Politically Incorrect

Comedian Bill Maher used to host a show called Politically Incorrect back in the 90s that used to air on late night television. Given his tendency to speak without a filter, he said something that got him kicked off the network. Then he moved over to HBO in 2003 where he has been hosting a very similarly-themed show called Real Time, since but without much supervision. I was a fan of the original show, even though he typically brought together random combinations of guests, some whose views I found repugnant. But the point was to engage in open dialogue and to be provocative, and at the height of its popularity, everyone went on that show including my former boss. The Hub and I even attended a live taping of the show, which was very interesting to watch as one guest in particular stopped yelling at another one just as the show cut to commercial, then resumed his tirade once the cameras started rolling again without skipping a beat.

When Maher first made the transition to HBO, we didn't have cable, then we didn't have HBO so we didn't see the show for years. But Keith Olbermann filled the void with his brand of snarky and hysterical political commentary, as did Jon Stewart with his comedic take on the news. When we finally got HBO around the time that the Kid arrived, I caught the show every now and then, but my tolerance for him wasn't as it once was. I'm sure that had a lot to do with confirmation bias or my realization that Maher wasn't all that funny anymore. 

Looking back at Maher's impact on late night television, it is fair to give him credit for having been a  pioneer of in-your-face commentary. He and guys like Bill O'Reilly, Ann Coulter, Olbermann and Stewart all built their audience around holding no punches while engagin in public discourse. O'Reilly's bit was giving the impression that he was just a simple guy with strongly held opinions; Olbermann was big on giving long-winded soliloquies; and Coulter would flip her hair, cross her legs and just unload one of her signature mean girl rants. Stewart was a kinder, gentler version of Maher, as he used his humor to disarm right before unleashing a stealth attack. Like Stewart, Maher's show aired on Comedy Central initially, so his format was that of a late night comedian hosting Crossfire (the show that Stewart killed with shrewd kindness). Maher wasn't an expert on policy, just a funny guy with strong opinions, but given the times (the Clinton years), almost anyone could call themselves a pundit and get away with it.

In recent years, his schtick hasn't changed, but my tolerance for his brand of confrontational discourse has waned in the aftermath of the Trumpocalypse. Prominent politicos, professors, journalists, and comedians still go on his show to debate the issues, much like a Sunday morning talk show framed with profanity laced monologues. Additionally, his show has become a safe space for controversial figures like Megyn Jesus-is-white-and-Santa-too Kelly, alt-right provocateur Milo Yiannopoulos, and most recently, Sharon Osborne, formerly of the CBS daytime show The Talk.  

I don't have any specific feelings about Osborne because I never watched her reality show and rarely tuned in to watch The Talk. So I don't have any knowledge about her other than what I've observed in the past few weeks since the Meghan Markle interview with Oprah. I have seen the clips of her exchange with her co-host, Sheryl Underwood. I also saw a tweet Osborne sent in defense of her friend Piers Morgan, and I tweeted back (something I do when people say ridiculous things), but like most people, my feelings about what happened are based a lot on my experience in similar situations.

I think it is unfortunate that she left the show in that manner. I have definite opinions about how she treated Underwood and think she deserved some of the backlash she received. Yet, I am also very aware that women face harsher consequences than men in similar situations. Piers Morgan, her partner in all of this, didn't lose his job for what he said, given that he has spent months and months and months of relentlessly bashing the Duchess--I believe he lost his job for being a cowardly lion. And I am convinced that had he not gotten so emotional and stormed off, he would still be on air bashing Markle for whatever protocol lapses she committed by not attending Prince Phillip's funeral.

I don't know how Osborne can claim to have been blindsided on a show called The Talk, where it would seem logical that the interview with the Oprah (and reactions to it) would be the hot topic. It aired on their network, so once it was clear that one of the bombshell revelations had to deal with race:

Osborne stood up for her friend, whom she felt was being unfairly attacked for his opinion. She was right that he got paid for his opinion, which he never shied from offering. Alex Beresford also gave an opinion, and perhaps one point of contention is whether anyone cared what the weather man had to say, but we'll come back to that. Once Osborne felt that she was being unfairly attacked, she resorted to the tactic of weaponizing her tears to silence one of her co-hosts. Whether one finds that offensive is subjective, but it isn't as if it hasn't been done in the past without condemnation when it was good for ratings. As outrageous as that exchange was, it is clear that Osborne's departure wasn't really just about one nasty on-air tiff, but a lot of built up nonsense that someone in the front office decided they could do without. I mean, this is the same show that kept Julie Chen on air while her husband, Les Moonves, was harassing women in his office and sabotaging Janet Jackson's career. That CBS is now taking a such a hard line against workplace harassment is laughable. 

Osborne should absolutely be mad about that. Yet, I refuse to give Osborne any tissues to dab away her tears. She's a big girl and sometimes we have to suffer the consequences for our bullshit. She was given a pass because people tend to like British snark, but she didn't expect immediate pushback by two Black women who understood all too well how damaging Morgan's unrelenting attacks towards Markle have been. Elaine Welteroth and Underwood called her out for defending him, and in turn, she struck back with the emergency parachute of claiming victimhood in a situation where it wasn't warranted. And it backfired.

Here's the deal Sharon, you can cry about being called a racist, which is an accusation that gets tossed around a lot (and unnecessarily so) especially on Twitter, but as someone who has been accused of the same thing, it isn't as if you are wearing a permanent scarlet letter R. It does sting at first, but it is a lot like having your name scribbled on the stall of a dirty gas station bathroom. What loser actually takes the time to jot down the information and then follows through to call to see if you are easy? It is a trending topic until the next viral video, not a daily deluge of some guy calling you a phony for every little thing you've done for the last five years...

So yes, let's hone in on whom you were defending. Piers Morgan. Truly a stand up guy, a pillar of journalistic integrity... He has the absolute right to hate on the Duchess, for whatever sick reason he has as a married man for feeling some kind of way about a married woman whom he once met for drinks. Did she use him? For what exactly, since she met Prince Harry later that night (and it isn't as if he introduced them). She's just not into you dude, and that is exactly what Alex Beresford, the weather guy, said in exasperation after sitting through another one of Morgan's tirades. And in response to being called out for his creepiness, Morgan tore off his mic and stomped off because he felt he was being unfairly criticized (ironic, huh), as if it was perfectly normal to hold a grudge for five years and expect that maybe a few folks were tired of hearing about it.

