In Gratitude: Cicely Tyson

There is never enough time to process or comprehend what it means to lose an icon in those initial moments of notification. So I'm not sure that I will be able to string together the perfect combination of words to express what it feels to learn that Cicely Tyson passed away. So I think I will use just one word: Grateful.

I received a text from Ol' Hobbs and because I was driving (and reading it at the red light), my immediate reaction was to recall that Tyson was supposed to participate in a virtual book chat with a local indie bookstore that evening about her recently released memoir, Just As I Am. And then to curse the fact that I had forgotten to register for the event, and then to curse the errands that had caused me forget, but then to wonder if the participants were told on Zoom that she wouldn't be able to make it (I learned later that the event was pre-recorded). Or at least that is as much as my mind could process in the interval between reading his text and the light changing. At the next light I responded with a rather irreverent nod to the fact that she lived long enough to see a certain orange stain removed from our lives...

And then it dawned on me that perhaps it wasn't a mere coincidence that Hank Aaron, Cloris Leachman, and Cicely Tyson would all transition within days of each other--all from natural causes in a phenomenal last curtain call kind of way amid our superstitions that celebrity deaths occur in threes...(but then there was also Larry King, so not exactly in threes), but still, definitely in a pattern of sorts. In the circle of life, elders become ancestors to make way for future generations.

So we are grateful that we were blessed with her presence for more years that we realized (because I had no idea how old Tyson really was until it was revealed that she was 90 a few years ago). And like every women of a certain age, we all looked in the mirror and sent up a silent prayer to look that good at whatever age the good Lord blesses us with, because Mother!

And yes, we began to call her Mother once we knew better than to settle on something as pedestrian as Ms. As much as folks like to throw around Queen, that didn't feel quite right either, although not because she didn't earn it. I called her Mother because the body of her work had never been about people who were of royal birth. Whenever Tyson was on screen or on stage, she represented all of our Mothers, Grannies, and Aunties--women who worked hard, loved hard, and in her words, did their best. 

Her best was to master her craft. Her best was to articulate our humanity at a time when Black stories were finally being told. Mother Tyson was our fearless Harriet Tubman, our courageous Coretta Scott King, our humble and dignified Rebecca Morgan in Sounder, our straight woman Ms. Perry in Bustin' Loose, our defiant Jane Pittman, and finally, our determined Carrie Watts in Trip to Bountiful. Even when she was not the star, she transformed the insubstantial into unforgettable. The first role I remember seeing her in was as Binta, Kunta Kinte's mother in Roots. That was 44 years ago, and she must have been on screen for all of ten minutes. In her later years, she appeared in several Tyler Perry movies, and again, even if for a brief flash of brilliance in a mediocre melodrama, Mother Tyson was always outstanding.

Grateful. That she kept working because there were stories to tell. She had a tireless work ethic. She upheld a standard. She was a survivor. She was humble. And those were the qualities that became the accolades that she received belatedly because Hollywood rarely acknowledges the contributions of its working class until the end. In the 45 years between her nomination for Best Actress and finally receiving the Lifetime Achievement Oscar as a consolation prize, Mother Tyson never chided the Academy for the snub. Instead, she thanked them for correcting that oversight...

Grateful that while tributes and remembrances are finally forthcoming from the mainstream press, she knew to tell her own story in her own words. Grateful that she had plans and didn't even see Death waiting in the wings for her, so absorbed she was in the work. Grateful.

Grateful that one of her most memorable performances wasn't even a scripted role, it was the dramatic recitation she gave at the homegoing for Aretha Franklin a few years ago. We were all so absorbed in that hat...

Do yourself a favor and pay close attention to Mother Tyson, small in stature and slight in voice, and witness how she commands that space behind the lectern. Watch and listen to her transformation from elegant mother-of-the-church to the back-row gossip, all without a costume change or props to set the scene. Then close your eyes to see it more clearly.

Although we joke about wrapping our elders in bubble wrap, it is because we recognize both the fragile and time-limited nature of life. This pandemic has numbed us to death, but not to the sense of loss. So many lives have been lost, yet I don't know if I would characterize Cicely Tyson's final bow with any regrets for not having packed her away to be protected from what was surely thunderous applause in Heaven.

Bravo, Mother. Rest well.

Playlist Project: Mary J. Blige

When it dawned on me that 2021 would be another big year of music milestones, I had plans...but as you probably know by now, I am easily distracted. And my good intentions to pull together several significant playlists for the Facebook page went the way of that well-worn road to hell because there was an insurrection in my city (and I needed to do something in response). But then the big day of transition came, and now that my blood pressure is starting to go back to normal and there is indeed light at the end of this very long and dark tunnel, I can turn my attention to the really important work of reviving my #PlaylistProject.

And the first artist to receive the comprehensive playlist treatment this year is none other than Mary Jane Blige (born January 11, 1971), the Queen of Hip Hop Soul or of Hip Hop/R&B or maybe both depending on who is issuing the decree. But more important than what specific title she holds, it is necessary and proper to highlight and pay homage because this is Queen Mary's Golden Year!

