Sister-Girl Prayer Circle, Activate!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.)

You Win Some, You Lose Some

This is not another long-form think piece about Beyonce. Or the fact that Jay Z got up on stage and started another unnecessary skirmish between the Bey Hive and the Swifties over the one Grammy Award that a certain person has never received whilst the other person has four. I mean, I understand the complaint, but it feels rather on-brand (and not in a good way), to whine about having ALL the things except this one little thing, for which she was not nominated, she doesn't need, and probably doesn't have the shelf space to display...

Nevertheless, none of the Beekeepers are going to agree with me on that. And after a week of reading commentary posted by grown-ass people with jobs unrelated to defending the Carter Family empire, I am going to leave that alone. Furthermore, having just written about Swift and mindful that we have an extra day this year for Black History Month, I will let her sit this one out as well.

Instead, I am writing a general open letter of sorts to the world that maybe we need to do a better job of remembering the lessons we were taught as children about winning and losing. Seems everyone has forgotten how to be gracious at both, with folks complaining about not winning enough or folks insisting that they won victories when all evidence indicates otherwise. Into this fray comes the Busy Black Woman to offer some reminders. 

Dear Everybody:

One of the first sentences you were taught as a child was to say thank you. I distinctly recall that if I failed to utter those words, several scenarios might play out, such as having whatever was just offered to me taken back. And it was done in such a dramatic way to maximize the impact, usually by the loudest Auntie or Uncle who declared I didn't hear you say thank you, so I guess you don't really want this. Then as a follow up, you had to endure a public scolding. And because this always happened at some large family gathering, you got that look from one or both parents--the look that clearly communicated that this wasn't even the half of what to expect on the way home. Ah yes, even at 50 years old, the memory of that kind of embarrassment has never faded. (Mind you, the person responsible for this trauma did not hear me say thank you, because I did say it...it was no use arguing that point 40+ years ago any more than it is worth insisting on it now.) 

But you get my point. Thank you is the simplest, easiest, and most gracious sentence in every culture and language that can avoid most misunderstandings in life. It doesn't need to be an Emmy/Grammy/Oscar/Tony-worthy speech (unless you are accepting one of those awards and need to thank God; your parents; your significant other, children, and pets; as well as your team of lawyers, agents, glam squad, etc.), in which case, just make sure to wrap it up before the music plays. 

Some of us were raised to send thank you notes; some of you were not. It seems as if nowadays handwritten notes are a generational relic, with many folks opting to send a thank you email or text. To be honest, I am not going to be a stickler about the form because I get that there are times when a less formal communication of gratitude is appropriate. Therefore, I am happy to receive a phone call in place of whatever Emily Post etiquette rules once existed. We're all busy, kids don't learn how to read or write in cursive anymore, and ain't nobody got time to be worried about stamps or how to properly address an envelope. 

However, I will judge you if I go out of my way to do something nice and you shrug it off like you deserved it. While I won't call you out like that loud Auntie, you gonna learn real quick that I won't trouble you with any future acts of kindness. Yes, it is that serious, because a failure to acknowledge someone's benevolence or generosity is not just rude, but it reeks of entitlement. No one is that busy or important. Even bill collectors take the time to thank you for making a payment. And in the event that you had a human moment and forgot to express thanks, that's fine because there is no statute of limitations. Better late than never.

When you were in elementary school playing some game on the playground, invariably, somebody got mad about losing. And that kid had an epic tantrum that required intervention by a teacher or playground monitor. After being hauled off to the principal's office or the teacher's lounge, s/he returned to class to offer an apology, which was then reinforced by a lecture on the merits of sportsmanship. I can't speak for everyone reading this, but I remember hearing this lecture every year in some capacity from every teacher who needed to emphasize that not all of us were going to win the game, be awarded the first prize certificate, be cast in the starring role, or sing the solo. 