You were not defending the Queen, Sharon, you were defending your asshole friend and two of your colleagues were not having it. You can be his friend, but that doesn't mean everyone else has to. And when you are friends with an asshole it suggests that you are unbothered by his assholiness. That doesn't make you an asshole like him, but your tolerance of him does impair your ability to understand why others might find him unbearable. Others aren't swayed by your arguments that he isn't all that bad, so either you are blind or you possess some asshole qualities. It isn't a generalization to notice that assholes tend to befriend each other.

Now, I find it interesting that you don't take issue with Morgan being a bully, but you feel compelled to argue that his unnatural obsession with trashing the Duchess and other people of color who have called him out does not stem from some form of prejudice or bias. Because to take notice of the commonalities shared by his various targets is racist, not that he chose to denigrate those specific people for whatever twisted reason. And in response to your demand for receipts, you're mad when Underwood opens her purse...

Since you didn't want to hear it from her, have someone to read this to you so that you can feel educated on how Welteroth, Underwood, Beresford, Oprah, Jameela Jamil, Adeel Amini, and the rest of us see racist (and sexist) undertones in the behavior of Piers Morgan. For balance, let's remember the British tabloid press, that relative who questioned the baby's skin color, and the decisions made by the Royal establishment, all of which led Markle say to hell with this princess shit, I'm going home to my Mama! We saw how quickly the backlash began and understood Markle's plight with every unflattering headline that was published. We know about being the sole person of color in certain spaces and how conspicuous it can be. We know how exhausting it is to be so hyper aware of our otherness that we try to fit in as best we can, even when the effort is futile. We understand that our comfort is not their concern.

Our hyper awareness of ourselves isn't always matched by the others. They will reason that by not being more careful, they aren't treating us any differently, and isn't that what we want--not to be singled out? Why should the others feel self-conscious about what to say in our presence, so why not question how dark the baby will be? Why not compare the backgrounds of the future Queen and the American Duchess, and wonder aloud whether Markle came from some sketchy gang-ravaged neighborhood like the ones we've seen in the movies (don't all American Blacks live in those kind of neighborhoods)? Why not take notice that the Duchess has her own sense of style that is bolder than what we are used to seeing from the Royals, so doesn't that make her appear audacious, haughty, and slightly rebellious? Who then, is this uppity Black woman, this rogue who has infiltrated our stodgy Royal family? 

Off with her head!

None of those questions conjure the virulent racism of the kind that involves burning crosses, separate water fountains, and ugly names, but that doesn't mean that those microaggressions can't pile up to weigh her down. It isn't racist to suggest that the former actress can go back to work to earn her keep, but that hasn't been the precedent for anyone else who marries into the Firm. It isn't racist to interview her attention-whore Daddy if her Mama won't talk, but it seems rather convenient that his opportunism isn't being denounced. It isn't racist to constantly pit the Duchess against the future Queen, the American wildflower to the English rose. It isn't racist to dislike Markle if you honestly think she is a manipulative or dishonest person, but just remember that she didn't try to sell access to her ex-husband, she hasn't been accused of having sex with minors, nor is she reportedly canoodling with a lady-in-waiting.

Nor was it racist of Markle to share her truth with the Oprah, given that for years, people have gone on her show to garner sympathy for whatever drama is going on in their lives (recall Sarah Fergusen). No one can elicit sympathy like Auntie O, and before her tragic death, even the late Princess Diana was allegedly scheduled to appear on the couch. If the Queen herself could give an interview with anyone before she died, don't you think it would be with Oprah?

Therefore Miss Sharon, you too could have chosen to sit down with Oprah (or Gayle King) to rehab your image after this debacle with The Talk, with the added optics of proving that you aren't racist (which I am not implying), but you chose to sit down with Bill Maher instead. A man who still seems pissed about having gotten his first show cancelled almost 20 years ago. No one goes on Real Talk to apologize or to atone for their sins or to repair a damaged persona--they go there to defiantly lean in to the impression that they are a shitty human being.

You didn't even listen to what Underwood was trying to tell you. You were so incensed at the perceived implication that you were a racist that you didn't hear her say several times that you weren't the racist, that you were her friend, and that her issue was with Morgan's statements. Every time we try to have these hard conversations about race, this is how they end. Somebody snatches off their mic and storms off the set. Somebody starts to cry wolf. Somebody cites their right of free speech and decries cancel culture. Somebody writes new laws to criminalize giving away bottled water on Election Day. Somebody writes a shitty letter and threatens to take his money and his daughter elsewhere. Somebody issues a terse denial and then Grandmother has to separate them at their Grandfather's funeral.

You amplify your preception of your hurt feelings and never deal with the blood that is gushing from my head.

I'm not denying that it hurts to be accused of something you geniunely cannot see as wrong, but that doesn't mean the accusation is false. It means that you don't understand what I am saying. So when you demand to be educated, Sharon, then that means you must stop talking. Stop defending yourself and just listen. LISTEN. Ask how to help, if that is the appropriate course of action. Respect my position in the same way you expect your point of view to have validity. We may not agree at the end of the conversation, but at least everyone will feel heard, which is how we begin to heal.

If your response to an uncomfortable confrontation is to go on Bill Maher's show and then dig in, well, then you've made a revealing choice. I won't make any declarative pronouncements, because you said what you said...but now I get to see things how I see them. Political incorrectness isn't real talk, it is bullying. It is toxic, unexamined ignorance. And it explains why you and Piers Morgan are such good friends.

The Scent of Entitlement

One of the Hub's favorite films is Scent of a Woman (1992), the Al Pacino film that finally earned him an Oscar and introduced us to the prodigious talents of a young Philip Seymour Hoffman (with respect to Chris O'Donnell). If he catches it at the beginning, he is likely to watch it all the way through, which is a full two hours plus, so I am generally relieved when he stumbles upon it midway or close to the end. 

After sitting through umpteen viewings, I have come to understand a lot of the film's appeal and hidden brilliance. I won't mine too much of that here, but it is one of those classic examinations of a working class kid thrust into the ruthless environment of an elite old money private school. It is precisely the kind of underdog story that speaks to someone like the Hub, who in spite of making it into an Ivy League college and into a good government job, he still harbors the bitterness of having once been a lot like Charlie, the protagonist. He hasn't told me any horrific stories, but I can see why he resents the fictional, yet very real world of rich assholes who never face consequences for screwing over people they never have to notice. Because their narrow world only has room for a handful of scholarship kids. 