As is the case for several of the artists whose work I can induct to that that Soundtrack of My Life category, these next couple of years mark that crucial milestone for those of us born in the early 70s, God willing. We survived turning 40 without too many visible bruises, but 50 becomes the point of no return--it is that more than halfway point where we stop and marvel at how long we've been lucky to live and pray that we'll get at least half as much time to keep on living. We look in the mirror and see our younger selves, but through eyes that are framed by wrinkles and magnifying lenses. We see those disrespectful gray hairs that differ in texture from the rest, so they stand out in defiance of whatever hair products we're trying out this week. We take medicines and try new regimens to control conditions that we used to roll our eyes about, because now we must manage them or confront mortality.

Approaching 50 means we become the age now that our parents were when we first heard Mary and declared her our Queen. Ironically, that is the same age that some of your kids are now (I was 19). Blige's debut album, What's the 411?, was released the summer of 1992 between my sophomore and junior year of college. If memory serves, EVERYBODY on campus had that album in some form. My friend JAW, who was the trendsetter in our little clique had it on CD, which was the new way of playing music back then. Compact discs meant uninterrupted continuous play with the ability to skip and choose songs without having to rewind or fast forward or turn over a cassette tape. And because JAW was that friend who would play the same set of CDs everyday, What's the 411? grew on me, in spite of my initial lukewarm reaction to it. (Silly me, I preferred CeCe Penniston because hers was a club music/dance album, but the trend had begun to shift away from up-tempo, feel good party music to the slowed down, bass heavier tracks that were Mary's signature.)

Looking back, it makes sense that Mary ascended to that exalted place in the pantheon of artists whose music gets that unique Soundtrack of My Life designation. Unlike the other prominent artists from that era (all late-born Boomers), Mary is a Generation Xer whose life closely tracks the peaks and valleys of our journey from young adulthood into middle age. All of Mary's songs are autobiographical, whether she is singing about searching for a Real Love or swearing that she's Not Gon' Cry over some trifling dude she should have never hooked up with. Perhaps with each new love she falls 25/8 into him, because like so many of us Mary loves hard, so if she's singing Be Without You we turn it up and listen without judgment.

Because she is also that cool ass friend who brings the party with her, so it is always a Family Affair.  She is the fashionista of the group--we watch her videos and Reminisce about our 90s French roll hairstyles, the Mac makeup, and the combat boots. We hear You Remind Me and think back to watching the Arsenio Hall Show, Showtime at the Apollo, In Living Color, and special guest performances on New York Undercover.

There had been hip hop collaborations before Mary and Method Man teamed up on You're All I Need in 1995, but theirs is the one that stands out. All That I Can Say sounds every bit like the kind of great music Lauren Hill was writing and producing in her 1999 prime (inspired by Stevie Wonder), which is why that song works as an unforgettable duet in this live performance. We know that One was a major hit for U2 in 1991, but when they teamed up with Mary and re-released it in 2005, it became something altogether different. Sam Smith's song Stay With Me was good as a solo effort, but we first took notice of it as a duet because of Mary.

She entices us with innovative samples on such tracks as You Bring Me Joy built around Barry White's It's Ecstasy When You Lay Down Next To Me. I'm not sure anyone else could have pulled off a song based on Cotton's Dream (Nadia's Theme), better known as the theme song from the soap opera The Young and The Restless and then name it No More Drama...but somehow Mary did. She didn't just remake You Are Everything by the Stylistics, she rebuilds a more modern classic with her version of Everything. But then to keep things interesting, she does a straight remake of Rose Royce's classic slow jam from the Car Wash soundtrack, I'm Going Down, and makes it her own.

Like her predecessor, the late incomparable Queen of Soul Aretha Franklin, Mary J. Blige was crowned a monarch early in her career, and it has proven to be a sage pronouncement. Queens have to work, and Mary has been putting in the work in the studio, on stage, and on the screen. She has earned every award, every honorific, and every laurel that we have bestowed upon her, with more to come. Simultaneously regal and real, Mary is a survivor, a genuine sister-girl who hasn't held anything back: not her insecurities and vulnerabilities in Take Me As I Am; not her yearning for love as heard on I Can Love You; not her ride or die devotion on Don't Mind; and not even her public heartbreak on U+Me. 

So in this Golden Year of life as she embarks on new business ventures, more acting, and hopefully releases some new music, we salute our Queen Mary. She's doing Just Fine.

PS: You can access the Spotify Playlist here.

Till Victory Is Won

BLACK LIVES MATTER is the unequivocal declaration that I will continue to make until my dying day. That isn't a slogan or the name of a bunch of young idealists who go around marauding after another Black man/woman/child is killed or maimed by a vigilante/rogue police officer. Black Lives Matter is a fact that some people either choose to ignore or intentionally denigrate...until we started affirming it louder and unapologetically with self-assured defiance.

Black Lives Mattered when you brought those 19 African indentured servants to help settle Jamestown. Black Lives Mattered when it became profitable to kidnap more Africans, pack them into the cargo holds of ships, and sail across the Atlantic Ocean to a New World where you sold their bodies for profit. Black Lives Mattered when your lust drove you to commit rape and incest, and greed compelled you to enslave your own mulatto and quadroon offspring. Black Lives Mattered when men who had escaped bondage donned blue uniforms and fought to preserve this Union and defend its ideals, even though the rights and privileges of citizenship were denied them. Black Lives Mattered because rich Southern planters needed under-compensated labor to turn profits, Northern industrialists needed workers to cross Unionized picket lines, and everyone in between needed racism to feel superior.

