workers. This notion that we can't afford to pay people living wages or that day care personnel shouldn't have to be certified when we are entrusting our children to their care is offensive. The kind of money we are willing to pay to keep our children distracted entertained as opposed to being educated, or kept alive...

Some of you know how this childcare issue impacted me, since I've written about it from time to time on this blog. I was a stay-at-home mother (SAHM), but not entirely by choice. I was assisting with the care of my Mom when I got pregnant. Even though I was already "working" from home, we added our names to the waiting list for the daycare center at the Hub's job anyway, just in case. Well, after two years (2 YEARS), there was finally an opening. We went in for the tour but balked at the strain it would put on our family budget. In the end, it made more sense for us to maintain the status quo and wait a few months for the Kid to become eligible for PreK-3 (which is universally available in our jurisdiction).

Hint, universal access to early childhood education is a policy solution. Proposing a tax credit for day care expenses is a policy solution. Suggesting that post-menopausal women ought to spend more time baking cookies and planting herb gardens with their grandkids is not a policy solution. Not unless you are willing to offer them paid family leave since many of our seniors still work.

Did I mention the dilemma of being a woman of a certain age who has both child-rearing and elder caregiving responsibilities? If not, I wrote about it a few years ago. And let me tell you that even with my Mom gone, my situation has not changed as much as you might think. My Dad will be 77 on his birthday, and he hasn't lived alone for more than 40 years. If I wasn't around, this man would live off of Jamaican meat patties and Arizona iced tea. At my Mom's funeral, I was cornered by some of his church lady friends who made it clear that they were going to hold me personally responsible if anything happened to him. And the last thing I want to do is piss off a bunch of Black church woman. 

I am not complaining. I am blessed that he is here and, as the old folks say, has a reasonable portion of health and strength. Instead, I will emphasize the fact that I am still amazed and awed by my Mom, who did all of this backwards, in heels, with a full-time job, and with two boisterous sons. But that doesn't take into account that my Mom had the benefit of a village. Once I let go of my Wonder Woman fantasies of her abilities and remembered that she had help, I've been seeing things differently. 

It is important to point out that none of us lives in the center of the village. We have a responsibility to support each other just as we are supported. This is true even when there are non-family members in the midst, because we are probably extensions of their village in some way as well. If we are late picking up our kids from day care, that makes those employees late for whatever it is that they have to do in their second shifts. If we spend most of our involvement with our child's school as adversaries, as opposed to advocates, then the result is a contentious environment that hinders learning. If you are blessed with parents who are able to help, by all means accept it, but know that the situation could easily be reversed with you and your children providing assistance to them. Sometimes that isn't possible, because let's face it, some of y'all took jobs in other parts of the country for reasons other than just the pay...

Instead of talking to economists and podcasters about issues like this, policy-makers need to talk to the people who are on the front lines. Like the working parents who need flexibility and more options. Like the people who own childcare facilities and have to navigate a complex regulatory landscape. Like the private nannies who deserve living wages and benefits. Like the single Dads who might also be working in the gig economy just to afford childcare. Like the women who have to balance elder caregiving and full-time employment. Like those grandparents who, having raised their children, have earned the right to decide how involved they want to be in raising their grandchildren. Talk to the people who actually live in the village.

Arrogant, Uppity and Not Here to Perform Tricks

Imagine being the kind of person who suggests that a man who expresses somewhat delusional opinions deserves an audience with the sitting Vice President of the United States. And upon being rebuffed in that demand, his decision to back her opponent is thought to be justified because she was too "arrogant, uppity."

Noting that the man with this kind of audacity happens to be the nephew of a former President and until recently, was also one of her opponents in this most extraordinary election year, you might be forgiven in thinking that she at least owed him a return phone call. I mean, getting tapped to take on the biggest role of one's life, maintaining a hectic campaign schedule, having to vet and announce a running mate, and attending a convention to formalize the process in the span of a month is NO EXCUSE for not taking the time to listen to whatever Master Robert Francis Kennedy, Jr. has to say (if you're willing to wait an hour for him to get started, right around the 1:02:30 mark). How dare she?

In choosing not to meet with Master Robert, it appears that Madam VP forfeited her chance at his endorsement. To be clear, he was never going to back her even if she had acceded to his demand, so it would have just been a stunt for the cameras. And she's too smart to be played for a fool by a guy who thinks we're naive enough to believe that story about "finding" Baby Bear on the side of the road (because now we've got a whale of a story to top it). Yeah, looks to me that unlike Trump, Harris dodged an actual bullet...(not saying he wasn't shot at; I'm saying the man was hit in the ear by flying glass from the teleprompter and until he produces a credible medical report that proves he is the luckiest SOB to be nicked by a bullet that should have blown his ear off his face, NO I don't believe the alternative facts version of what happened.)*

I was going to share some of my initial thoughts about RFK, Jr.'s decision to join the dark side on the Busy Black Woman Facebook page, but the spirit has been moving in me of late to get back to writing here in this space. And as the day unfolded, I had more of a chance to absorb some of the reactions to his endorsement of Trump. Then I almost got baited into one of those pointless "debates" on social media over staged rage engagement, so let's just see where this rabbit hole leads. Shall we?