Yeah, I read the letter. And I've got a lot to say in response to Mr. Andrew Gutmann and his tone deaf white privilege manifesto. I honestly think his wife Karen wrote this, but you know, chivalry and shit, so I will go on and allow Colonel Slade to express how the Hub would probably respond.

Now picking up that mic from where it was last dropped, allow me to disclose that unlike the Hub, I come to this with some insider knowledge as the alumna of an all-girls high school. Not nearly as elite as The Brearley School, yet I feel confident enough to address Mr. Gutmann as an alumna of two private women's institutions on the merits of these environments. And since he and I are roughly the same age, it is possible he's still pissed I got that seat at Tulane that he felt someone more deserving should have filled, so the chip he has on his shoulder is just as defiant and stubborn as the Hub's. There is a lot to unpack, so let's start with his utter lack of self awareness.

Mr. Guttman, you live in New York City, one of these most expensive places to live in this country. I am going to make several assumptions here, beginning with the apartment building with a doorman and never having had to take the subway anywhere at any point in your life. You probably know my very good friends, the Kittredges (yes, the Six Degrees of Separation Kittredges), which means you don't actually know any Black people other than the ones you resented in law/grad school. You are aware of Black celebrities with wealth, but you aren't impressed (really you aren't). And any other random Black person you encounter who might be working in your building or somewhere in your neighborhood is the good kind that would never get arrested for the various petty crimes that result in choke holds on the freshly swept sidewalk in front of your local Whole Foods.

Yes, you live in the most diverse city, yet you don't actually know any Black people well enough to declare that our struggles are imaginary. You don't see systematic racism because you falsely believe that good people like your Dad who voted for Ed Koch, got along well with the Blacks as long as they stayed in the outer boroughs or in Harlem. When you voted for Obama and later for Bill DeBlasio (and his Black wife), you convinced yourself that racism no longer exists because if they can ascend to the heights of political power, then there are no excuses for the rest of us. Any self-determined Black person can escape the imaginary confines of the ghettos that were built to contain us--just as long as not too  many of them try to infiltrate your daughter's school. 

Because you pay good money to send her to school with the children of Chelsea Clinton and Tina Fey, so you have every right to demand that the standards be kept such that only the most deserving Black girls get admitted, like Blue Ivy Carter or Olympia Ohanian. And why should there be Black faculty if the support staff is diverse enough?

So by all means, withdraw your daughter from Brearley and spend your hard earned money at some other exclusive private school upstate where there will be even less talk of diversity and inclusiveness, which relieves you from the agony of participating in International Day or Black History Month. You can rest assured that at her new school, she will get to read Gone With the Wind with no redactions or disclaimers. And you won't have to worry about mispronouncing anyone's name or saying something politically incorrect or accommodating anyone's unfamiliar religious observances. You can breathe easier knowing that your daughter and her new friends won't have to see color or talk about race anymore.

Because that is what Martin Luther King wanted. And you know this because you've heard that "I Have A Dream" portion of the March on Washington address enough times to recite it from memory. You know that when King said that people should not be judged by their skin color, he knew that the world would magically hear his words and begin to regard Black lives as equal to their own. Thus, by insisting on making bold declarations such as Black Lives Matter in response to injustice, we are dishonoring the wishes of a man who was killed while defending the labor demands of Black sanitation workers in Memphis, TN. Protestors who carried these signs, by the way:

But do go on about dreams and all of that colorblind reverse racism fluff that allows you to sleep at night.

You worked hard. Your father worked hard, as did his father and all of the men before that. The fact that there were laws and policies that enabled your forefathers to succeed while those same laws kept hardworking Black and Latinx folks in ghettos and in low-paying jobs without benefits or the means to build generational wealth is not systematic racism, but the luck of the draw, survival of the fittest. The real racism comes from succumbing to these inequities, because acknowledging how redlining, employment discrimination, educational inequality, voter dilution, criminal injustice, intentional environmental neglect, and all of these other systemic ills are just excuses. Tools of the incompetent. Monuments of nothingness. Used by those who seldom amount to anything. Isn't that right? So let's not dwell on the negative aspects of history and policies that are "prima facie evidence of...white supremacy and oppression", because to do so is "Marxist, anti-family," as well as "misguided, divisive, counterproductive[,] and cancerous."

Currently, alumnae from my now-defunct all-girls high school are planning a last gathering to honor the building that housed our old school, which is scheduled to get demolished this summer. Mind you, the school closed thirty years ago and the building had been in use as a public middle school for the bulk of that time. But now all of a sudden, there is this emotional outpouring of nostalgia for a useless, abandoned building. I would love to know how many of these alumnae have "pledged everlasting loyalty" to our successor institution in these last 30 years... And yes, I have a lot of mixed feelings about all of this rosy retrospection, as if everything was rainbows and unicorns. That may accurately describe the experience for a particular demographic of alumnae but definitely not for all of us. So perhaps I am triggered by Mr. Gutmann's whiny manifesto because similar concerns were expressed as our incoming classes increasingly reflected the diversity and inclusiveness of a community that was changing demographically. Lowered admissions standards. Too much change, not enough respect for tradition. Once that balance tipped in favor of the daughters of Black federal government workers instead of the daughters of ethnic white Catholic military veterans, the school closed...while others that hiked their tuition have thrived.

Yeah, Mr. Gutmann. Someone had to say it. Someone had to speak up against the tyranny of committing to being actively anti-racist as opposed to just pretending to being colorblind. Someone had to remind us that exclusive schools like Brearley weren't founded to promote racial equality or social justice. The actresses and socialites that number among its distinguished alumnae aren't charged with seeking to change the world inasmuch as they do make it look stylish.

If I have been restrained in blasting Mr. Gutmann's lack of self-awareness, that is an acknowledgement that I am tossing pebbles from inside my own messy glass house. My parents sent me to private school for the same reasons most parents choose to bypass perfectly good public school options. And I am willing to call them out for doing so because as a parent myself, I understand the pros and cons of making that choice. One of those cons is the illusion that private schools offer a more academically rigorous curriculum. In hindsight, it only looked like my high school education was superior because my parents were paying for it, but once I arrived at Spelman there were no distinguishable differences between the public and private school students. Of course, that is my own anecdotal experience, not definitive or universal truth.