Black Lives have always mattered, even though it makes you squirm with discomfort when we say it aloud. You recoil and respond with All Lives Matter because you claim that we are elevating our lives above your own. No, we're just emphatic that our children, our parents, and our communities deserve better than the scraps and crumbs left on the table. Our whole lives have the same value as yours, and we are more than just bodies to exploit for our labor and loins at your pleasure. So if that offends you, that we see the beauty in our hair, our skin, our sorrow, our hearts of compassion, and especially our intellect, then that is your problem.

In the past whenever Black people came to realize the fullness of our power and beauty, it triggered the same retaliatory violence that occurred this past week. It came in various forms and was effective in burying our spirit. But only for a time, because our ancestors sowed prolific perennial seeds of self-awareness and strength. You may have killed David Walker and Nat Turner, but we grew back stronger to help save this Union multiple times. You may have disenfranchised Black men through Redemption and Jim Crow, but we grew back strong in enough numbers to send Rev. Raphael Warnock to the Senate. You may have exhorted the Black women who marched in the 1913 Suffrage Parade to go back to their kitchens, but now you must refer to one of us as Madam Vice President.

If you were horrified by what you saw this week, you should be. It was disgraceful, as was the Trail of Tears (1830-1850); Red Summer (1919); race riots in Tulsa OK (1921) and Rosewood FL (1923); the Zoot Suit Riots in California (1943); the bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church (1963); the Oklahoma City bombing (1995); the shooting rampage at Mother Emanuel (2015); the clash at Charlottesville (2017); and the shooting at the Tree of Life Synagogue (2018). All of those incidents are examples of the anger and rage that come in response to our self-determination. You will kill anyone to maintain your supremacy, including innocent children. You claim to be believers in God, but have desecrated houses of worship. You demand respect for the flag, but also revere the banner of insurrection. This time, your tantrums led you to march on Statehouses, to burglarize and ransack the U.S. Capitol. 

That you would destroy your own house...all because our votes matter just as much as our lives. Just as much as yours.

This is your moment of reckoning. This is who you are. This is the America where you reside. These people are your racist Uncles that you tolerate because you say they're harmless. These are the cousins that you used to play with until they moved too far away to the exurbs when that one Black family moved in next door. These are the guys that were once the local town heroes, the ones who thought they deserved a career in the NFL but didn't make it because they had to compete with the Black guys who did. If you insist that you don't know those people, then here is a mirror:

Don't look away, especially not now. And don't argue that our protests for racial justice this summer were the same as your sour grapes over an election loss. One set of protests was against systematic injustice--the kind that deems our young people guilty without any due process. We took to the streets in desperation after decades of suppressing our anger over disparate treatment. Until we started to steal microwaves and flat screens from Walmart, no one cared to comfort the families whose loved ones had their necks crushed in the streets. In spite of the lie that all are equal in the eyes of the law, which is supposed to be blind, Lady Justice is an expert sharpshooter when Black people are in her crosshairs. 

What excuses will you offer to explain the mayhem inside the U.S. Capitol? How do you account for the behavior of the guy who thought he was within his rights to prop his dirty boots up on Speaker Nancy Pelosi's desk? Or the fool who walked off with her podium (a listing for which was posted on eBay) or the other electronic equipment that was stolen from other offices? What about the excrement that was smeared on the walls? All of this is justifiable anger because 81 million of us decided that our country couldn't survive another four years of Donald Trump???

I allowed myself to get drawn into a Twitter exchange with one of his supporters, and the delusion that Trump had made America greater during his tenure is real. I guess the Muslim ban, the children in cages, the piss poor response to the hurricane that hit Puerto Rico, the disrespect to Sen. John McCain and Gold Star families, and the 360,000+ people who were killed by COVID shouldn't have influenced my vote. He even suggested that I could learn the truth if I listened to Rush Limbaugh...

He also made a point to highlight the various ills that would come from Democratic Party rule: rising health care costs, abortion on demand, infringement of 2nd Amendment rights, disrespect for law enforcement, jobs going overseas, higher taxes, and more racism. And for a moment, I could see how with the right lighting, a little orange makeup, and the right pitch on that dog whistle, it could seem as if his points were valid. Perhaps voting for the reality TV show grifter has put us on the road to Oz.

But yeah, the Great and Powerful Wizard was a fake. There are five people whose names have been added to his death toll and he's run out of fingers to point.

What provoked that melee wasn't frustration over any of the issues claimed--it was the same shit that always riles up good ole American lynch mobs. It was the ascendance of Black people, women, immigrants, and other marginalized people to places that were built by them, but not for them. The rioters were deliberate in disrespecting Pelosi's office because they are offended by her presence in that position of power. They got riled up over the idea of a stolen election because it will install a Black woman within a heartbeat of the Presidency. When that rioter was seen patrolling the abandoned hallways with a Confederate flag like a sentinel on watch, it should have become crystal clear that this was a symbolic siege in the name of Redemption, the Lost Cause resurrected for the 21st Century. The MAGA slogan is the rebel yell, those red caps are throwbacks to the Redshirts, and Trump thinks he is the avenging General Nathan Bedford Forrest. Instead, he is the inept General Gideon Pillow.

Y'all are mad that Black votes matter enough to push the needle of progress a few inches forward. Y'all are mad because mediocrity doesn't measure up to excellence. Y'all are mad because getting out-strategized and out-organized by Black women who had time and resources to change the state of play is humiliating as fuck when the system was engineered to guarantee a different outcome. Y'all are mad because change won't stop with Georgia or the White House...