It is not my intent to devote much more time or energy to assessing the unseriousness of Master Robert Francis Kennedy, Jr.; rather, it is my belief that we ought to recognize this entire debacle for what it has and always will be--a con. That man has been wasting our time and playing in our faces ever since he declared his candidacy, and just so that we're clear about this brand of chicanery moving forward, there are a lot of other people on social media who are players at the same games. As I mentioned, I almost took time to provide a detailed response to some random dude on X who challenged me until I was reminded of my own warning against engaging in such foolishness. To sum up, most of these people who post these open-ended, seemingly innocent questions are actually cat-phishers. There is no good faith in their motives, so no need in giving them what they really want, which is attention/engagement. Take a hint from our Madam VP Harris and decline the invitation to meet them, engage with them, or even acknowledge that they exist. Stand your ground, on business and don't sweat being called stupid, arrogant, uppity or any other adjective intended to bait you into a fruitless exercise. 

You know what they say about arguing with a fool.

Last Friday in the afterglow of the DNC, I saw the breaking news announcement that Master Robert would be suspending his campaign and that he would probably be endorsing Trump. This was not much of a surprise as his running mate, Nicole Shanahan all but conceded that was the way forward for the campaign at the beginning of the week. I watched the footage of her statement with some vindication that I KNEW IT ALL ALONG because she seemed more sincere in her resignation to reality than their campaign had been. It's hard to believe anyone ever took either of them seriously--and not just because she is some random tech billionaire who barely beat out Aaron Rodgers for the job. Think about that...she prevailed in a veepstakes pageant between an anti-vax NFL player and former Minnesota Gov. Jesse "The Body" Ventura.

At least she's the prettiest.

Let's stay on the topic of Ms. Shanahan for a bit because I must admit that when I first took a more critical look at Master Robert's campaign earlier this month, I had only glossed over the existence of a running mate as non-consequential. I apologize for that oversight because I'm sure that she could have brought a sense of gravitas and credibility to the effort if they had continued in their quixotic quest. I would have enjoyed seeing her match wits with James David and the Coach because we already know that debate is going to look like an old-school wrestling match. And you know what...Imma stop lying because there is no way I would have appreciated seeing this woman on stage alongside Vance or Walz (and I mean that with respect to both men). Not that I am conceding or acquiescing to any of the arguments often made against a woman's qualifications or credentials for running because technically, there aren't any. I'm just recognizing these unserious PR stunts for what they are, and I am profoundly disappointed that she went along with this farce.

Which brings me back to a few of the issues I wanted to address with respect to Master Robert: his utter lack of seriousness and how it unnecessarily tarnishes his family brand. I am sure that he felt some compulsion to run for President because the weight of expectation to aspire to some elected or political office must have been drilled into every Kennedy man. At 70 years old, Master Robert needed to heed the call or accept his fate as the namesake who never felt compelled to go into the family business. He could have stayed in the private sector as an environmentalist or under different circumstances, he might have scored a cushy ambassadorship somewhere. Perhaps I can't appreciate what it must be like to be perceived as an underachiever or worse...which is why I don't understand why he didn't just continue to do his own thing out of the glare of the world's expectations of him.

I did write this mini post after the family statement was shared that notes how significant it is that his sisters rebuked him so loudly and publicly, and how that's gotta sting. Maybe he doesn't care, but I can only imagine the pain such a drastic choice had to be for them, particularly eldest sister Kathleen. As an eldest sister myself, we look upon our younger siblings as our perpetual charges because that's the role we are born into--watch out for your younger sister(s) and brother(s). My parents must have told me that a thousand times, so still at this age, that is a responsibility I take most seriously. Even when we disagree, my default is to protect them. Therefore, Kathleen Kennedy Townsend's name atop this statement reveals just how truly a heartbreaking moment this is for this family.

The salt in the wound must have been that Madam VP wouldn't make time to meet with him; yet somebody from her campaign had extend an invite to his younger cousin to come speak in primetime on their to-do list. Hence, Master Robert, the eldest Kennedy male with the name and the face, was passed over, again...

By an arrogant, uppity Black woman!

Now, I don't believe in my heart (and I am serious) that her race or gender are what motivated Master Robert to set off a San Andreas fault level rift in his family. Instead, I believe her race and gender are what compelled that slithery Donald Trump to exploit this schism to his advantage. As one entitled rich guy to another, I imagine the constant refrain in their conversation was who does she think she is?

Privilege is one helluva drug and even the most liberal leaning of old money/nouveau riche gazillionaires have been known to question the long-term wisdom of a We The People ethos. The same democracy that touts the ideals of one person one vote stands in direct conflict with the affirmative action of generational wealth that Michelle Obama alluded to in her convention speech. Men like Trump and Master Robert never had to work at McDonald's. They didn't go to college on the GI Bill or Pell Grants, nor did they have to piece together funds from various sources to pay for their advanced degrees. They never had to tailor a resume to apply for any previous jobs, since running for President is the first high-stakes job interview either of them has ever pursued. 