Therefore, another con is the assumption that private school kids have earned access to some exclusive world of wonder that others do not deserve to enjoy. As if being able to afford certain amenities isn't just another purchase or an acquisition. Private school is akin to buying a first-class ticket as opposed to an economy class ticket. Mr. Gutmann's investment in his daughter's education isn't about how smart she is, rather it is a glorified insurance policy that she will have access to an exclusive sorority of privilege that becomes less so the more Brearley embraces diversity.

Thus when a kid like Charlie Simms, who depends on scholarships and work study to afford tuition at schools like Baird tries to fit in and not rock the boat, it doesn't matter because everybody knows his status and they make it a point to remind him that he is different. When kids like Jamal Wallace are admitted to prep schools like Mailor-Callow on athletic scholarships, they are expected to shut up and dribble, not befriend reclusive writers or charm the alumni President's daughter. When punks like Will Hunting are discovered to be undercover geniuses, we hope that they don't squander the opportunity to be something greater. When independent women like Katherine Watson challenge the conventional wisdom that educated women deserve the opportunity to pursue the same career choices as their male counterparts, we know that Ruth Bader Ginsberg would concur. When immigrants like Alexander Hamilton vow not to throw away his shot, somewhere Aaron Burr is keeping a list and polishing his revolver...

So spare us the bullshit about merit when you know this is all about money and the predictable backlash against challenges to a status quo that has been harmful to more students of color than you care to admit. 

This is where I can offer the perspective that Mr. Gutmann didn't reference in his letter. You see, I can speak to my own pain and confusion as a young girl in a high school where psychological damage was done by so-called colorblindness and race neutrality. It was traumatic for me as a freshman to have no recourse in situations where I was accused of cheating or academic dishonesty or told that I was not as smart as my peers because I was twelve and unfocused. The first person to notice my potential and challenge those assertions was my 11th grade science teacher, Ms. P, ironically an alumna herself and the only Black teacher at the school. She saw Spelman as a possibility for me and helped make it a reality when others were not all that convinced or concerned where I went to college.

I also took time to read the other open letter about academic indoctrination, and for now, I will pledge to revisit that topic in a subsequent piece when I can devote more time to addressing how ironic it is for some white people to believe that their internal feelings about race speak for everyone, including those who aren't in the room to contribute. It is a lot like watching those very special episodes of 80s era sitcoms. 

I need to wrap this up so that I can get my daughter, whom I'm pretty sure could earn a spot at Brearley if I could afford it, from Kindergarten. Because unless the entrance exam requires her to understand the quadratic formula at the age of six, I think she can hold her own with the daughters of actors and socialites. Of course I believe she is brilliant and bold and beautiful, and I want her to have as many advantages and opportunities that I did not have when I was her age. So like my own parents, I am willing to unapologetically pay for her to access those spaces because I understand how the world works. However, it is utterly amazing to me that as soon as some people get uncomfortable about having to consider a worldview that doesn't center on them, whew, the big words and hurt feelings and the tears come, followed by the threat of packing up their toys.

Just like Colonel Slade, I'm just getting warmed up. I've got a lot more to say in part two when we deconstruct Sharon Osborne and how cancel culture isn't really a thing...

Ain't Nobody Coming to See Mr. Biggs

Easter Sunday night we were treated to one of the best Verzuz battles to date, and I am saying that although I know that there are a few that I intentionally skipped (which many of you declared to be the best to date). But I am going to declare and decree that the showdown between the Isley Brothers and Earth, Wind, and Fire was definitely, without question, not up for discussion or debate, THEE G.O.A.T!

And I am saying that in spite of Steve Harvey doing the extra most in trying to act like this really was a reunion of his silly little High Tops from his eponymous sitcom. If someone hadn't told him to set down to let the professionals handle their business, he was this close to singing a verse of Break Me Off A Piece, because that is just how lit he was in the midst of all that collective greatness on stage.

Not that I blame him. That match up was legendary, even though both groups are down to the remaining few still living. The spirit of Maurice White and several long gone Isleys blessed us with the kind of show that we will still be talking about years from now. We will remember that it was the second Easter Sunday we spent on lockdown (well, some of us), and how we initially wondered if this really was a fair match-up or was it just our nostalgia. What I thought would be a nice diversion to help calm some of my anxieties for the big week ahead turned out to be the music event of the year. Nevermind that some of us needed to be on our computers early Monday morning for work. Or that for those of us on the East Coast, that joint kept us up well past our bedtime. We're not as young as we think we are, especially if you could sing along to most of the songs.

So it pains me to offer this ginormous BUT in contradiction to my earlier declaration. That joint was fire, BUT the appearance of Mr. Biggs nearly ruined it for me. 

Yeah, I said it. Perhaps it was the reminder of what can happen if a family gathering lasts a little too long. Somebody had a little too much brown liquor, said a little too much by bringing up some ancient sore point of contention that causes cards getting thrown, insults being hurled, names getting called, and threats being made. The party then comes to an abrupt end, with one set of folks cussing and fussing on the way to their cars, while the other folks are still in the house waiting for them mofos to leave. Later  when your Mama is emptying ashtrays, and picking up cards and broken glass, she mutters that damn Mr. Biggs is why we can't have nice things.

Uncle Ron. He's the one with four ex-wives, an untold number of children, and who still drives a Cadillac. He's the one who brings the Hennessy and his own deck of cards. Attached to every song is a memory of some woman in some city, and we enjoy hearing it all, even if half of what he says is suspect. He is that dude who has genuinely lived 9 whole lives, so he has seen it all. His alter ego is Mr. Biggs, that mofo who owes your Daddy $4000 for some trouble he got into a few years ago, but your Dad won't ask for his money because Biggs has repaid him in other intangible ways. He often shows up unannounced and uninvited because of the shit he started the last time y'all all got together.

To be clear, the rest of your uncles are also colorful characters. Uncle Verdine comes with much drama and flamboyance, but will cut anybody who says something about it. Uncle Phil can't hit those high notes like he used to and he knows it, but let him clear his throat and try anyway. Uncle Ralph the righteous church deacon, is always on time and always mediating disputes. Uncle Ernie, the baby Isley, is a creative genius who will definitely shoot if someone pisses him off. Uncle Steve isn't really your uncle, but you call him that out of respect. Cousin Derrick (D-Nice) is allowed to hang with them as long as he don't try to get cute and play that hippy hop that Uncle Steve don't like. Your other cousins are there too, Kasseam (Swizz Beatz) and Timbaland, because they organized the entire event and posted it on Instagram.