Black Lives Matter. We've said it for years, we've known it in our souls, but now you know it too. We won't win every battle, but we won't back down. We know how to survive as underdogs and how to persevere, so we can live with the setbacks and the pendulum swings that are inevitable. We will endure, and in so doing we will continue to perfect this wholly imperfect Union. Let us march on till victory is won!

Hindsight is 2020

I am sitting here on the last day of the year that will never be forgotten. I can't actually come up with an adequate description that doesn't sound cliche, so let's just call it the year of hindsight. A year when we learned that everything we thought we knew could be both right and wrong at the same time. A year that I should have known was going to be Hell because it began with me weeping inconsolably at the stroke of midnight in church when the grief and tears that I had been holding inside for a week finally forced their way out of me like a shaken carbonated beverage when the seal is broken. 

Now that you have a visual, thankfully we only have a few more hours to go.

I had plans to write something longer and more thoughtful. I considered all of the pieces that were not completed that might deserve some final resolution. I spent the bulk of this morning working on a project that took up more time than intended, so now that the day is practically over, and I have tasks that are still undone...and the fact that I spent a great deal of time this year camped out in front of this computer just trying to finish one last thing, I will make this as quick as possible. (I wrote that four hours ago.)

I accomplished a lot this year. I wrote a lot. I found a way to write even as I had to adjust to a broken computer screen (freak airport accident); seemingly less time because of my daughter's school schedule (before the 'temporary' shutdown became permanent); and even through this sudden career change to becoming a virtual Montessori teacher's aide/classroom Mom. I sit here on the last day of the year pleased that I got anything done, including all of that laminating that I thought would never be finished. Although, never enough laundry...

As is always the case, my successes in one area came at the expense of other aspects of my life. I will not be entering the New Year with a clean slate--not even a clean kitchen. I should have been inspired by everyone else's purging and organizing, but I've gone in the opposite direction. I haven't exercised in months, I have been eating too much fried chicken, and some of the local liquor stores know me by name. If anyone needs to make a list of resolutions to break in a few weeks, that would most certainly be me. I have an unfinished vision board for 2020, so I maybe I will try to pick up where I left off and see what happens by February.

I took some steps towards really building this brand this year, and that has been great and scary at the same time. While I was disappointed by a few launch failures, I am not deterred. My glass is still half full. I have more readers/followers and have had opportunities to introduce my brand of punditry to my peers in ways that I never could have imagined (much love to my Morehouse Brother Ol' Hobbs). I have reconnected with some sisters, sorors, family, and good friends, and expanded my tribe with a few fellow blerds. Everything happens when and how it should. 

My mother is still here! Y'all don't even know how close I could have come to disaster this summer. If I had not listened to that inner voice that insisted that I check on her in person, in spite of the social distancing protocols...the same voice that warned me ten years ago to pay closer attention to her and not to listen to anyone who tried to downplay what I was experiencing. (Now I am not telling anyone to violate the guidelines, but I am telling you that you must step in to intervene as necessary with the proper precautions to protect our seniors. The isolation and despair of this pandemic has killed plenty of people who weren't even exposed to the virus.)

I am amazed at how much my daughter has grown this year. She is half my height at five years old, a very gregarious and imaginative child, unlike the quiet, defiant little chickadee she was just a 18 months ago. I need to spend more time with her, which feels like an insane thing to say since we've been practically inseparable for the past nine months. But the other day she asked me why I am always in a meeting because she came in and saw me on the computer with headphones on, which is pretty much how she always sees me. But I am what I am...

And that is a Busy Black Woman. An unapologetically Black woman, with a capital B--and I say that in case someone else wants to accuse me of being a racist. Yes, remember when that actually happened? So in case the Facebook algorithm that brought those disgruntled Canadians to my page decides to trip again, I'm still here, and I'm not going to tone down to make them or anyone feel better about their own insecurities. You're mad at me for being proud of my ancestry? You want to convince me that I have reasons to be ashamed of conditions that were imposed on my people? Look colonizers, I've reached the age where I'm ready to tell folks that my birthmark is an IDGAF tattoo. Get some therapy, and then come tell me about myself.

Because I'm digging in and never backing down. I am finally at that place of not seeing myself as some coulda-been. I spent too many years feeling like an imposter because I thought that I was supposed to have been some big shot attorney or otherwise living some illusion of success. Thanks to 2020, I officially let that shit go--I am what I say I am. So I proudly claim that other capital B, for I stay Busy for a woman with no real job. And it is finally okay that I am not where I thought I should be at this point in my life since God has been pretty clear at steering me to this place of infinite possibilities. 

I thought I would regret not realizing that sooner, but I don't. The early part of my life was spent in a rush trying to achieve these artificial milestones of accomplishment--graduating high school at 16, college at 20, law school at 23, and passing the bar by 24...but for what? To wake up 20+ years later and wonder if all life had to offer was a 401(k), red bottom shoes, and a McMansion in the suburbs?

So I will tell you what I do regret--not cutting my hair this short sooner. I regret some of the bad habits that this pandemic has encouraged, but I like wearing caftans and yoga pants, so those are keepers. I regret that I didn't start growing my collard greens until September because I would have those to harvest and cook instead of having to go to the grocery store. I regret allowing myself to ever feel powerless by making choices in the past that put the happiness of others ahead of my own. In that I am not alone because Black women are groomed to see ourselves as saviors. I see the memes and the declarations on Twitter. And y'all can have that. I'm not anybody's Superwoman.