Take a moment to let that sink in. And then it becomes clear why their disdain for Madam VP is so intense. Who does she think she is, not sitting for interviews with the media as if she is Beyonce? Who does she think she is, being handed a nomination without a traditional process? Who does she think she is, filling two arenas with real people at simultaneous rallies during the DNC? Who does she think she is, refusing to kowtow to Trump's proposed debate schedule and preferred format? Who does she think she is, Black or Indian (because she can't be both)?

Every other person who runs for President is motivated by some over-inflated sense of self. And we wonder aloud that same question about traditional third-party candidates. What made Ralph Nader or Lenora Fulani, or makes Jill Stein or Cornel West think they can run this country if they only appeal to a fringe sliver of the electorate? I get that they want to shine a light on issues that won't receive priority attention, but that is a primary election strategy, not one that has yielded much change or reform on the national level. When confronted on the prospect of being spoilers, they typically respond that they don't care about the consequences. Ralph Nader has been particularly vocal, unapologetic, and defiant of late. Once the dust of their pie-in-the-sky Presidential campaigns clears, they aren't pounding the pavement to build momentum in the states for future contests. Therefore, it is fair to assume that the typical third-party bid is an exercise in toxic hubris.

If you need any further proof of that same inclination in Master Robert, look at how his campaign has strategically opted to stay on the ballot in states where it can inflict harm against the Vice President, but has taken steps to be removed in states where he might harm Trump. If he was so concerned about the right of third-party candidates to be treated fairly, he would have thrown some campaign resources behind Jill Stein or Cornel West, both of whom are still attempting to gain ballot access in various states. Why not righteously demand that they also deserve to be heard in debates against the two major party candidates? Why leave them without the funding and infrastructure that they sorely need in order to support Trump, who has the RNC infrastructure and his own personal fortune at his disposal?

Even though Drs. West and Stein are un-redemptive chaos agents (albeit in a more traditional fashion), Master Robert is on another level. He is on par with Kanye West, who launched a spoiler campaign in July 2020 to siphon votes from Joe Biden in service to Donald Trump. Nobody thought Con Yeah Man was serious, but he did succeed in helping to sow seeds of discord in Georgia, setting the stage for what will now be Ground Zero in the second Trump Insurrection. And make no mistake, there will be another violent attempt, and Master Robert just helped to make that prospect a guaranteed certainty. 

For all intents and purposes, Trump is just another third-party narcissist who executed a hostile takeover of the Republican Party in 2016. Bernie Sanders attempted a similar coup with the Democrats twice, but they caught on and foiled his plans. These egomaniacs assume no one is hip to their duplicity, so once exposed by sunlight, they retaliate by gaslighting us. How many times has Trump whined that a process that doesn't advantage him is unfair, even with all of the resources he has to thwart his accusers? What have the Bernie Bros accomplished in the last four to eight years except become louder and more obnoxious? 

Strategically speaking, while the Democratic National Convention was quite the party, Madam VP took to the stage on that final night to let it be known that not only was SHE the effing headliner, but SHE is also a woman all about the business, with no time for suffering fools.  Cognizant of how hard some folks had been working to undermine her for the past three years by second-guessing her intelligence and arguing that she was an albatross around Biden's neck, Harris clearly understands that she only has two months to win or lose. Two months to define and introduce herself to the voters on her own terms as her own woman. With a truncated campaign schedule, she has to prioritize and be strategic about how she spends her time, and no good can come from giving an audience to a clown. It's enough for her to have to debate the Ringmaster. Folks who want to entertain a circus can vote for one, but she ain't with the shits!

So NO, Kamala Harris don't have time for tea with Master Robert. He's not entitled to an audience with her any more than the other chaos agent candidates. I listened to part of his statement, and it is puzzling to me how he criticizes the media for engaging in anti-democratic tactics while questioning Harris' right to choose if and when to give interviews. Which is it? It must be maddening to encounter a woman who can't be accused of using him to gain access to power because she already has more power than he could possibly imagine. She ain't concerned with his bruised ego nor is she impressed by his name. He is just one Kennedy. The majority of the family already publicly endorsed President Biden back in April (and are transferring that support to her), so any lingering hard or bitter feelings he harbors aren't with the Vice President, but with his family. She's not the one who will be uncomfortable at the Annual Kennedy Labor Day BBQ Bash on Hyannis Port...

When I invited you into this rabbit hole with me, one of the flashbacks that replayed on the way down was the memory of another Kennedy who pulled a similar stunt in 1980, which might have inspired this present carpe diem/YOLO effort. Lest we forget, the late Senator Edward Moore Kennedy, the baby of the family, also took on a sitting President when he thought there might be a vulnerability he could exploit. The rivalry and animosity between Uncle Teddy and President Carter lingered for decades and provides an interesting example of the historical rhymes and bars that we should commit to memory. 

In his DNC remarks, former President Obama threw out a laugh line about the remake never being as good as the original, which probably prompted most of us to compare and contrast a mental list of movies or songs. And sure enough, there are plenty of examples that prove his point. Although that was a reference to Trump, in this instance, Master Robert must have thought that he could attempt a remix of history by succeeding where his Uncle Teddy had not. He saw in President Biden an old and war-weary general and gambled that a Kennedy candidacy could offer us the prospect of a 21st Century Camelot Returns. He must have forgotten that Old Man Biden was there in 1980, so the general knew how to out-maneuver his would-be adversary. In passing the mic to his protégé, Biden robbed Master Robert of his shot; and by refusing to meet with him, Madam VP only compounded his humiliation. Uncle Teddy died 15 years ago to the day of his defection...but President Carter is alive and eager to vote for Harris this fall. At this rate, the only way Master Robert's name will be anywhere near the resolute desk in the Oval Office is in the form of that bust of his father. 