There is always love for Uncle Ron. In spite of his shenanigans, he is Da Man. He didn't come to play as evidenced by that costume change that the other Uncles were not expecting. That's why Uncle Phil looked salty and was furiously texting his people, why didn't anybody tell me? I got closets full of dashikis I can still wear, dammit! Uncle Ralph was unphased, and Uncle Verdine doesn't do costume changes. Meanwhile, Uncle Ron was just grinning and thinking, y'all thought I was doing the most with that coat...

Here is my issue with Mr. Biggs--he is Stripe, the Gremlin that unleashed havoc on the world because somebody fed him after midnight. Mr. Biggs was the creation of one Robert Kelly, the creepy disgraced cousin that we cannot re-invite to the family functions because he ain't right. Mr. Biggs is abusive, controlling, and a misogynist (go on back an revisit those old videos). He is a pimp, and in 2021, nothing is sadder than a mean, delusional dirty old man.

This isn't about respectability, but it is about respect for women as people and not accessories or possessions. The women who were cooing over Uncle Ron's 79 year old ass and fantasizing about him crooning those classic Isley Brother love songs directly to them. The women who would have brought him a plate, refreshed his drinks without being asked, and who would have made sure he got home safely. The women that take care of his business, his children, and grandchildren. The women, like Mama, who clean up after his shit. Those women do not deserve that Mr. Biggs machismo. Those women would not be caught creeping like those young girls he had no business messing with anyway. And those young girls kept stepping out because Mr. Biggs was an old fool too full of himself to make better choices.

So as iconic as Mr. Biggs thought he was, that isn't how Ronald Isley deserves to be remembered. As Uncle Verdine said, a true match-up of back and forth battling could take up to ten hours, given that there are 110+ years of combined material between them. The Isleys are bona fide music icons, so this notion that R. Kelly reintroduced them to a new generation of fans is over-stated. I would argue that the Isley collaboration worked more to Kelly's benefit. Our Boomer parents raised us on the Quiet Storm and Saturday morning oldies, where the Isleys remain in steady rotation. And then we turned around and heavily sampled their music in 90s era hip hop, which our younger Millennial cousins heard on a regular basis. So when Uncle Ron said that he was singing baby-making music, he was...but them babies is grown with grandkids now. 

And there shall be no sleeping on the Elements, who pretty much created their own musical lane that is beyond what anybody else can ever attain. Their music transcends category. They branched out and did all kinds of different things over the years, but they were always grounded (Earth), spiritual (Wind), and passionate (Fire). We all have some great moment of joy connected to an EWF song. As Uncle Steve reminded us, every HBCU band has In the Stone in their repertoire. Three dudes carry on the legacy of the musical genius that was Maurice White, whom they respect so much that unlike other groups that replace the members that die or quit, they are content to perform as backup in his memory. That is a different kind of devotion right there.

When these Verzuz duels began last year, it was a novel concept to pit two producers or artists/groups against each other as entertainment during this never-ending pandemic lockdown. Radio deejays have been doing these virtual match-ups for years, but it was something new to have the artists themselves on hand to select the songs for battle. It was great to hear their stories and to see their interactions, which have been mutual love and respect. The backdrop of the pandemic has been a necessary, yet bittersweet reminder that we may never get to see some of these legends live in concert again. This has been an entire year of our lives and theirs, with no guarantees of what the future holds. Who would have thought that Mary Wilson of the Supremes would suddenly be gone, or that Tina Turner would feel the need to offer such an emotional farewell documentary? So while Teddy Riley was absolutely doing the most last year during his first attempt at battling Babyface, in hindsight, we now know how vital these opportunities have been for all of us.

For instance when Gladys Knight and Patti Labelle were teamed up last fall, all of our jokes about which Auntie makes the best mac and cheese or potato salad missed the point. They FED us, and then brought Dionne Warwick out with her special lemon cake that nobody can make like hers. Do you hear me--that wasn't even some exclusive awards show with tributes and highlights, just a regular Sunday dinner table full of blessings set with love...for free! Ron and Ernie Isley said we fittin to wear these new Easter suits, and no, I'm not shaving (smart move, seeing how y'all been sizing him up). Uncle Phil didn't say a word for two weeks because he was saving his voice. Uncle Verdine got his touch-up done early on Easter Saturday, got it expertly wrapped, and then spent the rest of the day deciding on the accessories to wear with his ensemble. Steve Harvey got so hungover he won't be back on the air until Wednesday...

Oh yeah, my point was to reassure Uncle Ron that we love him. Please let that Mr. Biggs nonsense go because everything else you did was already on the level of legendary. The Beatles remade your song. We remember how you had to let Michael Bolton's stringy hair ass know not to steal from them Isley Brothers. Creepy Cousin Robert is not welcome around here no more, so let him use that shtick in jail. Ain't nobody coming to see Mr. Biggs!

We're coming to see good, feed-your-soul music. We're coming to see the kind of dream show that we would gladly have paid good government stimulus money on because that was epic! It was beautiful to see the Elements sing with the Isleys as if this was one of those family reunions where both sides of the family finally came together to celebrate after so many years. The only thing that would have made that battle more perfect would have been a special appearance by a couple of Aunties, such as Deniece Williams or the remaining Emotions (just dreaming out load). Nah, I'm good with what we got, which was damn near perfect.

The Old Town Road to Hell

Look, I am not going to take up too much of your time, but can we settle this Lil Nas X thing real quick so that I can go back to Busy Black Momming (planning the Kid's 6th Birthday Party)? Because Old Town Road is staying on the party playlist...

I saw Montero. I wrote a Facebook post about Montero which I subsequently edited to clarify that while I was definitely clutching my pearls (like any respectable Busy Black Church Lady would), I was not condemning him for making Montero. Because I got the message, especially as a life-long hat-wearing Busy Black Church Lady who grew up recognizing the hypocrisy of inconsistent and morally selective Christian doctrine. Therefore, I won't take up too much of your time by providing my laundry list of examples. And before you point out how it might be ironic that I am now in that minority of regular church-going Believers, I assure you that is because I have lived long enough to understand why the old folks admonished us to get to know Jesus for ourselves. As such, I have determined that my friend Jesus probably would not approve of Call Me By My Name, but as someone who overturned tables and cursed folks out in the Temple...He ain't casting stones.

When I watched Lil Nas X slide that fireman's/stripper pole down yonder, my eyes popped out for a moment. When the serpent licked his crotch in the Garden, my hand went over my mouth as I audibly gasped. When I read that he also released a pair of limited edition sneakers with a drop of blood in the sole, I laughed out loud because even satanic same gender loving sex sells!

