Remembrance: Our Brother Malcolm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Brother from Another Mother

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

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

Talk about timing.

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

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

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

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

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

We lost Malcolm, our brother from another mother.

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

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

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

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

Other People's Business

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a wife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's An App for That

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten Years to Life

My daughter just celebrated her tenth birthday. I had wanted to write a long dedication in the days leading up to the big leap from single to double digits, but I got all caught up in my feelings. I am ecstatic. I am in disbelief. I am overwhelmed by a list of things to do for this "surprise" birthday party that I'm sure she'll be smart enough to figure out is really happening in spite of what I told her. (That it was cancelled because she got out of line, but how can I be expected to keep that kind of promise in anticipation of this particular birthday???)

And now, when I should be packing for a family trip, I am procrastinating to write about this pending major milestone, because this is a moment that deserves to be preserved and celebrated!

So let's start at the beginning: ten years ago in March 2015, I returned to this blog after a hiatus of two years. The last post I wrote in 2012 was on my 39th birthday. The first post I wrote in 2015 was to announce my pregnancy with just little less than a month remaining. At the time, I was still very unsure and uncertain of what was to come, including the gender of the child I was carrying. That was an intentional choice for reasons that I can only summarize as a delayed delusional denial--I was scared but unwilling to unpack those fears. Not knowing was a way of maintaining control, managing expectations, and like I said, delusional!

You can read between the lines I wrote in the few weeks before the Kid was born, including two pieces that were published hours before I went into labor. I had NO idea. Then the Babe was born, and I got caught up in those sleepless and seemingly endless post-partum days and nights. After a few months, it took more time to find both my motivation and rhythm to write. For example, when I wrote at the end of that year about Mommy-blogging, it was with the explicit intention of avoiding that lane and label. I was ambivalent about identifying myself as a "Mom" in the political sense, because I believed (and still feel) that it was necessary to embody many identities as a woman. 

Before I take you down that road, let's talk about my evolution over the past decade. 

First, let's acknowledge the transition from being pregnant (and still fertile) ten years ago to entering this new season of life called menopause. It is jarring. Literally, just a year ago, I still felt halfway normal, and now I don't. I have weird sleeping patterns, night sweats, and I am perpetually unfocused and cranky. As someone who never dealt with major PMS until after I had a baby, it is unnerving to undergo such drastic changes after so many years of knowing my body and how it worked. Now, I have no idea what to expect from one day to the next. Given my "advanced maternal age" when I finally got pregnant, I knew that I was on Team One and Done, but this change effectively ends the game.

Which brings me to the significance of this past year since the death of my Mom. Because if losing a parent forces a formidable life adjustment, letting go of the ability to have more children has me mourning another substantial loss. And for lack of a better way to describe this, it just feels cosmically unfair. My life isn't over, but this change puts the matter of my mortality on the horizon. I know, referring to menopause as the start of a death march is overly dramatic, but I can't help but to think that I am now counting down as opposed to gearing up. And that sucks.

Especially when your ten-year old is going through puberty. Because it suddenly registers what that all entails.

She's still my baby, but no longer a baby. She's still very much a kid, but she wants to engage in pre-teen things. Soon, that will become teen things, and before long, I will have a young lady making decisions about her future. So while I adjust to my own changes, I have to mentally prepare myself for hers. I know I've joked about that once or twice, but now that the time has come, and we are both in transition I'm not laughing. No, I'm not curled up in a ball, but I am trying to come to terms with this season of growth for her while trying to resist the fatalist tendency to regard this as a season of decline for me.

Ten years ago when my daughter was born, I had a dogwood tree planted in our front yard. I was following the example of my mother who had planted a dogwood tree in the front yard of our family home when we were kids. The tree at my parents' home started off small, but it grew and spread over the course of nearly 40 years to become a focal point of the yard. We took our annual Easter pictures in front of it and continued the tradition with younger cousins and grandchildren. 

Then about three years ago, I noticed that the tree seemed to be struggling, especially in the summers through successive years of drought. Since the tree had been resilient in previous years, we assumed it would recover, as it had each spring. Unfortunately, in the summer of 2023, only half of the leaves came back and one weekend, they all just dried up and died. I initially fretted this was an omen...