* Just because I want to be respectful and recognize the seriousness of what I am suggesting, there are reasons for my skepticism. I taught a class on the John F. Kennedy assassination, and one of the most graphic details was how the bullet that hit Kennedy caused his head to explode. That was from a rifle shot in 1963. Technology has advanced considerably in 60 years, and we know that a bullet from an AR-15, the gun recovered from the shooter, has the power to pulverize human flesh. If Trump had been grazed by that bullet, it should have knocked him down on that platform; instead, he reacted as if he had been stung by a bee before he was tackled by Secret Service. A man who was hit by one of those bullets, Corey Comperatore, died so it is offensive to me that Trump minimizes that man's life by stunting: thrusting his fist in the air in defiance; parading around with a maxi pad affixed to his head; and refusing to My disgust is compounded by the narcissism of Master Robert in endorsing such theatrical nonsense. 

Women of a Certain Age

If things had gone a little differently in my life, I would probably be one of the post-menopausal childless cat ladies that JD Vance and his running mate, 34 counts yet still running, keep insulting. As you know, when I started this blog, that was the path I was traveling (oh wait, some of you probably weren't aware that I had a cat-Mommy stint prior to the start of this blog...will tell you all about it in a minute)--except I was/am married. I was a dedicated Auntie to all of the kids in my husband's family and had just the one Baby Niece born to my younger brother. We were coming up on ten years of marriage, and all indications pointed to the probability that we were going to be one of those childless married couples--the kind who were content to spoil everyone else's little cherubs with unnecessary frivolity until they had to be returned to their parents.

We got really good at that. But then life took some interesting twists and turns...and well, we are now living another old married couple cliche--that of being the older parents of a young child. We are so old that we can't relate to any of the other parents in our daughter's peer group because we were in college or full grown adults with bills when most of them were children. Some of them are as young as our adult nieces and nephews!

And though I am not Post Menopausal, I am acquainted with her younger sister Peri while their niece Puberty has been trying to catch up with my daughter. Fun times for the Hub, let me tell you...

Since I mentioned it, allow me to take you on a quick trip through my childless cat lady phase, which got underway exactly 15 years ago! It started in late Spring or early Summer of 2008 when I happened to notice a stray kitten on my doorstep while I was grabbing the mail. It ran away, so I didn't think much of it until I happened to see another kitten with a larger cat out on the walkway in front of my house a day or so later. What struck me about them was both the coincidence of seeing two kittens in a span of days near my house, and the fact that the larger cat and the first kitten (black/white tuxedo cats) were obviously related, but now there appeared to be a tiger-striped sibling. Within a few days, I saw the original kitten (whose name I forget, and it is driving me crazy), Tiger, and the Mother cat whom we called Midnight in my backyard, at which point, I became obsessed invested with these strays. It didn't take long for the Hub to warm up to our little cat family once a fourth sibling (another tiger-striped kit whom he named Pudgy) befriended him, and for the next few weeks, we became foster cat parents.

Yes, you read that right. The soon-to-be Busy Black Lady with lifelong animal fur allergies bought cat food, a house, and even a heating pad in case the night temperature dropped. One night I saw a fox stalking my kits and I chased it away in high heel shoes! I scowled when their deadbeat fat Cat-Daddy (a tiger-striped that reminded me of Heathcliff) showed up one day, expecting to be fed even though he wore a visible collar. We contacted the Humane Society for guidance to support our kitties, and they referred us to a special program for stray cats. They recommended that we could extend the life of our strays by having them spayed/neutered, which we paid to have done (and I think we still have one of the cages they left behind). 

Bob Barker would have been proud; alas, this was a short-lived sitcom. To my next-door neighbor, who kept a strict schedule of meticulous yard work and immaculate landscaping, our cats were a nuisance. They were crapping in his yard, so his demand was if we weren't going to bring them to live inside our house, then we needed to stop feeding them. I ignored him, so he retaliated by using some kind of repellant that kept them away. No matter what I did to entice them back, they never returned to our care. 

The nature of passing fancies is that they pass, and once we were in the full throes of Obamamania, his Inauguration, and that first year of wow-we-got-a-Black-president euphoria, I moved on. By year's end, we were blessed with a Baby Niece (now the Mean Teen) and in spite of our excitement over her, we had accepted that God's plan for our lives wouldn't follow the traditional route of love, marriage, and baby carriages. As it turned out, the delay was not a denial with quite a few detours and left turns before we got here.

I shared that bit of personal history in response to the truly tone-deaf and insensitivity of the statements made by GOP Vice Presidential candidate James Donald David Bowman Hamel Vance (yeah, not exactly the kind of hillbilly name we're used to). He said some things about women that don't sound like a guy who hopes to ascend to a higher office with our support. His wife Usha, also a rather preppie Yalie in her own right, doesn't seem to know how to help him pull that country club loafer out of his mouth...