Yes, it was provocative, but that was exactly the point. He posted a bunch of explanatory tweets and allegedly apologized, but then he also promised his followers a 12-pack pair of Hanes socks if his song went to number one, so who knows when he's being sincere or when he's trolling? Because let's be honest, he is popular, so he's just doing what every other marginally talented performer in the past has done, which is ride this gimmick until he can't no more.

Folks are actually out here on Blue Ivy's internet complaining about the bad example he's setting for their children. Ummm, he ain't nobody's Daddy (as far as we know). We've done this before with other artists who have made the transition from the Mickey Mouse Club to hot young thang. The easiest examples to cite are Britney Spears and Miley Cyrus, and yes, y'all lost your minds over their embrace of their sexuality too, but you got over it. When New Edition broke up and there was Bell Biv Devoe singing Do Me Baby on one side and Bobby Brown Humping Around on the other, we just kept on dancing. Brandy sang about how she Wanna Be Down and Usher released an entire album of Confessions admitting to his f*ck boi tendencies. Back in my day, Madonna burst onto the scene singing Like A Virgin and there were a lot of comparisons to Cyndi Lauper who just wanted to have fun (without specifying what fun really was in the middle of the night). Michael Jackson was hanging out at Studio 54 and singing about a groupie named Billie Jean whom he denied impregnating. Are we forgetting this?

The only difference I see is that Lil Nas X is gay, but I don't recall he was ever in the closet, so his orientation has never been a secret. It isn't like Elton John where folks had the nerve to be full blown shocked despite numerous hints and clues over the years. Lil Nas just saved you the trouble of speculation, except for the meaning of Panini, which I might be taking too literally. This is just his version of Control. A typical coming-of-age Miley astride a wrecking ball naked or Britney dancing with a snake level stunt. He's legal and twerking a CGI version of himself as the devil. Shrug.

No, it doesn't offend me that he used to perform for kids, even appearing on Sesame Street. So did Lin-Manuel Miranda before he did Hamilton (and none of these kids listen to the clean version of that soundtrack or the mix-tape). A bunch of artists have gone on Sesame Street and adapted their songs for that audience, and when they returned to their adult fan base and switched things back, y'all knew how to apply the appropriate parental filters. How is this different?

Isn't this why Tipper Gore advocated for warning labels on music before her not really ex-husband invented the internet? So that you would listen/watch before exposing your children to possibly objectionable content. If it is a hit dance song, there is probably is a clean version via Kidz Bop, Just Dance, or Radio Disney or you can just avoid it altogether. That is one of your fundamental, inalienable rights as a parent. To pre-view and decide that Katy Perry running around after Elmo in a low-cut skating outfit is too much, while Nick Jonas serenading polygon shapes seductively is perfectly fine.

You get to make those decisions. Remember how you used to watch soap operas with Grandma and she would send you to another room during a sex scene? Or when your Dad ignored the film rating because he thought that a movie with Richard Pryor and a bunch of kids would be okay? Or how you got into trouble because you called that 976 number you saw posted on a telephone pole and got an earful (and didn't know that it cost money per minute, so you got in trouble twice)? Well, you are the parent now. This is part of your job, and with all of these tools that our parents did not have access to, I am confused why y'all seem so unprepared and inept at this.

And do not make the excuse that things are much worse now than they were when we were kids. They aren't. We saw plenty of inappropriate, homoerotic stuff that in hindsight went way over our heads like pro-wrestling or an episode of He-Man. You are worried about near-apocalyptic imagery but never raised an eyebrow when the bad guys had their faces melted off in Raiders of the Lost Ark. At least now you have social media to warn you in advance of what you might otherwise have inadvertently seen or heard.

Please tell me you aren't more horrified by a stylized three minute music video fantasy than the actual real-life horror of watching a 9 minute video of a man being killed on camera. 

That's all I need to say. Even if I did miss the real meaning of Old Time Road, it is actually comical to me that people are this upset (because the Kidz Bop version is much worse). Your grandparents were tripping on acid when they first heard Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds or really blazed when listening to Thank You Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin (yep, that's the real title). Y'all expected Lil Nas X, the neon rhinestone S&M cowboy to be ambiguous and safe like Sam Smith. In the year 2021, what in the RuPaul's Drag Race kind of foolishness is that?

PS: Y'all know how to Google, so that's why I'm not linking to Montero.

What A Difference a Day Makes

This is an adaptation of a reflection I offered recently (February 27) on the daily prayer call that I coordinate. I am generally not in the habit of contributing my own voice to this particular endeavor because I am not very comfortable as a contemporaneous speaker. However, this past year has been one of stepping outside of my self-contained comfort zone. What I have posted here are the notes from my speaking outline, what I actually said on the call, and a little more to fill in the spaces. Because I got positive feedback, I wanted to share it for posterity.

What A Difference A Day Makes is a song by jazz/blues singer Dinah Washington, which she recorded in 1959. She also won a Grammy for the song, and it inspired this reflection as I was thinking about the events that were taking place this time a year ago.

You see, a year ago when this prayer call was still only on Mondays, it was just around this time that our service changed and we got a new call-in number. For those who had been calling into the prayer call prior to last February know that we had been dialing in to a different number, one that I had made available for use when this prayer line was established back in 2014. And that number came with a free conference call service that I had signed up for back in 2010, when I had no idea that we could do anything other than call in--no ability mute lines, or anything like that. Thus, when I learned that the number would be changing, I did not know that meant an upgrade to the service. That was functionality I would discover later.

But a year ago when our number changed, I was in Florida on Winter Break with my family. A week later, we would travel to New York City for my niece's baby shower, and while we were there, we knew about the coronavirus but had no idea how bad it could be. At the time, we were told that this virus would be contained because of a travel ban, and that any isolated cases would be minimal. Sitting at the table with my in-laws, we assumed that all would be well, even though there was already an outbreak of cases on the West Coast.

Literally, within a week, New York City went on lock-down. And then a week later, so would the DC area. The Sunday of our first week of quarantine, Rev. TB suggested that our Monday prayer call should become a daily call to last for the duration of the quarantine. And I agreed, because at the time, my beleif was that this was to be a temporary situation. Maybe for a month.

At that point, what a difference a couple of weeks had made. A month before the pandemic, my biggest worry was how the city was going to dispose of a deer that had died in my backyard. In a month, my biggest worry was whether I could protect my family from a virus that no one knew much about.