Some of y'all weren't listening. Or maybe you were the kid who always came out on top, so you never had to learn what it meant to be the runner up. You got all As, you were the team captain, or you maybe you played soccer during that era when folks stopped keeping score and gave everyone a participation trophy. Whatever excuse you have for being a sore loser as an adult, it's time for you to put on your big kid pants and grow the heck up!

Sometimes you don't win. Al Gore invented the internet, won a Nobel Peace Prize, and still looks pretty good for his age. But he didn't win the 2000 Presidential Election because he lost the state of Florida by 537 votes*. The Atlanta Falcons were winning the Superbowl against the New England Patriots in 2017 until the second half of the game, then they lost in overtime 34-28. How many times have you watched a game show and the contestant in the lead loses Final Jeopardy or overbids the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right? Imagine being from one of those small countries that goes to the Olympics every four years but never wins any medals. Or being Susan Lucci for 19 years.

I don't know how we got to this point. I don't know what changed in the course of my lifetime where the adage that winning isn't everything became an alternative fact from the multiverse of infinite options. Political candidates routinely refuse to concede elections, with the best example being the former President of the United States who continues to insist that he won an election that he lost by 7 million votes. Winning at all costs has been normalized in other aspects of life, with students now filing lawsuits to gain admission to their top choice college. Or cheating to stack the deck in their favor like the parents caught up in that Operation Varsity Blues scandal. Sports franchises spend the equivalent of the gross national product (GNP) of the world's poorest countries just to win trophies. All of this backlash we see against diversity, equity, and inclusion is just sour grapes and fear over possibly losing access to once-restricted opportunities.

It used to be that losing built character. It encouraged perseverance. It taught us that life is sometimes unfair, but to show up and try anyway. Even the Bible tells us that there is a time and a place for everything, and while it doesn't explicitly mention winning and losing, shouldn't that be implied?

Someone wrote a post to Facebook about what Jay Z was teaching his daughter in his speech the other night, and I certainly agree that it was admirable for him to defend his wife (we'll address that part at another time). At the same time, I can also believe that he imparted the wrong message to his daughter about winning--it isn't always based on objective criteria. And we don't always deserve to win just because we show up. There are a lot of people who worked hard who still finish last, which is what we see happen every four years at the Olympics. Some of those folks only won the preliminary opportunity to compete on the international stage, but that doesn't make those victories any less significant.

There is an arrogance to feeling so entitled to winning that often leads to backlash, resentment, and eventually to becoming what winners fear--a loser. We've seen the defeat of athletes who compete past their prime and refuse to retire. We've seen the hubris of leaders who think they are irreplaceable. We've seen some extremely talented people surround themselves with sycophants who never offer critical advice or counsel. We've seen how people who are so used to winning at everything can't handle when the tides shift. We've seen world records broken, statues and monuments toppled, and greatness surpassed. 

We've seen winners lose. And then true character is revealed. 

The true character of the two ladies who aren't supposed to be the reason why I'm writing this open letter was on display well before the Grammy telecast. Beyonce attended the premier of Taylor Swift's Eras concert film, and Swift graciously acknowledged the influence Beyonce had on younger artists like her. EVERYBODY seems to have missed that in the rush to take sides, which has been most disappointing. Because if you truly understood the diva-like aura that tends to surround artists on that level, you would know this photo was definitely not a PR stunt.

You win some and you say thank you. You lose some, you nod and smile, and then go back to work or practice with a mind towards winning the next time. You keep putting in the work. You keep showing up. And what you will win at some point in the process will be more meaningful and significant than a participation trophy.

* still disputed, but not by Gore

Barbie, Beyonce, and Bucket Lists

If someone asked me to provide a description of my first weekend of August 2023, those would be the words I would use. 

I know that I said that I wouldn't do a recap or review of the Barbie movie, and while this is kind of a cheat, I do feel compelled to offer a brief paragraph or two of my perspective. Because I have seen all kinds of opinions and weird takes, and I swear, some of you just want to something to complain about. Which is ridiculous since it is a movie based on a toy.