This was supposed to be a quick reflection. So to bring this piece to a close so that I can get out of this spot that I have been sitting in since this morning, here are my words of intention for the year 2021: vision, purpose, and bold. Stick with me to see how that will make more sense to you as you continue on this journey with me.

Kwanzaa Is A Holiday

In elementary school, we had a very cool and hip science teacher named Ms. Tucker. Of all the things I remember about her, specifically that she was unapologetically Afrocentric in a time when that was considered passé and weird, and she taught us about Kwanzaa. I don't remember exactly what year it was, but one December she pulled out some African instruments, her Black Liberation flag, a wooden menorah, some plastic fruit, and began to tell us about the seven principles. Then she taught us this song, which I still know (because y'all know my memory for randomness):

Kwanzaa is a holiday, 

Kwanzaa Kwanzaa Kwanzaa

Is an African holiday

Seven Principles, seven candles

Seven Black days for the African!

 

She actually danced around the room a bit as she taught us this song. We even sang it in a round, which is also a rather random recollection. I remember that when I got home, full of excitement and pride, I asked my father, Mr. Revolutionary Civil Rights rabble-rouser, if we could celebrate it since it was an African holiday. The response I got has been with me for four decades: NO. 

I'm not sure that he offered much of an explanation at the time, but subsequently, he would declare that he would never celebrate Kwanzaa because of issues he had with its founder, Dr. Malauna Karenga. I was in college when he finally chose to elaborate on those issues, and to my knowledge my Dad has never willingly celebrated Kwanzaa. If he has been in the room when there have been rituals or ceremonies, I know he's been polite and respectful to nod along and smile. But that is the extent of his participation. In recent years, he has said that it is enough for him to focus on Christmas, which is a much bigger deal for him as a Catholic deacon. 

As for me, I had my own reasons not to celebrate Kwanzaa. In addition to my Dad's issues with Dr. Karenga, I came across a few of my own feminist reasons to disassociate from his creation. I also didn't need the added drama of another thing to do in an already over-scheduled holiday season. I am usually traveling during this time of year to visit the Hub's Puerto Rican relatives, and it was enough to get them to add collard greens to the family dinner menu. I couldn't find a third of my Christmas ornaments this year, so the idea of keeping track of a kinara and seven candles???

For years, I acknowledged the criticisms of our siblings from the Motherland, that the celebration itself isn't African, it just uses words and images that we (Americans) perceive as African. That pan-Africanism is a buffet of choices that affirm very narrow and ahistorical narratives about an entire Continent. That we are all the descendants of Kings and Queens. That we all lived in Zamunda or Wakanda until the Europeans arrived. And I got that, because for years it felt as if celebrating Kwanzaa was a demonstration of wokeness instead of a cultural reawakening. 

However, thanks to my daughter's multicultural Montessori education and my own sense of We-Are-The-World ecumenical ism, I am more open to the idea of exposing her to various holiday observances such as Kwanzaa instead of dismissing it as some made up hotep nonsense. As we know, all holidays were made up at some point, so what is the harm? She learned about Hanukkah this year and has been referring to chocolate candy wrapped in gold foil as gelt, so if she can learn about the Maccabees and believe in Santa with no confusion, then why not add a little Swahili to the mix? Am I the only person that remembers Chrismahanukwanzakah?

For starters, Kwanzaa isn't a Black cultural alternative to Christmas...not anymore. Kwanzaa doesn't have mascots like Rudolph or the Easter Bunny (although Kwanzaa Timmy is a classic). There are actually a LOT of Kwanzaa songs online, which I didn't know existed until I tried to find the song that Ms. Tucker had taught us. There are tons of Kwanzaa books and stuff, most of which seem to contradict the intention of a holiday that isn't supposed to embrace commercialism, but y'all know how Afroeconomics works (somebody always prints tee shirts). And yes, Malauna Karenga, the founder of Kwanzaa is problematic for both his collusion with the FBI against the Black Panther Party (Dad's reason) and his torturous and abusive sexism (my reason). 

Yet, Kwanzaa has managed co-opt valuable space on the calendar. In recent years, I have noticed how Kwanzaa ushers in a season of Black Awareness wherein we get to go from celebrating our connection to the African continent to honoring one of our most revered civil rights leaders to spending an entire month teaching the world about all the ways Black people have endured and triumphed in spite of its racism. Or at least in my mind, that is how it should work. Which is why we must start by acknowledging that Kwanzaa is an American holiday, quintessentially so in that it combines numerous cultural, secular and religious elements into one (kinda like Christmas with the Baby Jesus and Frosty the Snowman inflatables in your front yard). So yes, it is somewhat random and slightly absurd, but that is also what makes it beautiful.

While I don't plan on incorporating any ceremonial rituals or dressing us in matching kente cloth pajamas, I will take time to teach my daughter the seven principles. I surprised myself in being able to name all of them from memory, but that just proves how 40 years of consistent messaging can eventually make an impression. And for the past couple of years, I have been intentional about promoting Ujamaa, cooperative work and economics through my elevation of Black businesses via the Busy Black Woman Holiday Giving Guide. In fact, it occurred to me that I have been a proponent of all seven principles through much of my advocacy and work, so why not embrace Kwanzaa? It isn't as if I don't acknowledge other holidays that are annoying or have problematic origins. Two of my least favorite holidays exist to sell greeting cards, candy, and jewelry (and I have happily accepted all three). 