I had a tree specialist come by to conduct a post-mortem and we learned that the tree wasn't supposed to have been planted in full sun. It had survived a lot longer than it should have in the wrong location, so it wasn't neglect, but a combination of factors that had killed it. (Incidentally, two dogwood trees planted by a neighbor are also dying under similar conditions.) For a replacement, we opted for a sun-loving cherry blossom and planted another dogwood in a more temperate location. The new trees were planted in November 2023; my Mom passed three months later.

It didn't escape my notice that the cherry blossom tree bloomed the week of her funeral, followed by the new dogwood tree a few weeks later. Instead of regarding the death of that older tree as an omen, I have chosen to interpret my observations of all these trees as messages. The end of one life and the flourishing of another is the how this world turns. As painful as it was to accept that my mother's time was coming to an end, like the dogwood, she had lived a lot longer than expected under unsustainable conditions. Alzheimer's had taken so much from her and us...

I chose to have my daughter and niece read When Great Trees Fall, by Maya Angelou at her funeral. I knew they were too young to grasp the significance, but I knew that it was important for two of her saplings to have a prominent role in saying goodbye. It was important for people to see life flourishing, planted firmly in temperate locations and blossoming. 

Ten years of motherhood. At times it seems surreal to recall that I had a very different life prior to the birth of my daughter. I had different dreams and aspirations. It was by random chance that I ended up on the path toward motherhood after I had determined that it would only happen by some divine intervention...and I guess, that is how I would define the sequence of events I shared in this post. If I didn't believe in miracles before, I sure do now.

Daddy's Home

The DNC definitely feels like a lifetime ago in dog years, and this is one of those times when I wish I hadn't let myself get so caught up in my head. This piece was supposed to have been a homage to all of that Good Dad energy we saw back in August and as a September birthday tribute to my Dad. Welp...

Yesterday I saw a snippet of a Sunday news roundtable and one of the participants, Rep. Byron 'not Brian' Donalds exclaimed "Daddy's home" as part of his comments on the return of Trump. In addition to losing my appetite, his statement prompted me to revisit and post this piece. I will post the bulk of what I initially wrote with minimal edits, then provide my updated commentary after the jump. --ADH

I watched Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff's address to the Democratic National Convention and came away with all of the warm and fuzzies. I like him, a lot. I have had something of a soft spot for him ever since I saw a clip of a campaign event back in 2019 where someone tried to rush the stage at then-Sen.  Kamala Harris. And with the speed of Clark Kent changing into Superman, Emhoff was up on that stage and standing in between his wife and her would-be assailant in the kind of 'oh snap' moment that could only endear him to women everywhere as that dude.

A few weeks ago, right before Madam VP Harris announced her choice of running mate, I happened to see an interview with a burly white-haired guy who referred to the former DESPOTUS and his newly appointed running mate, James David Vance as weird. And I liked him, a lot. Because there was something about the way he tagged these men as uncool, in spite of their delusions, that definitely made sense. Later when the Hub and I discussed potential running mates, our mutual favorite was that same burly guy from Minnesota, so I was absolutely ecstatic he was her choice.

The week prior to the Convention, I received an email that invited me to attend a town hall with President Biden (and Madam VP), and I jumped at the chance. I tried to convince my Dad to attend with me because I thought, how many times does he get to go to political events? He initially agreed to tag along, then declined in order to attend Mass...and until the moment when I realized I would be close enough to take a picture of the President, Vice President, and the Governor of Maryland in a crowd where there were only four to six people between us, I figured Dad had made the right call. My insistence on staying at this event was pure obstinance; I imagine my Dad, who is a tolerant man, still would not have wagered on that kind of patience paying off. But I like Biden, a lot. And this was my way of counteracting the FOMO I felt by not being able to go to Chicago for the convention.

I waited up late to hear former President Barack Obama even though we've all heard him speak a thousand times (but we still miss him). I was in the car and happened upon former President Bill Clinton's speech, fully remembering that he has a tendency to just talk and talk (and talk). I still need to go back to listed to the entirety of President Biden's convention speech because that started and went on way past my bedtime. I really appreciate that Governor Tim Walz, the burly football Coach chosen to be her running mate, understood the assignment to give us the perfect win-one-for-the-Gipper keynote/pep talk in 15 minutes or less.