Childless cat-ladies is the kind of insult one would expect from some bitter IT guy living in his parents' basement because those are the only women he meets--the ones who post cat videos online. I'm not throwing shade because people like what they like, and cats happen to be the pet of choice for certain kinds of folks. I imagine that collecting houseplants and gardening would be similarly regarded, which is something I've done off and on for quite some time (and even blogged about it). So, I'm just saying that if we are categorizing people, basement-dwelling man-babies living in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

James David has argued that people who don't produce offspring don't have a sufficient stake in the future of the country, and therefore shouldn't have the same rights. Sounds kinda like a version of second-class citizenship that people marched and protested against, say 60 years ago. Because what about my Aunt E, a childless divorcee who taught pre-K for 35+ years? Or the nuns who taught me French, Biology, and Religion back at my all-girls' high school as part of my training and preparation for a good Catholic marriage? I could provide examples of the countless women, many of whom are good friends of mine, who wanted to follow the traditional path of love and marriage, but either never found the right man or experienced some course alteration that put them on a different path. Most of these women are doing great work in their professions, as business owners, and as civic leaders, because they have chosen to focus their energy on making the world better.

Because Lord knows, those of us with children barely have time to take care of ourselves. Ask me how I know...

Furthermore, just as there are childless women who have the time, talent, and treasure to dedicate themselves to improving the lives of others, there are men who are just as similarly convicted and concerned about human welfare. I happen to know quite a few of them as well. James David happens to be a recent adult convert to Catholicism, an entire Christian denomination that follows the edicts and proclamations made by unmarried men--a Pope, a college of Cardinals and Archbishops, Bishops, etc., and somehow, I don't believe he intends to disenfranchise his parish priest. That the men who are leaders of his faith have neither been married nor have any biological children, yet they have taken it upon themselves to impose their moral authority on the entire world...not at all problematic. But it's the cat ladies who can't be trusted?

(In all seriousness, because not only is my Dad a Catholic as are several people I respect, such as President Biden, so I won't dare make a crass joke...just a passing reference to the fact that yeah, substantial and unforgivable harm due to the sexual abuse that was covered up for centuries, but let's move on.)

As a former domestic relations attorney, I can tell you that there are too many people who have had children for all of the wrong reasons, so there is NO way we should entrust our country's future to their poor judgment. I could write a whole separate piece on that part of my life and what I have learned about human nature, but suffice it to say 

Post-menopausal women sounds on par with referring to pregnancy after the age of 35 as geriatric. It is the kind of insult that may be technically correct terminology but might get you shanked if aimed at the wrong person. So of course it gets uttered by two men engaged in light banter on a podcast. And look, I would take James David at his word that he didn't agree with that term if his word could be trusted. This is the same guy who went from being a never-Trumper to his bottom bitch in less time than it takes for a woman in her mid-50s to become post-menopausal...

As offensive as their implied use of that term was, it was actually the awkward white guy "compliment" of their respective South Asian mothers-in-law that was more offensive. Perhaps I'm just being hormonal, but why do white men who marry outside of their race always seem surprised to learn that whenever possible, their non-white in-laws don't consider caring for their grandchildren as an imposition? (And have y'all ever considered that it's you they are most concerned about?) My MIL moved in with her son and then her daughter to assist with her grandchildren too, and I imagine had she lived, she would have moved to DC to assist us 9 years ago. Not because that would have been her purpose, but her pleasure. 

Be clear on that distinction--it would have been her pleasure to assist us, and our privilege to accept and receive such selfless support. Because not all families operate under the automatic assumption of assigned gender roles, nor should it be regarded as an obligation. Relationships are choices. I am perplexed then, by someone like James David, who claims to understand and appreciate how strong women chose to intervene at various points in his life to save him, could so easily betray them with his misogynist rhetoric. I know that he wants to appease the hedge funders, venture capitalists, alphaverse Podcast Bros, and millionaire grifters running for President to avoid prison, but c'mon man! 

Seriously, what kind of man talks shit about women the way James David has done and expects that all will be forgiven once he gets home? Would his beloved Mamaw, the woman he immortalized in his memoir appreciate being reduced to a post-menopausal woman whose only purpose was to keep him from ruining his life? Really? And what of his wife, Usha, an accomplished woman in her own right who has apparently chosen to compromise her principles to stand by her man...I imagine that if she's rethinking her life choices, she's wondering how much she might have accomplished as a childless cat lady.

This is the thanks they get--a man who prevaricates to obscure the impact of his shape-shifting and weather-vane politics. A cardboard cut-out opportunist who wears guyliner. A man who can't even settle on a consistent name for himself, but he's got disparaging names for women. Contrary to the various clarifications and remixed explanations issued by the campaign, James David isn't some inarticulate rube who misspeaks or makes up words. He's the kind of self-made everyman whose trajectory from the Appalachians to the Marines to Ohio State to Yale Law School to Silicon Valley to the NYTimes Bestseller List to the Senate to the point where he could be a heartbeat away from the Presidency is...almost too good to be true. 