Perhaps everyone is used to movies about toys being overly sentimental or centered on the ones that explode or destroy things, I guess the very non-violent and only mildly dystopian premise of a Barbie doll that gains sentience and crosses over from a land of make-believe into the real world really warped your sense of things for a minute or so. I mean, it must have been really hard to fathom a world in which a fictional depiction of the Mattel corporate boardroom as men in suits or warring factions of Ken dolls fighting for relevance in a music video wasn't intended to convince your daughters to challenge the patriarchy. Of course it was, but then again, was it? 

Think about this way: Mattel is pre-selling Weird Barbie for $50, which is more than what I've paid for every Inspiring Women series Barbie doll that I won't let my Kid touch. Now, there are various collectible dolls selling for many times that amount, but the point was and still is that this film is nothing more than a 2-hour commercial meant to sell dolls...to grown women! Because the audience for this film is not your rebellious teenage daughter who stopped playing with her Barbies right after you built her that Dream House that takes up too much space in the garage.

Now we're going to do an abrupt pivot to the Beyonce concert (because I have a lot more to say about that, and I'm bursting at the seams to share)! I realize that even revealing the details of how I decided to get tickets will polarize people into various factions: those who think it was crazy to spend that kind of money to see Beyonce; those who wish they had that kind of money to spend on Beyonce tickets; and those who enjoyed the show because seeing Beyonce live is a BFD!

Let's start with the latter group. In February, I floated a query to a group of friends regarding tickets and for the most part, most of them responded with disinterest. So it was on a far-fetched whim that I even put my bid into the lottery system to purchase tickets because I figured it was a long shot in the dark. Worst case scenario, I wouldn't make the lottery; best case scenario, I would get a chance, see the prices, and get a good laugh once my credit card got declined. Welp...

A week later I got notification that I was in the lottery and suddenly, I felt like this was akin to playing high stakes poker with a Bond villain. I logged into my Ticketmaster account an hour earlier than the appointed time and made it clear to everyone in the house that I was not to be disturbed. I refreshed my screen and dove into the queue, where I was informed that I would have to wait behind at least a thousand people. But that process went very quickly and within half an hour, I was clicking around the seating chart to see what seats were affordable and still available. As it turns out, I got pretty good seats for someone who approached this on a whim and a long shot (four tickets plus fees for less than my monthly mortgage). 

I decided that I would reserve one ticket for the Niece, and I think she had a good time (as you can see from this picture, it's hard to tell with teenagers). My friend AH claimed the other two tickets for her and her daughter. Several people asked, but no, the Kid was never in my plan because of her age and my belief that it all would have been way too much for both of us, so I took videos to share with her afterwards. My other Niece, same age as the Kid, made me pinky-swear promise to take her the next time, so God willing and the creek don't rise, I've got at least two more companions for the next Beyonce show that comes our way. So yes, that answers your next question.

To answer your third question, YES, it is worth making such a promise to make plans to see the next Beyonce show, even if that means I need to start saving my pennies now. Beyonce is worth ALL of the hype, similar to how many of us felt when Michael Jackson and Prince were alive. I can say that I saw both of them perform live and those experiences were unforgettable. She is definitely on that level. I am sure that there are others (Elton John comes to mind) and I wish that I hadn't missed that boat when it came sailing through. No matter though, because I have a bucket list of performers and will make it my business to be blessed to see each one. To be totally honest though, Beyonce wasn't even on that original list.

So let's address the desires of those who wish they could have been there. Several years back, an acquaintance posted on Facebook about folks needing to be ready with their Beyonce ticket money at a moment's notice, and I thought, hmm easy to say when one doesn't have responsibilities. At the time, I believe my Kid was still a Toddlersaurus and the Niece was about her age now. I didn't bother to look into getting tickets nor did I survey any of my friends, even though several people I knew ended up going. In one case, someone had an extra ticket and asked a friend if he wanted it. Sometimes we get blessed at random when someone decides to cast their bread upon the waters.