I don't know about you, but I liked LOVED all of the positive Dad energy that was being spread by these Democratic men. It's all very soothing, in a retro yet very modern kind of way. On the one hand, it seems contradictory to feel so reassured by their presence in a year when we are looking to elect a woman to be the Leader of the Free World; yet on the other hand, also radical to feel so elated that they are happily standing in-formation beside some formidable, badass women!

And they LOVE it too!

For half a second, I was ready to offer a similar complimentary nod to James David for his full-throated, you don't want none of this smoke response in defense of his wife, Usha. Almost...but, I can't because of every other toxic attack he has made against childless women or against the military service of the Coach in the past couple of weeks. The vibe I get from him is that of a guy who talks really big and tough, until forced into a corner. Thus, even in defense of his wife, if he had to actually stand up for her, I think he would make up some distraction to give him cover to cut and run. It's giving Ted Cruz blaming his wife for booking a vacation to Cancun during an ice storm. Or that clip of Josh Hawley running to hide under his desk that never gets old.

I am just learning about these new Greek-letter categories of men--alphas, betas, sigmas, etc., so I'm not quite clear on the distinctions but to be honest, I don't care. I know that the so-called alphas are on top of the food chain, but that's if your diet consists of Cheetos, protein bars, and energy drinks. Their patron saint is the former DESPOTUS, which is kinda yikes if we're supposed to look at him as some exemplar of virile masculinity and strength...

But that's not where I'm going with this. Because they're the ones who poke fun of those other men who are different, sensitive, married to women they actually like. They are the guys who enforce the high school caste system of jocks, nerds, goths, stoners, etc., and can't readjust to redefine themselves beyond adolescence. They are forever frozen in a world where Hulk Hogan is the still WWF Champion...

All of that positive Dad energy emanating from Emhoff, Walz, Obama, Clinton, and Biden contrasts with the retro projections of Father Knows Best the other side has been promoting for decades. For years they have attempted to paint the Democrats as the Mommy party of feelings and participation trophies while presenting themselves as the Daddy party of hunting and golfing. And for the life of me, I don't get why we're supposed to believe that a bunch of Dads dressed in company logo shirts and Dockers have a better handle on things than a bunch of Dads driving minivans to carpool their kids to soccer games. Because hello, the Moms were the ones holding it ALL down anyway. Who made sure Dad didn't forget the snacks and water? Who did his laundry because the last time he forgot to sort everything came out pink? 

(Before anybody hits back with a whatabout single Dads, don't worry, I am not forgetting about nor short-changing them.)

Consider the ways the Alphabots have attempted to define the manhood of their opponents in feminine terms: Tampon Tim (too attentive) and Sleepy Old Joe (too old and feeble), for example. Their attempts to make Obama look like a menacing urban thug never took hold, (and they didn't see the endless potential in calling him Urkel) so they attack his wife to imply that he's gay. And because the only thing worse than being happily married to a Black woman is being a gay man, they poke fun of Pete Buttigieg for taking paternity leave after the birth of his twins. 

Take a second to really think about that: they ridiculed a man for being the kind of Dad who wants to do more than just empty the diaper genie when he gets home from work. Imagine being so rigid in your idea of gender roles as to be intimidated by the sight of a baby's poop.

Their disdain for what they perceive as weakness in men is really a hard-wired hatred for women they cannot control. We've been telling you that for decades, but some of you remain unconvinced that the man who goes on the attack against every woman who stands up to him is a thin-skinned unrepentant misogynist. His current running mate, James David the Toady...let's just say that I have my theories, or that he's been doing all of this non-stop campaigning so that he doesn't have to keep sleeping on the couch in his Senate office.

Those man-babies saw all of that joy and fun at the DNC and responded with full tilt mantrums. They can't fathom a world where a man would take to the stage and speak glowingly about a woman he admires for qualities other than her looks. They can't believe that half this country looks upon Madam VP as a beacon of hope and light, and that her supporters aren't just a bunch of childless cat ladies, but also a bunch of happy warrior Dads in flannel shirts who aren't afraid of strong, independent women.

