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 made 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 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 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 good 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 this and get back to life, back to reality. Errands, getting my daughter, 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 though, 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

Re-Markle-Bull $#*!

This is a post that I started over a month ago, but got distracted by life so it didn't finish in the intended time frame. The recent verdict that went against Prince Harry and this subsequent statement issued by his office, along with a few other developments with the Royal Family convinced me to revisit and finally publish this piece. 

I haven't written about Meghan Markle in a minute. I was content to let that woman live her best life in peace because other than a few concert sightings and public appearances at the Invictus Games with her Prince, she wasn't doing anything to draw unnecessary attention to herself. That includes starring in a new show on Netflix that premiered in March. I was all set to ignore it until y'all started complaining.

So I accept the challenge, because dagnabbit, I need to know why y'all can't leave well enough alone! Then I realized that since January and the return of the Troll King, there haven't been any Black women in the public eye other than Rep. Jasmine Crockett to draw your ire, so it looks like Duchess Meghan is the volunteer tribute...

Y'all are upset that she has a job? 

Or is it that she's getting paid to do what so many of us do every day for free, and that just doesn't seem right because she's a princess...duchess...still married to a Royal? Because stay at homemaking has always been a thankless, under-appreciated form of devalued labor; however, now that affluent women are embracing it as a form of "soft living" they can brag about, it has become a glamorous trend that they get paid for...

For the sake of argument, yes, it is crazy once you realize that an actual princess is being paid big money to appear to be happily doing the kind of work she could have had servants perform. Isn't the dream of becoming a princess to have somebody else do all of your chores? Alas, she left that life behind in merry olde England, so instead of having servants, here in America she has staff and their job is to make it look like she enjoys doing all of her own cooking and bee-keeping. It's like code-switching accents: potāyto-potăhto...

When you really think about it, her show is just another celebrity cooking show. Singer Trisha Yearwood had a show for 16 seasons as did actress Valerie Bertinelli for 14 seasons. Other celebrities who had shorter runs include Tia Mowry, Haylie Duff, Tiffani Theissen, and Rev. Run (of Run DMC). Heck, not too long ago, Snoop Dogg and Martha Stewart hosted a potluck dinner party show on Vh1. Other than being shocked that Snoop and Martha weren't pranking us, I don't recall any of those other efforts getting this much negative attention. Therefore, if you were ever bored/sick/curious enough to watch any of those other shows, then it doesn't make sense to dissect Markle's show for its lack of authenticity, unless you're a bona fide hater. 

On a whim, I googled Gwyneth Paltrow because I couldn't remember if the name of her lifestyle website, Goop, was the same as the skincare company, and yes the same entity. I guess others responded to a similar vibe because the comparison searches popped up immediately. Only, I was initially looking for that infamous vagina candle to point out how celebrities are always selling unattainable lifestyle "luxury" items, such as handbags, jewelry, and other symbols of conspicuous consumption. Look at any glossy magazine photo spread to see what I mean (e.g. Paltrow featured throughout this Vanity Fair piece). I was amazed to learn that not only have y'all been actively comparing these two women, but Lady Gwyneth Kate Paltrow was declared more relatable?!

Can we take a moment (but not ten minutes like this video I watched, so you needn't bother), to state for the record that someone actually posted on Blue Ivy's internet that Lady Gwyneth Kate Paltrow, in her wrinkled Ralph Lauren jammies baking $14 biscuits in her "own" kitchen sans makeup a few doors down from Meghan in the hills of Montecito was throwing shade?! If you sat through any of that in spite being forewarned (and to be honest, I clocked out at 5 mins), then you, like me, are at a loss in understanding this irrational hate for the Duchess. Because it is literally the same, bland, let them eat scones with expensive pots of jam (beginning at :33) schtick!