For the rest of us who want to see Beyonce or check off some adventure from our bucket lists, we've got to just decide to do it. That isn't just about concerts, but about most things in life. A lot of people assumed that the ticket prices would be beyond reach, so they didn't try, but it wasn't like that at all. Some people even bought tickets the day of the show for pretty reasonable regular prices, and I'm happy for them. Broadway tickets are sometimes sold at a same-day discount, so maybe one day the Kid and I will stumble into Hamilton or some other fabulous show she wants to see (such as The Six). Most times, however, fortune favors the brave; therefore, make up your mind now that you do have Beyonce ticket money. Decide that if the opportunity presents itself, you will just throw caution to the wind, throw your shit into a bag, and just go for it! 

Mind you, I am not always that impulsive, but as I have gotten older, I've accepted that sometimes it makes so much more sense to roll the dice than to play it safe. I'm not saying that I was too cautious when I was younger (actually, yes I am), but I think that if I had been a little less so, I wouldn't feel like I missed out on so much. I only saw MJ once, in 1984 because that's the only time an effort was made. I was blessed with free Prince tickets in 2004, but that was random luck. Looking back, maybe I should have been more willing to venture outside of my comfort zone instead of telling myself that I might not succeed so why try...

I know, we were talking about Beyonce tickets, so to those who think it was crazy, you are right! And I've already declared that I would do it again, so there's that. So as not to provoke too much social media envy, I have been very mindful about over-sharing because it feels like the exact opposite of a humble brag. Yet at the same time, I'm not sure why I should feel any kind of way considering how many of y'all post pictures of your vacations on Martha's Vinyard and Dubai. I've never been to either of those places, but now I'm thinking of a master plan.

I'm not mad at you...YOLO so Carpe diem!

Which brings us to the topic of bucket lists. Last year, many of my friends turned 50 and as some of you are aware, the Busy Black Woman will reach that golden shore later this year. I am all over the place with various emotions. There are days when I think YAY, and then there are days when I look back and wonder where the years went and how did I get here. Actually, my thoughts use more colorful language, but the end result is the same. Not only are these gray hairs hella disrespectful, but so are these hot flashes and the accompanying brain fog. I cannot believe I have lived almost 50 years!

With four months to go, I have no idea how to celebrate. I think the Hub had plans, but then our bedroom ceiling collapsed, and the Kid keeps growing taller. So that means being practical...but is that how I want to start my next half century? What did Barbie do? I think she changed her hair and stopped wearing heels, but she's a toy, so maybe a better question is what will Beyonce do? I'm pretty sure I'll get my answer when I take the girls to see her on her next world tour.

Since I don't have Mattel or Jay-Z money, I believe a viable alternative to renting the Louvre or opening my own amusement park is to just say Yes. I have already alluded to that with respect to having your ticket money ready, but this is about more than just going to shows. This is about being open to living and experiencing more than what you have been doing. It means setting intentions--not just of the things you want to do before you kick some metaphorical bucket (because we know not the day nor the hour), but what things do you want to have done that will fill your bucket with memorable experiences? Did you want to backpack across Europe at some point? Did you want to go on Safari in some African country? Did you want to drive cross-country in an RV? Did you want to ride every wooden roller coaster that you were too young to ride as a child? Did you take a language and wish you had become fluent? Did you play an instrument?

Are you getting the point? 

Now back to the Barbie movie, because the ending offers the perfect message for concluding this piece: once you get a taste of living, it is hard to go back to just existing. It becomes an existential dilemma to return to your box or your imaginary world where things seemed perfect. You've got to make moves, decisions, take action. You went to see Beyonce and now you're thinking as you are preparing and packing for a week at the same beach where you've been going for about ten years that maybe next summer you'll go somewhere different.