These people hate that our Dads love us for exactly who we are. Our Dads love our tattoos, un-plucked eyebrows, and general weirdness because we're their daughters. Our Dads don't try to shame our brothers when they get overcome with emotion because they have taught them that it's okay for real men to cry if they have to. Our Dads aren't ashamed to say that they love us and that they are proud of who we are. 

Mind you, all of this gushing over the Democratic Dads doesn't assume that these qualities are ideological. Because Real Dads come in every political flavor. Good fathers are the kind of men who teach values to their children. They teach their sons how to look a person straight in the eye, give a firm handshake, and reassure their daughters that their ambitions can be infinite and unlimited. Good fathers sometimes have to work multiple jobs in order to keep the lights on and the food on the table, but they do it because they see it as their responsibility. Good fathers don't make manhood a thing they put on display for Christmas greeting cards, but in daily acts of setting positive examples in their homes. Real Dads respect and honor the women they have children with, even if they aren't married to them. They don't get on social media to complain about child support ruining their credit rating or wealth building because they recognize that the money spent on raising their children is an investment.

For all of the talk about how feminists hate men, I bet some of y'all are surprised to read all of this praise from me...but you shouldn't be. Instead of finding fault with a movement that seeks to give women the same rights of self-determination and choice, you should find fault with a hierarchal mindset that teaches men that gender equality is an existential threat. Freedom for women doesn't displace men, it liberates us all. 

As I gush on about these other men, I can't help but to look at the men in my family. My Hub is totally that guy when it comes to our daughter. He's going to be that Dad in the feminine hygiene aisle asking some random woman if she can help him figure out wings and absorbencies because I'm going to be off Busy Black Womaning somewhere and our Niece won't be answering her phone. I can totally see my Brother K as the carpool Dad, easily alternating between sports and dance recitals. Brother O is the girl Dad MVP around here, so you already know that man is battle-tested and ain't scared.

My Dad, well...he's the reason why I'm not the kind of feminist who hates men. He has been and continues to be the best example of all the traits I admire and applaud--compassionate, considerate, respectful, responsible, and unapologetic in his love for his family. Not that I didn't see all of this in him throughout my life, but especially since my Mom's transition, I see my Dad with more clarity. He's the same age as Trump, so they were raised in the same era and witnessed the evolution of women's rights. 

Service Without the Smile

The hook here is that I decided to chop my hair off a whole year after I wrote the bulk of this, primarily for several of the reasons chronicled here, and another ill-fated faux loc misadventure. I'm not upset, nor was my decision to start over based on any ill-will, just needed a change. --ADH

Picture it, November 2023...

Initially, I was just planning to post a few pictures to the Facebook page and share a few thoughts about a recent ordeal. But once I got to remembering and realized that I had PARAGRAPHS of built-up frustration written out on the page, it made more sense to move this vent in this space where I could really expound. Because I have a lot to say...

This began when I wanted to write a quick note about alumni giving. HBCU Homecomings have finally received mainstream media attention, so I thought of that as an opportunity to preach my annual #HBCUJustGive sermonette to the masses. After a few paragraphs, I concluded with a shady reference to Atlanta restaurants (which people were talking about because of TikTok influencer Keith Lee, and we'll definitely address that here as well) and the complaints I've been seeing on social media about hair stylist pricing. I then thought, hmm, here's a chance for me to air out my gripes about my own experience of feeling price gouged at the hair salon, an experience that still has me feeling some kind of way weeks after the fact.

Because this isn't an anonymous business review posted to Yelp, no names are provided to protect identities. This is also not a stream of consciousness rant on X, nor a vengeful TikTok video because nobody has time for all of that. This is how I felt about an experience that is unique to me, and my goal here is not to destroy anyone's livelihood or tarnish their reputation. Of course, I could have opted not to say anything, but I came to the conclusion that I needed a catharsis after biting my tongue for so long. A wise person once told me some years ago that repression is bad for the soul (as a handy addendum to the adage that confession is good for the soul).

A little over a year ago, I decided to get my hair braided for the first time in a decade. I asked around, and by chance mentioned to my stylist (of many years) what I was looking to have done. She told me that she had braiders on staff at the salon, and that I just needed to make an appointment. Seemed easy enough, but then came the fine print disclaimers. I needed to decide if I was getting knotless braids or box braids, as if I knew what any of that meant since I hadn't gotten my hair braided in 10 years! She tried to explain it to me, and after we perused several pictures on Instagram, we determined that I was looking to get "old school" braids (a form of box braids). That would cost me $200.