So no, I won't roll my eyes if you buy my Kid a Kwanzaa book. And perhaps when we're not in the middle of a pandemic, I may seek out a public celebration or two to incorporate into our holiday traditions. However, I have a few suggestions for the Kwanzaa PR folks because we need to move our people beyond just dressing the part for seven days out of the year:

When we say Black Lives Matter, that is Umoja (unity). 

When we say vote like your life depends on it, that is Kujichagulia (self-determination).

When we say wear a mask to stop the spread of COVID, that is Ujima (collective work and responsibility).

When we say buy small, buy local, and buy Black, that is Ujamaa (cooperative work and economics).

When we say it takes a village, that is Nia (purpose).

When we elevate our stories and express ourselves through the arts, that is Kuumba (creativity).

When we say the struggle continues, but we shall not be moved, that is Imani (faith).

Habara gani?

The Princess of My Heart

Eleven years ago, I took a group of young girls to see The Princess and the Frog, the first Black Disney Princess movie. I was a mentor in my sorority's junior debutante program, so we thought this would be a great outing for them. I remember my excitement in buying them little trinkets to celebrate the moment of being a princess...and how most of them were like, meh shrug okay. Then it took me a year to finally write out my thoughts about the film, which weren't even posted to this blog, but to the Cafe (which, to my surprise, y'all have discovered). So I guess it makes sense that I would eventually share some musings about that movie here, since Tiana is absolutely the animated Busy Black Woman!

I've watched the movie many, many times since it debuted in 2009 and as I've grown older and now have a daughter of my own, I definitely have some new perspectives about the film, its historical significance, and the lessons it imparts. I still love it as much as I did when I first saw it, and if I can set an intention for this piece, it is my hope that I can describe and fully articulate the joy that so many of us felt when this movie came out! Even now, I don't think that girls growing up in a post-Tiana world really understand why this was SO ground-breaking and emotional. And now that Disney has announced plans to revisit her story, we will be watching with eagle eyes to ensure that they don't mess it up like they did The Lion King...

Speaking of, let's start with The Lion King (1994), which was clearly the animated forerunner to The Princess and the Frog. If you saw that movie when it debuted you probably have fond memories, and might remember that it was one of the most successful Disney animated films of all time. In the 1990s, Disney animation was on a hot streak with the release of a new movie each year that established its dominance. It all began with The Little Mermaid (1989), which we watched with my then-baby cousin (who is now a grown Big Cousin/Auntie herself). We loved that movie, as well as the two hits that followed, Beauty and the Beast (1991) and Aladdin (1992), so when The Lion King was released, I remember being puzzled that it was a film about animals instead of people. Hmm, I thought, surely I am not over-thinking things by wondering why after three successful films about princesses, including a very brown-skinned Princess Jasmine, we would get a film about an animal prince whose parents happened to be voiced by King Jaffe Joffer (James Earl Jones) and Queen Aoleon (Madge Sinclair) from Zamunda? 

(Side note: the fact that I knew/thought this is evidence of several things, namely my age--I was 20 when The Lion King came out. Coming to America was released in 1988 and had reached cult classic status. Among my woke HBCU peers, we had time to make up conspiracies for why Disney had opted to present an animal story set in Africa. Also, I know why John Amos's character, Cleo McDowell, was flirting with the Queen...and if you don't, check the original Roots.)

Aside from those musings, we still loved the movie, even if we were perplexed about several of the voice actor choices, namely Jonathan Taylor Thomas in the speaking role of Simba instead of Jason Weaver who did the singing. That film was followed up by Pocahantas (1995), which pushed the envelope in a more radical direction with an Indigenous princess and her people pitted against a racist, greedy colonizer. That certainly was not the version of the Jamestown story we had been taught, and the film was released in the early skirmishes of the culture war we are still fighting. There were other issues as well, and though subsequent movie offerings continued to promote diverse story-telling such as Mulan (1998) and Lilo and Stitch (2002), the more successful movies throughout the next decade were the 3-D animated films produced by Pixar.

Those of us who grew up on the Disney offerings in the 70s and 80s recall so-so animated adventures such as The Black Cauldron (1985) and The Great Mouse Detective (1986); corny live action movies that starred Don Knotts; and periodic re-releases of classics from its vaults. One of the movies I saw on television was Dumbo (1941), and even though it is one of my favorites, there is no need to even discuss why that film is so problematic. I also saw Song of the South (1946) at the theater with my Mom, who must have taken us to see it without my Dad's knowledge. I don't suspect that movie will be released again, not even for sentimental reasons as references to it at the theme parks are about to be re-branded for Princess and the Frog. The point is, Disney may not have been the worst company with respect to its depictions of people of color, but yeah...the progress they made in the 90s was VERY noteworthy.

Thus, when we got to the remake of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Cinderella, it felt like a trial run for what audiences might expect from a Black princess story. The original musical had starred Julie Andrews in 1957, and a remake was made with Leslie Ann Warren in 1965. Forty years after the original, Whitney Houston produced a version with her protege Brandy Norwood in the title. It was a very diverse cast overall, similar to what might be typical in the theater instead of television. But it was part of the evolution that would lay the groundwork for Tiana.