I may just be a former cat lady aging my way towards menopause, but this talented Mr. Ripley act James David is pulling has been calculated and methodical. He's not campaigning to be the wing man to someone he despises, because his mission isn't to help elect the useful orange idiot. Trump is a means to an end. Apparently, y'all haven't watched the Manchurian Candidate (1962) enough times. (What, you thought cat ladies and post-menopausal women only watched rom-coms in their downtime?)

Women who can think for themselves, exercise the freedom to make choices about what to do with their lives, and who aren't overwhelmed or tied down by familial obligations threaten the New (Old) World Order. Even if you haven't taken the time to read Project 2025 (and I have a kid, so no I don't have that kind of time), many of the proposals and policy recommendations are intended to undo much of the New Deal/Great Society reforms of the 20th Century. James David wrote the foreword, so even as his running mate disavows knowledge of what is contained in the plan, we know he's lying and it doesn't matter because James David knows. These are the people who groomed positioned him!

Thus, even if they lose in November, they have already sown enough seeds of discord. They have polarized this country along every fault line that exists and have exploited every vulnerability. We are embroiled in daily cultural skirmishes over the most ridiculous of topics. We live with constant agitation and anger over the pettiest stuff with the objective of keeping us under constant stress, exhausted, and on a hair trigger to overreact to just about anything. I mean, why does anyone need to lose sleep over a woman who prefers the company of cats unless she's insisting on bringing a dish to the office potluck?

Do you realize what these people have gotten us so angry about: rainbows, kittens, Dr. Suess books, tampons, crying babies, and RuPaul's Drag Race?! Remember when we used to end friendships over the choice between Coke vs. Pepsi, McDonald's vs. Burger King, and The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones? Me neither because I just picked my preferences and went on about my business. Sure, we've got fundamental disagreements, competing perspectives, and divergent ideas because this is a diverse country. Allegedly, that is supposed to allow us the freedom to be ourselves, whomever that may be.

For some women, that means choosing to adopt cats instead of having biological children. That's also a valid choice for men too. Choice means that children are born and raised by people who want and are able to provide for them, including extended family members, such as a post-menopausal woman or a retired elderly man. Parenthood shouldn't be mandated or forced on anyone, nor should certain family structures be proscribed by law or deemed superior to others. 

Finally, because I don't know what to make of Usha Vance (is she a manipulative Eleanor Iselin, conspiring with the Kremlin to facilitate a scenario to deliver the Presidency to her husband) or is she a captive would-have-been a cat lady, and it is she who is under hypnosis? I don't know what your choice will ultimately be, but if you need to escape, there's an army of women ready to pounce, just say the word.

Auntie Ray, Go Get Your Gun!

I had been waiting in breathless anticipation for the debut of Olympic Breaking. Okay, not really--anxious curiosity might have been a better way to describe it. Ever since it was announced that break-dancing would be included for the first time as an Olympic event, coupled with the ubiquitous presence of Snoop Dogg as an "ambassador" for the Games, I knew I had to see it to believe it.

With no expectations or assumptions, I tuned in to watch at the appointed hour. There were to be two days of competition consisting of a round-robin elimination tournament of dancers from various countries. The first day was for the women, known as B-Girls, so cool, I thought, let the ladies go first. Unfortunately, it was not the best roll out...

Since I watched from beginning to end, I'm not just reacting to viral clips or memes. In my humble opinion, the early rounds were cringe, but as the day wore on, the cream rose to the top and it definitely got better. I got my Dad to watch with me, and by the end of the day, we were invested to see whether our favorite, B-Girl India would win a medal. (Spoiler, she didn't.) The next day, I couldn't watch much of the competition because we were in a hotel where the channels only featured the main Olympic events. I only got to see a 10-minute replay clip of the B-Boys, and thankfully, their competition began with much stronger performances; therefore, I can only speak to what I saw from the women.

Opening question: does breaking need to be in the Olympics? I can't say. Having more familiarity with the traditional Olympic events like the team sports, swimming, gymnastics, and of course, track & field, it feels rather snobbish to question the inclusion of newer events such as skateboarding, beach volleyball, and rock-climbing. Yet, there is the argument that just because I can't get into it, that doesn't mean that others have the same issues. For example, while it is my humble opinion that golf and tennis are already popular tournament events with sufficient international appeal so there is no practical need to include them in the Olympics--that isn't my call.

I don't want to get bogged down by arguing the legitimacy of inclusion/exclusion because that undermines other important considerations, namely, that part of the Olympic ideal is to bring competitors from around the world together through a diverse variety of sport. Much of what we see every four years are the sports that don't get televised airtime but are no less interesting to watch such as wrestling, judo, fencing, and archery. A sport that I might disparage like table tennis (ping pong) looks a lot different on the Olympic level than it does in someone's basement. 

However, as a former dancer, I do have some concerns about the inclusion of dance as a competitive sport as opposed to encouraging more admiration of it as a multifaceted artform. Most of us agree that dancers are athletes, and that seeing dance performed in a variety of different formats might expand its appeal. Several Olympic sports, namely gymnastics and ice skating, rely on dance fundamentals to convey artistry. An ongoing concern for me as a Busy Black Dance Mom is that an emphasis on competition decreases both artistry and tolerance for any work that doesn't involve explosive tricks or stunts. Audiences become trained to expect theatrics, and performers become more prone to career-threatening injuries. There has been a movement to get dance onto the Olympic stage for years, so this was supposed to be an experiment. 