Alright, bet, and I was all set to book an appointment. But more fine print--I would have to pay extra to have my hair washed and blow dried by one of these braid stylists. Mind you, this was a salon, not somebody's kitchen or garage. I don't even know if the blow dryer I've had for 20+ years even works, so I opted to schedule an appointment with my regular stylist so that she could prep my hair with a trim and deep condition as well. That ended up costing me $90, but I was optimistic that it was worth the expense. And the prospect of not having to go to a beauty supply store for hair did outweigh that initial cost. I came back two days later, the deed was done, I headed out of town a week later to protect democracy (October 2022), and all was right in my world for a few weeks. I took my braids out a few days after my birthday and thought ahead to my next hair adventure.

Fast forward to February (2023) when I decided to try faux locs. A good friend who gets them done regularly had me thinking I could be cute like her, and since we were heading to Puerto Rico for the Kid's Winter Break, I was looking forward to a boho-inspired look for the beach. In the lead-up to that appointment, I opted not to schedule a pre-wash and blow session with my stylist, thinking that I needed to save some money. However, I didn't learn until the day before my scheduled appointment that I needed to buy my own hair. So, as my Mom would have said, I stepped over a dime to pick up a quarter and didn't really save myself any money in the end. The braid stylist went with me to the beauty supply store to pick out the hair, which cost me $100, plus the actual service ($200+), and tip. When I asked how I would take the style down, she suggested that I could come back in and pay a take-down fee, or I could look it up on YouTube.

I didn't say anything, although I this exchange made me think of the various complaints I had seen over the years posted on social media. For years on Black Twitter, I had read increasingly absurd accounts of patrons being nickeled and dimed for every service, which must have inspired this hilarious skit on A Black Lady Sketch Show ("ABLSS")--which takes place in a nail salon, but the accuracy is uncanny. I mentioned my concerns to my regular stylist, who responded that she understood, but she was allowing these specialty stylists to establish their own practices because they offered services she did not.

Bet, I thought, but still resolved to "educate" myself to avoid any additional $urprise$ should I desire to get another specialty style. Having received a few videos worth of cosmetology training on YouTube Beauty U, I decided to go back to faux locs for the Beyonce show (August 2023) and to rock that look through to mid-Fall. To avoid the beauty supply store markup, I pre-ordered the hair on Amazon and scheduled an appointment in the early afternoon to give myself time to wash my own hair.

Let's skip ahead eight weeks to when it was time to take my hair down. We had family arriving in town, and because I didn't want to look crazy or schedule a hair appointment while they were here, I delayed the take down for a week. At nine weeks it was definitely time and I was uncomfortable with the weight of the added hair and the new growth, so I sat down with a movie and began the process that I had previously learned to take down the style. However, a different braid stylist had installed these locs and after 20 minutes of attempting to unravel one loc, I had no clear understanding of how it had been anchored to my hair. I sat there and fidgeted and uncoiled and then unbraided until one section of my hair was freed. It felt like I was drilling for oil. I repeated this process for over two hours and only got six more locs undone. The next day, attempt #2 yielded the same result, so with 4 hours gone and 12 locs undone, I sent an exasperated text to my regular stylist after 9pm on a Monday night.

I have never done that before, so when she called me back, I immediately felt ashamed for being so helpless. And reflecting back on that precise moment, instead of allowing Catholic guilt to temper my frustrations, I should have been prepared with a list of demands. This absolutely felt like a hostage situation, and I am convinced that I barely escaped with my dignity intact.

(I know, the hyperbole is thick, but stay with me.)

She asked me to come in that Wednesday, and I said that I would try, but I didn't make it because I had to take my Dad to an appointment. I texted her to say that I would try for the following day, but again, something else came up and I was unable to go by the salon. On Friday, I had a funeral to attend, so I had to wrap my head for a third day in order to venture out into the world and not scare any pets, men, or small children. I stopped by the salon on my way home, but none of the stylists familiar with my dilemma were on site. I ended up speaking to a fourth stylist who made it clear that I was on my own. My regular stylist was out of town, so his suggestion was for me to check back on Monday. By this point, I was miffed so I declared that I would figure it out on my own and left. Because in spite of everything else I had going on between my Kid, my parents, and my own isht, surely I had time to take another round of classes at YouTube Beauty U. Because no one else seemed to have any issues when taking their hair down, apparently, I was the problem...