Over the course of the days that became weeks and then months, our daily prayer call continued on and it began to grow. At a certain point, it became necessary to figure out how to better manage the call or perhaps upgrade to a paid service in order gain more control of the technical aspects of the call. That was how I learned about the moderator controls, and how I came to provide an opening greeting every morning a few minutes before the start of the call. I learned that I could manage the call from my computer and how to selectively mute and un-mute callers on the line. During a re-organizing session with Rev. TB, we outlined a schedule and some new procedures, and he suggested that I could offer reflections if I felt so inclined. And I was pretty clear then that I did not feel so inclined--I was happy to remain behind the scenes on the technical side of things.

When I reflect on the words of our theme song for today, the lyrics refer to the change that can occur overnight. Based on something that is said or an action, our emotions can go from one extreme to the other. The song is about love and relationships, but in a day, we know that any and everything are bound to change.

I think specifically back to November and the roller coaster of emotions I experienced Election Week. I went from hope to despair and back to hope in a span of days. Then we went through the same process in January, from hope to horror and then back to hope. When we look back over this past year, this cycle has repeated itself multiple times.

How have you changed for the better during this pandemic? What difference have these days, weeks, and months made in your life? Do you pray more? How are you engaged in fellowship with others? Have you found new and innovative ways to express your creativity? How have you improved? What do you need to change moving forward?

In response to those questions, I thought I would offer an example from my own life. Having the courage to offer a reflection on this prayer call has been a major change. As I mentioned, Rev. TB suggested that I should feel free to offer an occasional reflection, and as Mother P is my witness, I said no thank you. And for months, I was content to stay in my lane, which was behind the scenes. But God tends to have other ideas about what we are capable of, so one day last summer at the last minute, Rev. TB couldn't make the call and I thought it was too late to ask Mother P to prepare a reflection for the next morning. So, I found my voice. I recall how it all unfolded because it was a mixture of confidence (how hard can this be) and terror (who do I think I am). I sat outside in my backyard with my notes and spoke about the seeds that I had planted in containers. A few weeks later, I gave another reflection for Rev. TB's birthday. And here I am today, under similar circumstances--stepping out of my comfort zone, finding my voice.

During this pandemic, are there friends or family that you haven't spoken to in years? Have you thought about them, have you reached out? Have you been willing to forgive some ancient wrong or sought forgiveness for some hurt you may have caused someone else?

Through this pandemic God has been telling us that we have time. We have learned that we have lots of time, but also not nearly enough. We have time to repair old relationships. We have time to learn new skills. We have time for prayer and worship. We have time to grow in grace. But we were not given this time to squander or waste.

What a difference a day makes.

The Shot Heard 'Round the World

On the Sunday morning before the great Harry and Meghan interview, one of my Facebook friends posted that if one is going to take aim at the Crown, they better not miss. On the morning after, my response was:

Once again proving that America was right to disentangle itself from that Empire of inbreds and soggy tea bags.

As every Black man on social media shook his head and reminded us that we (Black women) should have known better than to have thought that the British Royals had evolved, I just want to remind them that we have also been telling everybody to listen to Black women, because as confirmed by Prince Harry, it saved his life.

Now, this won't be a finger wagging versus pearl clutching piece, because all of that was done in the moment. What Harry and Meghan did was remarkable, not for what they said, but that they actually said what they said. It was astonishing that they were willing to take aim at the Establishment, considering that it has likely led to permanent exile. And they seem fine with that, which is exactly the same energy we got from Princess Diana years ago when she gave her tell-all eff you interview that similarly revealed the dingy lace doilies under the Windsor tea sets. 

I won't re-state too much of what has already been said because the so-called Royal watchers and gossip columnists who make their living as the 'anonymous palace sources confirm' on any given topic have already done that. Some of them even started in on Meghan and Harry days before the Oprah delivered the goods. And even though we knew that the royal media reaction from the usual suspects was going to be anti-Meghan, who knew it would be so personal Piers Morgan and Megyn Santa-is-white-and-Jesus-too Kelly? 

There were bombs bursting in air aplenty, but there was also a lot that was unsaid. I want to know why Harry felt it was no big deal to drop that bomb about his Dad not taking his calls, but shut down and refused to discuss his brother. I want to know why Kate Middleton made Meghan cry the week of her wedding over flower girl dresses. I want to know how many pieces of silver the Thomas Markle branch of the family tree was paid to feed these destructive narratives to the British tabloid press about our American Duchess. I want to know which bitch in the House of Windsor had the audacity to question how the world was going to respond to my ginger brown nephew and forthcoming niece. 

(Yeah, Harry has now officially been adopted by the Diaspora, so Auntie YaYa is ready to throw hands.)

I know that we aren't British subjects and that most of you woke folks don't care. And that's your preference, even though y'all care a whole lot about Beyonce and her overpriced Ivy Park underwear. You can judge me or judge yo mamma.

Let's start with the Windsor family drama of son versus father (future King) versus brother (future future King). Prince Harry, who has known all of his life that he would never ascend to the throne, assumed it was his job was to make the others look good for their future roles. So he and his bride got to work, attending fancy dress parties and watching the soldiers march back and forth. Then the Queen sent them abroad to Australia, where even the kangaroos and the dingoes were charmed by them, so methinks somebody got all jeally. Suddenly Meghan is a baby-bump rubbing bitch who is draining the world of its water to supply her avocado toast cravings. And poor Katie M's feelings were hurt over some flower girl dresses worn at a wedding that wasn't hers to micromanage. Someone had herself a little Bridezilla moment...how dare she?

Mind you, none of those little darlings came from the bride's family. Not her little cousin Imani or her nephew Freddie because they couldn't make the multiple trips overseas for the fittings. In fact, the only member of Meg's family to attend the wedding was her Mama because her Daddy acted up and got himself disinvited. Imagine how that conversation went down, so yeah, Katie, I'm the bride. Because if my Aunt Ruthie was here...oh yeah, that's right, I can't even invite my own family to my own damn wedding. She and the rest of my Cali folks have to wake up at 3am to watch it on TV. Woosah!

And as Meg stormed off to dry her face, a confused Katie M wonders aloud: whatever was that about and what is a woosah? I think she insulted me. Who does she think she is? I am the future future Queen!

We know the deal. Make a white woman cry and everybody has a handkerchief.