My curiosity was piqued by wanting to see if Olympic Breaking could become a thing. Because unlike other forms of dance that have a more ancient history and lineage, I'm old enough to remember some of the earliest days of break-dancing. Given that we just celebrated the 50th Anniversary of Hip Hop (and now the 51st year as of August 11), it was almost divine alignment that one of the art forms that had been integral to the global outreach of the genre would make its debut as an Olympic sport. In the words of Biggie Smalls (and I happened to be in the Bronx on Saturday to take this very picture outside of the Hip Hop Museum), we never thought hip hop would come this far...only to be undone by an Australian soccer mom dressed like a middle school gym teacher mimicking a wallaby that had been dinged by a boomerang!

However, let's come back to properly roast Rachael Gunn (B-Girl RayGun) after a few more paragraphs. Before I turn my ire on her, I need to give a shout out to a few cultural icons who deserve to be acknowledged for their role as originators. In the interest of paying proper respect to whom it is due, I will defer to the dance historians for the scholarly bits and focus on my recollections from the purely anecdotal perspective of a kid growing up in the late 70s and 80s. The first time I remember seeing the origins of what would become break-dancing was on the sitcom What's Happening (1976-1979), in syndication. It was called pop locking then, and while it chronologically overlapped with the nascent phases of hip hop, this was a popular dance performance style tailor-made for the disco era. 

Most people remember the late Fred 'ReRun' Berry from that show, and that part of his character's schtick was his dancing, as seen here. Anyone who has read this blog knows how much I loved Soul Train (1971-2006) while growing up, and that I alluded to one of Berry's earliest televised appearances on that show in this 50th Anniversary tribute. In it, I also made reference to the late Adolfo 'Shabba Doo' Quiñones, another iconic dancer who appeared with Berry on Soul Train (1976) and also on What's Happening (1976). Even if you don't recognize him from those earlier appearances, you do know Shabba Doo from Breakin' (1984). I finally learned the name of the man who brought these two together--the late Don 'Campbellock' Campbell, a visionary who founded the iconic dance group The Lockers, with ReRun, Shabba Doo, and Toni Basil (yep) as notable members. Though his name is not as recognizable, he clearly was the Godfather of Breaking.

I'm pretty sure that my first recollection of seeing break-dancing was on the Soul Train line. I also remember that around the same time, some kid at a school talent show did a spin on his back and ended in a pose, so whichever came first. Although I cannot pinpoint an exact grade or year, I can say that we engaged in dance battles as kids before anyone saw this scene in Flashdance (1983). Even if disco was dead, dancing was not, and we hit the floor to face off to songs like Dance to the Drummer's Beat (1978), Rapper's Delight (1979), Double Dutch Bus (1981), and DC's own Trouble Funk's party jam Pump Me Up (1982). I distinctly remember Afrika Bambaataa's Planet Rock (1982) being thee ultimate breakdance song, with Herbie Hancock's Rockit (1983) being the alternative choice. 

Somehow, without much fanfare, we went from pop-locking to breaking in an organic evolution, which was eventually reflected in popular culture. Of course, by the time mainstream popular culture caught up via the aforementioned Flashdance (with Jennifer Beales' grand finale audition for the Pittsburgh Ballet); this dance sequence from the TV show Fame in 1983, very reminiscent of MJ's Beat It video; Beat Street (1984) and a pair of Breakin' (1984) movies; and then finally the crossover success of Footloose (1984)...we moved on.

As per usual, once a cultural movement went mainstream, it lost its edge...breaking immediately became uncool the moment Cleo McDowell exclaimed he felt like break-dancing in Coming to America (1988). It was fun while it lasted! However, the truth was that breaking didn't fade inasmuch as we just invented new moves and other dance styles. Did you see all of our energetic and fancy footwork throughout the 90s? Shoot, by the end of that decade, we were older, tired, and our knees were bad! And while there was always someone at the party ready to dazzle us with some retro moves, most of us were content to stand back and watch, which brings us to the present moment.

Assuming that most of these modern performers, especially Professor Kiwi, knew some of this history then no one should have been surprised that the harshest critics of Olympic Breaking were going to be GenXers. We were checking in to see if these children we raised had any of our skills; what improvements or innovations they made; and if they were going to demonstrate the proper respect for what we created. No way were we going to respond well to that kangaroo hopping and her whack modern dance earthworm impression. Furthermore, we were bound to be salty at being overlooked yet AGAIN for our contributions to the culture and were left wondering why come y'all waited 45 years, searched the world over, and she was allegedly the best a country as big and diverse as Australia had to offer?! (And I know, ReRun, Shabba Doo, and Campbellock were all Boomers, so it's not just us the living who were pissed, but also the ancestors whom she displeased by this epic foolishness!)