Helping to pave that path was Raven-Symone, who starred in her own Disney channel sitcom for four years, and has been a mainstay in their various offerings. There were also Black animated characters, most notably The Proud Family, which not only featured Black voice actors, but was the creation of Bruce Smith, a Black animator (who would work on Princess and the Frog as well as HBO's Happily Ever After series). While I won't suggest that I was sitting in wait for a Black Princess movie, I did take note of these developments as evidence that something was coming. When it was announced that plans were underway, I held my breath, anxious but reassured that delays were necessary to avoid the mistakes that had been made with Pocahantas. 

So when Princess and the Frog finally premiered in December 2009, I was psyched! I intended to see this movie at the theater, even though all of my nieces and cousins were teenagers or young adults and my niece Nasya hadn't been born yet. To ensure support for the opening weekend my sorority designated it as a red carpet affair, so I went all out in preparing an elaborate outing for our junior debutantes. I went to the party supply store to find tiaras and Mardi Gras beads for the girls, and I smiled inwardly at the prospect that a Black face would soon be incorporated into the Disney Princess franchise (for which an entire aisle of the store had been dedicated).

Despite my excitement, there was no major marketing campaign that I can recall, not even Happy Meal toys. After the movie, the girls humored me by posing for the picture below. I assumed that maybe it was their age (12-15), but then one young lady suggested that it was hard to get excited when Tiana had spent most of the movie as a frog. Subsequent reviews aligned with her observation although I defiantly insisted that it didn't matter. The fact that there was a movie centered around an empowered Black girl with her own story, even if she was human for all of 20 minutes was good enough for me. However, when Tangled (2010) and Brave (2012) debuted to much bigger fanfare, those criticisms began to make sense. Then Frozen came out in 2013, and suddenly every little girl wanted to be the elusive Ice Princess (but not her sister Anna who had a more substantial role).

Marketing is everything. And apparently, heroines need to be presented in their fully realized heroic form in order to make an endearing impression. Little Black girls who are willing to humor their mothers and aunties by playing with those Tiana dolls and costumes all still want to be Elsa. They will be pulled into the story that ignites their fantasies and wins their affections. I wanted my daughter to like Tiana and Elena of Avalor because they look like her, then it occurred to me that my favorite Disney Princess is Mulan...

That doesn't suggest that Disney didn't get Tiana's story right, it means they can always do better. The crows in Dumbo have always been problematic, so thankfully they found a new way to tell the story without them. The only salvageable aspect of Song of the South has always been Zip-A-Doo-Dah, which still greets visitors to the theme parks. The Lion King has been successful in every incarnation because it is a timeless story. Cinderella can be remade again and again because Rodgers and Hammerstein were musical geniuses. Raven Symone is always going to have a job with Disney.

I still love the original Princess and the Frog story of hard work and self-determination, because that is the essence of Black Girl Magic. However, what is clear after all of these years is that Disney really created Tiana for all of the Black mothers and aunties who grew up without seeing our images reflected in their fairy tales. Our daughters didn't need her story as much as we did, and I suspect we care more about what life is like for Tiana and Naveen as humans than they will. It matters to us whether they are still friends with Louis, the horn-playing gator and how many husbands Lottie has had by now. We want to know how it must be as the only princess who needs to work because her husband got disinherited (come thru Meghan Markle)! And now that Splash Mountain will be re-themed as a bayou (so Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox can still linger in the set pieces), I can't wait to check out a Tiana's Place New Orleans-themed restaurant in Downtown Disney. 

The Christmas Ruiners

I recently posted this picture of myself to my Instagram page. The caption alludes to the fact that my Busy Black Woman Holiday Giving Guide has been delayed. Last year, I was so proud of myself for posting items before my birthday, but this year (10 days or so later) I am still waiting for half of what I ordered to arrive. And I began placing orders before Thanksgiving! This is all thanks to delivery delays and increased shipping costs, so I dare not order much else if I hope anything will arrive in time for me to put it all back in the mail for Christmas/New Year/Valentine's Day delivery. Such is 2020...

Yeah, because of COVID, no holiday travel this year, so everything will be in the mail or dropped off on your doorstep. And since I'm not going to any indoor malls or holiday bazaars, I have to find inspiration from Instagram ads and Etsy. I am still waiting on the Christmas cards that I ordered two weeks early so that also delays my timeline for shipping gifts as well. I know that I could just order everything from a certain big, bad corporate behemoth that delivers whatever you need in two days, and if I get that desperate, I know that is an option. But I have at least three more days until that becomes necessary. (<--I wrote that sentence five days ago.)

Mind you, I am not upset that Christmas is already a disaster this year because that was the one guarantee we could anticipate. Call it the ying and yang of life--the price of exiting the Hell that has been 2020 is the opposite of a Hallmark Christmas movie. It's Die Hard. 

Which is why all of these calls for Trumpelthinskin to concede with dignity have me scratching my head. As if! Nah, I'm glad he's continuing to show his entire man-baby ass for all of the world to see. It isn't like he has any shame to begin with, so spare us the farce of him being a gracious loser. I know, it undermines the dignity of the transition process (blah, blah, blah), but we're so past the point of expecting anything less than a drawn out clusterfuck. He is King Midas's little brother Fredo--E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G he touches turns to straw, so the only sane thing to do is to watch him implode and hope that Satan brings a Roomba after he extinguishes the embers.

(I know, that was a lot of randomly mixed metaphors. Keep reading, I'm sure I have more.)