It's time to go back to Homecoming for the first time in years. It's time to put that passport to use, even if you're not crossing the ocean, just playing in it. When was the last time you went to an amusement park and rode an old wooden roller coaster? Now that you've gone out into the real world, it's hard to go back to being stereotypical Barbie. Or to being a predictable, practical Busy Black Woman.

Fried Chicken Wednesday: The Coronation

For this installment of #RoyalNewsYouCantUse, I thought you might enjoy a recap of the Coronation of King Charles III, but with a little Busy Black Woman Fried Chicken twist. Because if you sat through it the first time and managed to stay awake...

Bland Chicken Broth

Whew Lawd, what a snooze! And to make matters worse, the British and American tabloid media keep pumping out headlines about the behind-the-scenes machinations leading up to and after the Boringest show on earth. We saw it all, and what we knew to be true some 40 years ago is absolutely still the case: King Charles III is a dud. Monarchy is a lot more interesting to see depicted in fairy tales, in costume dramas on PBS, and on Broadway. Perhaps he should have hired this guy as a warm-up act:

Jonathan Groff as King George III in Hamilton

(Then again, maybe not since he's why most Americans think all of this is silly.) 

As promised, I fully intended to watch this entire spectacle, and I really tried. My daughter woke up in the middle of the night with a cough, so she climbed into bed to share her cooties with me. And then I couldn't go back to sleep, so I began channel surfing and saw that CNN International had blocked off time to cover the Coronation as early as 1am EDT. I watched about ten minutes of commentary, and then it was a wrap--I was out like a light, even with the Kid's elbow jabbing me. When I woke up again a few hours later to the same boring commentary, I flipped over to PBS where there was less talk and more focus on the "action", which is the most ironic word to describe exactly what was not happening at that time.

Lemon Pepper Hot Wings

I must have nodded off again because I jolted awake at the blare of trumpets during the musical overture before the start of the ceremony. To keep the guests entertained prior to his arrival, the King had several pieces commissioned, which were all very elegant and regal. Of course, the stand-out was the South African soprano Pretty Yende, who made sure that she was not only heard (which was lovely), but also seen in this neon yellow dress: 

Winner-Winner Chicken Dinner

The long-awaited arrival of Prodigal Prince Harry was rather anti-climatic since without much fanfare, he walked in, shook a few hands, and made his way to his seat. It didn't matter that he wasn't seated in the front row or that his view was likely obstructed by his Aunt's hat, because of everyone assembled, he seemed to be the only happy person in the Abbey. The delight on his face in this picture is giving us several vibes: (1) Ha, it wasn't me pissing Father off this time (classic mischievous younger brother energy); (2) I think I can win the bet that I'll be back in the States in time to have that tray of Mama Dee's mac and cheese all to myself; (3) here comes my Crazy Aunt Anne, try not to laugh at that enormous goose feather on her Napoleon hat (too late); and (4) I wonder how unseemly it would look if I literally cartwheeled my way out of here right after the benediction?

Flipping the Bird

Speaking of Crazy Aunt Anne, the Princess Royal, who in every photo I have seen of her since Queen Elizabeth died, looks like she's about to storm the Bastille:

Kate's Classic Chicken Pot Pie

Kelly Preston as Jetstream
in Sky High

I have to admit that Princess Catherine of Wales earned my sympathy because she was obviously having a terrible day, but still managed to put on a brave face. It cannot be easy to live under the constant glare of hot lights and to have your every move dissected on social media (just ask your estranged SIL). As for the state of their marriage, it has been 12 years and three children--William is lucky she agreed to wear that ridiculous superhero costume in public. 

On the FB page, I joked that she reminded me of every Black mother I've seen rushing into church after the service has started: thank God we made it, but dammit why are we always late? My guess is that she had the same kind of morning I've had whenever I discover that my daughter has been playing in my makeup (and I swear it happens every single time when I have to be somewhere). After making sure that the Heirs and other children were dressed, Kate finally had a few minutes to focus on herself. As she was rummaging through her makeup bag, she discovered that Princess Charlotte and Prince Louis had been mixing her eye shadow colors again. Everything was a mess, and when she complained to William, he just stared at her and blinked nervously. For it was then at that moment he remembered that he had forgotten to tell her that per the Queen-to-be, Kate couldn't wear her favorite tiara. 