I read this and this (and a bunch of other articles), and I don't care that we're supposed to believe that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. What she did out there was a mockery. It was not an overreaction to object to the inclusion of someone who wasn't even remotely on the same level as the talent that rose to the top and ultimately placed in the latter rounds. It wasn't creative; it was embarrassing. And the fact that she, her family, and the Australian officials were out here trying to gaslight and shame us for clowning her was peak privileged behavior. No wonder the Olympic organizers for Los Angeles wasted no time in axing this event, lest there be more of that BS on our home turf. (BTW, I know that decision had already been made prior to these Games, but trust, nobody would even think of reconsidering at this point.)

For what it's worth, we're not surprised by her disingenuous defensiveness nor her trolling, since that is in line with the times. This was her chance of a lifetime, and hers alone--the rest of the performers who actually worked and put their heart and soul into the competition be damned. Yeah, I saw that she has a PhD in cultural studies and wrote her dissertation on breaking, but degrees and scholarly papers didn't make her any more likeable or talented. Like WTF, I took ballet for years but my ankles never got strong enough for me to dance on pointe, so guess what I never effing did in spite of all my knowledge of the mechanics? Bish, write a book and give a TED Talk like every other academic--don't go to the Olympics and make a Tasmanian devil of yourself!

But what am I saying, because Gunn made a much more impactful statement for women than say Manizha Talash, the Afghan refugee who was disqualified for wearing a political message on her outfit. God forbid an athlete from a country where women are suppressed would forfeit her opportunity to compete for a medal by reminding the world that she escaped an oppressive regime...but let's reward Professor Kiwi with a participation trophy!

And if we dared to question her right to be at the Olympics on the Australian government's dime (or perhaps thanks to the largesse of some generous billionaire benefactor who made his fortune raising emus), then we're wrong? Sexist, ageist, or racist? Sexist, at these Games where gender parity was achieved and where the women's events were definitely just as, if not more, exciting than the men's events? Ageist, when 15 Olympians were competing at age 40 and older? Racist, because we're not rushing to bring the lady a handkerchief to dab her crocodile tears? Because we witnessed enough of the destructive power wielded by white women crying at these Games per the treatment of Imane Khelif, Jordan Chiles, and now all of the women who had to compete against this bandicoot?

Yeah, I said what I said. Calling Professor Kiwi out for being a terrible break dancer declares to the world that what we saw was simultaneously hilarious, ridiculous, galling, mediocre, worthless, atrocious, appalling, cringy, sophomoric, selfish...

As I put my thesaurus away, note that I did not accuse Gunn of cultural appropriation. In these Parisian 2024 Olympic Games, we just celebrated this inspiring and unprecedented visual of three Black women on the podium claiming medals in a sport that was lily white on the international scene until the 1990s. When I tell you that this was unfathomable to me when I was growing up, not because Black women weren't allowed to compete (as far as I know), but because I vividly remember that the primary competitors of gymnastics in my youth were white women with eating disorders. It took seeing Dominique Dawes compete and win on the international stage to inspire this current generation of champions. So, we don't need to challenge the right of others to participate, enjoy, and even excel in various athletic pursuits.

After these Olympic Games, Black women don't need to prove anything. We showed up and showed out to win medals in every other sport imaginable, so it was a turn of good luck that we sat this event out to give those other B-Girls a shot at some hardware. Black women in hip hop have gold and platinum RECORDS, so our contributions to the genre speak for themselves. We know our place in the origin story of break-dancing: singing on those disco tracks, keeping up with our male partners on the dance floor, and cheering on their agility from the sidelines. Speaking of cheerleaders, again I remind you that Toni Basil, yes her, was an original Locker, so that's partly why the cultural appropriation label doesn't stick. And at age 79, I bet if she had been up on that stage, she would have taught a master class!

Rachael Gunn deserves all the smoke for single-handedly ruining what should have been a marquee Olympic event. She thought so little of her competitors as to insert herself into a narrative that should have centered them as pioneers in a new Olympic venture, instead of all of the ink being spilled to justify and/or criticize her 15 minutes of infamy. It isn't cultural appropriation inasmuch as it is good old-fashioned Columbusing--typical colonizer behavior to insist that her studies of dance qualified her for a spot on this world stage. Great that she admires and emulates the culture, but she could have done that as a spectator. Her antics overshadowed the talent and hard work of the sincere competitors and medalists because every other article written on Olympic Breaking features her in a meme or captured in some Elaine Benes-like contortion. 

All of the reasons why I was ambivalent about dance being treated like a sport as opposed to an art form--Rachael Gunn is/was the embodiment of those concerns. No skill, no talent, just a gimmicky performance that humored an international audience as opposed to uplifting actual artistry. Meanwhile, some of the same people who were clutching their pearls during the Opening Ceremonies were cheering Professor Kiwi and the exclusion of breaking in future Games...

(Update: While I was editing this piece, I learned that there may be more to the story of how Rachael Gunn scammed her way to Paris...but if I devote any more energy assessing her shenanigans, this piece might never end. Depending upon when you read this, we will have learned that she did plan this massive farce with schemes to cash in on her notoriety while some other more deserving B-Girl from Down Under is waiting tables and donating blood to make ends meet. I'm not saying any of that is true, just pointing out how privilege is still the most addictive drug on the planet. Australia did not have to compete in this event. And watching an entire country go on the defensive is just as cringe as being tortured by watching her performance.)