Her haters really want us to believe that Markle is some massive phony and a failure, so that leaves me wondering who bought up every pot of jam on her website last month? IDK, what do you call people who will probably plan an entire garden tea party in a few weeks just so that they can show and tell you all about the keepsake packaging that came with their runny fruit spread?

What does it say about the people who have time to hate-watch and comment on every move this Meghan makes but have no smoke for the other infamous Megs...like the one who capitalizes on her Daddy's name and reputation or the former journalist who once claimed Jesus is white and Santa too. There's Meghan Trainor who used to sing about her booty, but now that she's lost all of that baby phat, she's selling laundry detergent. There are other Megans/Meagans and so many other more pressing issues to complain about, so many injustices that should have us in these streets...

But y'all would rather take time to rail against somebody who isn't destroying the world with every stroke of her pen. She's not doing anything different than the rest of us in sharing photos of her family or of herself on IG. She's spreading sunshine and joy, sprinkling edible flowers and hanging out with her celebrity BFFs...so what is the deal?

Like WTF, Bethenny Frankel (whose video I juxtaposed on the FB page with Kamie Crawford's, formerly of MTV's Catfish a few weeks ago)! What's with the green-eyed envy? You do realize how petty and bitter you seem with your constant snipping and sniping at Markle? Rich coming from someone who rose to fame on other people's coattails--first, as a reality show runner-up and then as the unmarried wannabe on a show about NY society housewives. You had your shot, made millions selling watered-down cocktails, but now you have the nerve to opine and stew in your feelings about someone else's life? If you want a Netflix show, get a better agent!

A few weeks back when it was announced that the Duchess would get a second season to regale us with more bread baking and butter churning, I saw an avalanche of reactions, most along the themes highlighted in this article that panned the show and offered up a bunch of reasons why she's so polarizing. Perhaps it is as simple as people not liking her, which is how it goes sometimes--she's not everybody's spot of tea. My problem with these formal pronouncements is that we're constantly being told how unlikeable she is by people who are paid to write negatively about her, and that stacks the deck. It isn't my imagination that every critic writing for The Hollywood Reporter, the New York Post, Screen Rant, and Variety had the exact same reaction.

Doesn't it seem rather coincidental that there are anti-Meghan stories pumped out by the tabloids at the same time there are waves of stories written in support of various members of the British Royal family? Like Queen Camilla deciding to repurpose her wedding suit on an official state visit...it is newsworthy and laudable for the Queen Consort to repeat a 20-year old outfit, giving the impression of being budget-conscious (for once, the Frugal Queen). How about those adorable official birthday portraits being released to celebrate the Wales' spares Prince Louis and Princess Charlotte (better enjoy all of that positive attention now kids). With all of their good news and noble deeds, why was it necessary to pan the roll out of the Duchess' product line in the Daily Mail, The Sun, and the NY Post unless the entire goal was to undermine her efforts?

Furthermore, whenever someone suggests that there is something more sinister behind the immense hatred aimed at the Duchess, we're accused of being woke or ultra-sensitive. Awake to the double-standards or ultra-sensitive because we recognize the abusive cycle of seeing Black women getting built up and then strategically and methodically torn down as some kind of perverse entertainment? The Duchess is hardly the first Black woman to face this; some of her best friends, supporters, and peers have braved the same firing squad of shifting public opinion. Right now, some of y'all are Red-State mad on Blue Ivy's internet that her Momma has the audacity to insist that Black Southern culture is a thing, and not just the fear and complacency y'all would prefer people to believe. 

So let's take a moment to address the irony of this backlash to a Black woman occupying a space to which we were once relegated--why is it so hard to accept the notion of an accomplished Black woman knowing her way around the kitchen? Is it more offensive that she does so while dressed in her designer duds and making use of that good Le Creuset cookware or did y'all expect for her to be sweating over a cheap frying pan from the Dollar Store wearing a red head hanky and a gingham apron?

Lawd...that can't be it, can it?