The 74 million who voted for him--those same self-righteous folks who storm the malls every year to demand that the over-worked and under-paid cashiers wish them a Merry Christmas instead of a Happy Holidays? They are all ruiners too. They are Meghan 'Jesus-is-white-and-Santa-too' Kelly questioning what's so wrong with blackface (because Robert Downey, Jr. did it) level ruiners. They are I caused a 10 mile long car pile up on the freeway because my dog knocked my phone out of my hand and I only looked down for a minute, but you shouldn't have stopped so suddenly in bumper-to-bumper traffic, so it's not my fault level ruiners.

I feel that I should pause to define what I mean by ruiners, since that is quite a broad swath of people that I am branding as terrible. Well, because they are and I have reached that point of my middle age where I refuse to extend compassion or to seek reconciliation with anyone who thinks that being called a Karen is worse than calling the cops on a kid for selling water on the street. I don't believe that goodness and virtue are political ideologies but I do think that the intentional choice to side with evil for the sake of personal expediency is an indication that maybe there are some very bright lines.

For example, I started writing this a few days ago, but as usual, when I get distracted I am like a cat following a laser. I came back air my various grievances because it is so freaking hard to get anything done in these COVID times. As in basic shit, like getting my Mom excused from jury duty. She cannot serve, and despite the fact that I provided a written explanation on her survey, supported by the required doctor's certification, which was faxed to court in a timely manner, and have attempted to contact them to verify that her form was received...she is STILL scheduled to show up in January! Honestly, it might be easier just to wheel her in than to go through all of this trouble because apparently NOBODY IS AT WORK.

Mind you, customer service was bad even when we weren't in a pandemic. And I blame the ruiners who would rather that things be cheap and efficient instead of done right. We don't want to pay one person to answer the phone and connect calls so everyone has an automated system that is supposed to be more helpful at directing you to the right answer to your question. How often do you still need to be connected to an operator after listening to a menu of inapplicable options or after having a computerized voice insist that it cannot process your request? If you have been to a McDonald's lately (don't judge me), there are kiosks instead of cashiers. Your food doesn't come out any faster because you didn't place your order with a human, by the way, it just saves the corporation $8 an hour per person who was replaced. Not that those were good jobs, because they weren't. It just seems fundamentally wrong to tell young people to get a job but have nothing to offer because no one thinks they are worth the investment. But at least your order was accurate and you didn't have to repeat yourself to the Latinx cashier with the heavy accent.

The ruiners are the people who saw Ma Rainey's Black Bottom and shared spoilers on social media (luckily I saw the play 20 years ago, so not too ruined). The ruiners are the folks at Mattel who shipped the Barbie Dream House in a box that clearly indicates what is inside, and as I ordered in a timely manner (because it is a hot ticket item), it arrived on my front porch while my Kid, who is still at home doing virtual school, could see it. Her Dad announced that it had come, so he is a ruiner too, but for a bunch of other reasons including his inability to think on his feet! The ruiners are also all of those parents who insist that we should all drop the pretense, and even though that Larry David episode was hilarious, it sucks when those people try to justify being a ruiner because they don't believe in the fantasies we sell our children.

Again, 74 million of you wanted more Trump though.

This Christmas was already trash back in September. Because the ruiners who didn't want people of color to vote couldn't get away with the usual suppression tactics in the middle of a pandemic, they messed up the mail. Packages are piling up at the post office, since shopping at the malls is risky. Or at least I think the malls are risky...I wouldn't know; I've been in the house social distancing like Dr. Fauci advised. And I'm guessing that by now, all of the cashiers have been replaced with self-serve kiosks, which I refuse to use because I can just stay at home to shop on my own computer. But allow me to caveat that the mail isn't entirely messed up since all of my bills still seem to arrive on time. 

Of everything I have highlighted as ruined, there are the more obvious and serious losses of life that I have yet to mention. I cannot begin to fathom what Christmas or any other holiday (and yes, my fellow Christians, there are other holidays that occur this time of year) will be like for the millions of people whose loved ones died in this pandemic. I spent a year mourning the passing of a good friend from cancer, and as we approach the anniversary of her transition, I am still a mess. The cancer that claimed her life took three months to diagnose, then an agonizing two weeks of watching her suffer. So I can only imagine how anyone who has dealt with death from COVID must feel with a disease that only needs two weeks to inflict its lethal damage. This pandemic is THEE reason why this holiday season will forever be remembered as one of the worst ever. 

If I have not yet called your name or included your specific nonsense on this list, no worries, because you have two weeks to ruin what remains of this year:

1. You decorate more than one Christmas tree in your house.
2. You insist that writing 'Xmas' instead of 'Christmas' is disrespectful.
3. You renege on participating in one of those gift-giving pyramid schemes. (✋ raises hand)
   
4. You post conspiracy theories about the coronavirus vaccine.
5. You re-gift a present back to the person who gave to it you.
6. You go broke buying stuff for yourself, so your gifts to everyone else come from Costco.
7. You use terms like 'mask-shaming' or 'virtue signaling' with no sense of irony.
8. You've gone back to church amidst the surge in cases. (my Dad)
   
9. You criticize intelligent people with whom you disagree by saying that we are better than this, as if after 9 months of lockdown we care what you think.
10. You voted to confirm another Trump judicial appointment, but refuse to vote for another relief package to give people a measly $1200.
    

And finally, a special middle finger, sit on it, and may you itch in inaccessible places with no relief to the person (s) who broke into our car, and our neighbors' cars last night.