Which was clearly the wrong way of looking at this because I was the one with the problem that dragged on through week 10 and threatened to linger on for another full week until I gave up and called my stylist back to schedule an appointment. Fuck the Catholic guilt; let go of the stigma of being the Black girl with no hair styling skills; get over having to go in for a service I shouldn't have needed; and just pay the damn ransom to get my life back. I was beyond pissed but had no interest in extending this fiasco into a 12th week, and I didn't want to cause any additional damage to my hair. I scheduled the appointment to get the locs taken down and to get my hair done. Of course, that process wasn't drama-free either, but at least the locs were gone. All of that peace of mind only cost me $185 (and tip), plus several unopened packages of hair from Amazon that I can no longer return because who knew this would be such an ordeal?!

What does any of this have to do with Keith Lee? Nothing. But if you've read this far, you might as well keep reading to see how I make the connection. Just indulge me for another paragraph or two...

Now that it has been three weeks since I was released from those faux locs (November 2023), I just happened to be scrolling Black Twitter the last week when I saw where a woman posted a complaint about her experience with a stylist in another state. I won't even link to her thread because I assure you, there are so many similar stories being told of the decline in providing what used to be basic service that I don't need to identify any particular person or locality. Just know that there are horror stories posted on Reddit and videos all over TikTok, as per the recommended route for receiving justice/vengeance due to one of these bad hair day experiences.

I'm not looking for either. And for now, I am sticking with my stylist because the alternative is to take my chances and roll the dice with one of these new school influencers who style hair. I don't know what passes for professional standards or licensure these days, and maybe that's the problem. If the assumption is that anybody who watches enough videos on YouTube can figure out how to style hair, then perhaps it no longer matters that the person who promotes themselves on social media as a professional actually has any credentials. Follower counts and likes are driving business these days, not quality of service, and that is no longer a factor to be shrugged off as regional.

Once upon a time, the Black beauty salon was a place of communal refuge, just like the barber shop for Black men. I won't take you on a nostalgia fantastical voyage because I don't want to give the false impression that a trip to the beauty salon was always a visit to Shangri-La. Some of us still bear the scars--physical, mental, and spiritual; however, most of us agree that the hair salon used to provide respite and service. Hence, another favorite skit from ABLSS Service offered a vision of what should be the norm...alas, it was just a dream.

I know that business owners have overhead and insurance and other assorted costs of doing business, so my complaint is not that I am paying more than I used to. It is that I am paying more and now having to pay extra for basic services that should already be included. Making me do half the work in advance, still charging full price, and expecting a tip is no different than having me shop, ring up and bag my purchases at the grocery store with the prices steadily increasing. What next, will I be charged for each squirt or spritz of product?

In effect, we are hostages, because the corporate mainstream hair care industrial complex still promotes the fallacy that products created for wash and go are suitable for all hair types. Most Black women can't just roll up to the mall Hair Cuttery or Dry Bar and expect to walk out before their lunch hour is over because nobody specializes in Black hair care other than Black people. Wash day is exactly that--a whole DAY, and nobody has time for that. Black women already pay a premium to look presentable to a world where legislation is needed to prevent discrimination against our natural hair texture in the workplace! It is beyond ironic that the BILLION-dollar Black beauty market that made Madame CJ Walker the first Black woman millionaire, precisely because there was a void in services and products provided to Black women, has come to this.

So here is where I pivot to Keith Lee and why his restaurant reviews ought to be regarded and received in a different spirit than the way y'all acted out this week. Because he's not out here destroying Black businesses if he's offering honest assessments of shitty treatment and/or bad food. He's demanding accountability, and to borrow an old-school phrase that seems appropriate, if you can't stand the heat stay out of the kitchen. If you are a musician who has entered the hospitality business to expand your brand, I get that but understand that folks aren't just coming to your establishment to take photos for the gram.