Which not only explains why they were late, but also why everybody in her wingspan looked so tense and mortally afraid once they arrived at the Abbey. Kate must have cursed them all out, which threw everybody off their game. Poor Prince George was trying not to trip/step on Granddaddy's train. Prince William forgot the lines he had been rehearsing all of his life and had to read from the cue cards. Prince Edward, 38th in line to the throne, looking both bewildered and ecstatic to finally sit on the front row at one of these events was thinking what the bloody hell did I do to her?

And Kate, seething with the rage of a woman who found out at the very last minute that she couldn't wear the tiara she had pre-selected so she had to do something else creative with her hair, made everybody wait. She sent Charlotte into her room to find an old doily and on the car ride over to the Abbey, they went to work crafting a Mommy and Me hairpiece. Looks pretty good, if you ask me.

The Side Dishes

Now I know what I said I wouldn't say, but you have to admit that Queen Camilla was serving Lady Elaine Fairchilde (before her modern Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood makeover):

And Rose Hanbury could be a doppelganger for Lady Betty Aberlin if this were all taking place in the Neighborhood of Make-Believe:

Chicken is the Gospel Bird

With Duchess Meghan and her Mama Dee sound asleep in California, I'm guessing the need to prove just how the British royals are "very much not a racist family" was real. Therefore, the King wisely remembered that at one point in time, the sun never set on his Grandfather's imperial spice rack, so perhaps it would be a gesture of good will to sprinkle a little seasoning into the flour. Not only did he make sure to invite all of the various heads of state and assorted royalty, he also had their presence strategically photographed and announced:

Crown Prince Fumihito and Crown Princess Kiko of Japan

Ditto for the ecumenical outreach in having representatives of every faith in full regalia as a nod to the religious diversity of modern UK and throughout the Commonwealth. The King even stopped for a quick photo opp chat with a few clergy before leaving the Abbey:

Lucky also, that the current Prime Minister Rishi Sunak had some free time on his calendar and hasn't gotten the sack yet:

And finally, the Ascension Gospel Choir, an offshoot of the Kingdom Choir that performed at Harry and Meghan's wedding day in 2018, made history as the first gospel group to perform at a coronation at the specific behest of His Majesty:

Rubber Chickens

There was a lot of talk about ancient rites and rituals which were allegedly modernized...but I didn't see much evidence of that. There were visible roles for women and we've already addressed the racial and religious diversity aspect. However, other than allowing the boys to wear pants instead of tights and not having an assembly full of old men wearing powdered wigs, everything else looked exactly as ostentatious and over-the-top as it must have looked since the Dark Ages.

For example, that whole bowing to the King and pledging loyalty by the Prince of Wales was definitely strange, in a King Lear kind of way. Not only that, it gave off vibes of remember Father, I'm the loyal son and it was Kate who made us late. The fact that Prince William was the only person who had to perform that ritual formally, while everyone else simply bowed or curtseyed, was even weirder.

Not sure why Katy Perry, a judge on AMERICAN Idol, kept curtseying, nor shall we discuss the overall awkwardness of this bit with the King and Lionel Richie. However, I think the fact that Brenda Richie both promotes and shades her ex-husband in her tweets is finger-licking gold!

Finally, now that the food has been eaten and the servants are clearing the dishes, there are two extra crispy nuggets left behind that sum up everything you ever wanted to know about this Coronation.  First, several of the Commonwealth nations are still intent on dumping the monarchy. They were only sticking around as a courtesy to Queen Elizabeth. Second, on Morning Joe the other day, Katty Kay, American-based correspondent for the BBC admitted that once she got back to the States, all of this coronation business looked rather silly. Because it IS!