Surely, it can't be that scandalous that she opted to film her series in a rented kitchen as opposed to her own. Did you honestly expect that a woman whose husband is the son of the King of England, brother to the future King, uncle of the future-future King, and still 6th or 7th in line to the throne himself, who also happens to be fighting several high-profile battles in court to protect his family from tabloid gossip and other nefarious actors--surely she wouldn't be that reckless as to allow cameras into their personal residence to film a cooking show? Other than reality TV Housewives or the late Julia Child, who else is willing to allow a film crew all up in their personal space like that? 

To be clear, the aforementioned Lady Gwyneth Kate was filming herself (or perhaps, she was being filmed by an assistant) in a home video that she posted to her IG account. I shouldn't have to explain any of this, but you do know that most of those TV cooking shows are filmed on sets because there are strict safety protocols for food handling that are difficult to follow in one's own kitchen. If you watch any of those cooking competition shows, they are filmed in spacious studios with fully stocked pantries, farm-fresh ingredients, and state-of-the-art appliances. Do you know anybody who has butcher-block counters or a walk-in freezer?

Speaking of the incomparable Julia Child, most of us who grew up watching her didn't take much notice of her expensive cookware. But if you did, then you rarely, if ever saw her reach for any of those copper pots she had adorning her wall. So why is it unreasonable for Markle to make use of those expensive wedding gifts she amassed when she wed Prince Harry as opposed to letting them collect dust in storage? 

In Meghan's own words, this is a thing, in 2025? Really, because women have been buying discounted enameled cookware from Marshall's for years. Our pieces might not match, but most of the items in our kitchens are a hodge podge of stuff we bought or inherited. I have an enamel Dutch oven that my parents bought me during a post-Christmas clearance sale at Macy's years ago from the Martha Stewart collection. I also happily use my Circulon pots as well as my mother's 50-year old stainless steel cookware. My Mom also had a collection of decorative copper pots adorning the walls of her kitchen. So where is it written that we can't have nice things too?

So what is the big deal? It's a doggone cooking show. On Netflix. Which means, you have to intentionally decide to watch it, unlike the shows that you leave on as background from the Food Network or the Cooking Channel during the holidays. In order to find Markle's show, I had to use the search function because it didn't come up automatically as a recommendation even though every season of Bridgerton, The Crown, and the Downton Abby (2019) movie did. 

By the way, I watched one episode. But I'm not here to offer a review...

I'm here to question why this woman is more polarizing than a Kardashian (whose nonstop attention-hawking we've been subjected to for 20 seasons). Most of us American commoners couldn't care less about the lives of European royalty, yet we know more about the British royals because their family drama is inescapable. Thus, when a Black woman married into the family, more of us got invested and have taken keen notice of how she has been treated. And she has been accused of everything from contributing to global climate change and drought to worrying her husband's nonagenarian Grandparents to death. Since I don't know her personally, I can't tell if she is as terrible as Wallis Simpson...or any more of a phony than this guy.

You would think that she had falsely accused a member of the Royal Family of sexual abuse or that she was a long-lost descendant of one of the rabble-rousers at the Boston Tea Party. As it turns out, it was her naiveté in assuming that in exchange for becoming a mascot for the British Empire, she was entitled to some measure of respect. That she would prove to be as valuable and beloved as one of the Queen's corgis. Upon realizing that the household staff at Buckingham Palace was better regarded, she did what every self-respecting American has done since 1776. And they act like she stole the Crown jewels the way the Brits ransacked everybody else's treasures and antiquities as their own.

I've been trying to wrap my head around this for years, and other than the visceral hate some people seem to have for Black women (and I've got receipts), Meghan hasn't done anything to deserve this. And that's exactly how most of her haters see it too--what makes her so special as to think that she can abscond with our spare prince, keep that title while refusing to allow us to use and abuse her, and live her life on her own terms? Who does she think she is?

As Ever, and With Love...she's HRH Meghan the Remarkable Duchess of Sussex.