Sometime during that transition between trimesters when all hell breaks loose because of hormones, and Meg is trapped in the house with nowhere to go because they have her car keys, her driver's license, her credit cards, and her passport, she questions her existence. She looks in the mirror and sees that belly, the changes in her appearance, and endures all of the various ailments that accompany pregnancy in the midst of strangers. Then she looks at the news and sees the unflattering pictures and divisive headlines, and she wonders how did I get here. So she senses that she's on the edge and asks for help, but some bitter lemon with too many hairpins in her chignon reminds her for the umpteenth time that you, actress Meghan Markle, are lucky to even be here. A million girls would kill to live in this palace. And after hearing that sentiment spat at her for the umpteenth time, Meghan snaps at a member of the household staff for not doing something the way she had asked for it to be done, always nicely, but persistently for months.

The rattled staff member huddles with the others after hours to gossip about the Duchess and her moodiness of late. They joke that she's eating a lot more ice cream and how she looks heavier than Katie M did when she was at the same point in her previous pregnancies. That's the Black half of her asserting itself, it's in the genes. And they all snicker, but in that space after the laughter stops, someone asks does that mean the baby will have big lips or a broad nose? Unbeknownst to the gathering, Harry has come home and overhears part of the conversation. Three staffers are dismissed.

Later at some informal event attended by the future King and the future future King and other assorted royals, Harry mentions that he let some of the household staff go for making insensitive remarks about Meghan and the baby. An awkward silence follows, broken by the query that later becomes his great awakening...well, have you thought about what the baby will look like, how dark will it be? Harry's eyes narrow, and he abruptly but politely excuses himself to go home. 

Meghan is sitting in the dark in their bedroom, alone and crying. One of the Markles is on television again. Earlier in the day, Mrs. Bitter Lemon Curd let it slip that their child probably won't get an official title, because what is the precedent for such a thing? And once again, Harry hears another dehumanizing reference to his unborn child. When Meg tells him that three staffers quit and Mrs. Lemon Curd suggested that it was starting to reflect poorly that she couldn't get along with the household staff, Harry reassures her that he will handle it (hence another reassignment the next morning). In the middle of the night as he tosses over the references made to his unborn child as an 'it' and 'such a thing', he finds his wife sobbing in the bathroom. And in the jumbled way that the pregnant mind expresses itself, she asks, am I that terrible for wanting this task done as I had asked for it to be done so many times? Was it a breach of protocol to make such a fuss? Do you see how they talk about you in the press? Maybe you would be better off without me. 

And two days later, after the picture of Meg in the blue sequinned dress is published, he informs her of his plans for their escape.

After thinking through what it must have been like for them in that fishbowl, I am amazed that they lasted as long as they did. The most common refrain I've read: she should have known what she was getting herself into. As if. Among those who are reading this and are/were married, did you know? Did you walk down that aisle into the happily ever after you dreamed it would be, or did you wake up to bills, kids, in-laws, illnesses, and other assorted drama? What should she have known--that after the grand spectacle of a wedding and the eyes of the world upon them, the press would decide that they could sell more papers by pitting her against her sister-in-law? The sainted Katie M, who already had the advantage of having been William's college sweetheart and mother of the future future future King? Meghan just wanted to enjoy her fairy tale and Harry thought he knew his family.

Having just watched and written about Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, the Windsors have proven to be the real life Drayton family. They were welcoming of Meghan in the beginning, because what other choice did they have? Who was going to tell Harry otherwise as we were all taken in by the whirlwind of excitement (I certainly was). And even when there were less careful and thoughtless faux pas, like when that cousin showed up for brunch wearing that tacky Blackamoor brooch, we turned the other cheek and assumed she was an outlier. But no, that's still Meghan who is the raisin in their milk. 

Turns out, there is a precedent for granting official titles to divorcees who marry into the Queen's extended family. Meghan married into the immediate family in the direct line of succession but is not a princess for whatever archaic reason, and we're supposed to believe that the Queen doesn't have the authority to waive protocol. Regardless of their personal affection for each other, in my mind Meghan was right to feel some kind of way about being expected to work on the level of a senior royal without any of the perks (other than a closet full of designer clothes).

So let's go through the checklist of disappointments and microaggressions: the Firm's golden padlock on their gilded cage; unfair comparisons to Katie M in the press; untrustworthy and disloyal household staff; the betrayals and bullshit from her own father; and the wounded ego of some dude who bought her drinks five years ago.

If your reaction to all of that is to shrug and dismiss her as some spoiled rich chick with royal problems, Auntie's got something to say about that as well. We care about all kinds of business that isn't ours, but when it comes to a Black woman in distress, suddenly the world is all cried out. All of this emotional bandwidth for the Queen and Katie M--also two rich chicks with royal problems, but hint that the difference in responses might have something to do with race, then we're being unfair. Y'all get madder at the implication than the facts. We are talking about a family that symbolizes a global colonial empire. She's not the only commoner in the ranks, nor is she the first American. But...

I won't say it, but ask why everyone is so polarized. Ask why her choices become full-blown scandals that would otherwise be written off if she were someone else. Even her jewelry is controversial despite the fact that half the Crown jewels were mined from former colonies of the Empire in Africa and Asia. Shall we talk about where they get their tea and sugar too? But go on and tell us how Markle is just a pampered princess; nevermind that y'all still wouldn't have any more sympathy for a poor Black woman. You would berate her for her bad choices. You would tell a middle class Black woman who spoke up about her mental health issues during her pregnancy to go home, light a candle, and meditate--and then possibly watch her die in childbirth. You complain about the tax dollars being wasted on public housing, Head Start, and food stamps for people who work for minimum wages. But corporate welfare and propping up an archaic monarchy aren't proof of any kind of implicit bias.

Your lack of empathy for Black women, regardless of class isn't a revelation to us. But Harry's love is. 

And the shot heard 'round the world is that Diana's baby boy is a better man and a real Prince, with or without the formal titles. I read Her Majesty's statement. Protect your Crown madam, while your grandson protects his wife and children. And don't trouble yourself to investigate who said what, because the allegations alone are an indictment of the institution, rather than individual actors. That you would make this statement now, but said nothing until now is the point.

Coming Back to America

So where do I start: I've watched Coming 2 America and just in time for Women's History Month, I get to review an Eddie Murphy movie for its inadvertent attempt at a...feminist message??? 

Yes, that's what I wrote, and in my intentional attempt not to spoil it anymore than Black Twitter already has, there were a lot of takeaways from this film, beginning with the realization that a lot has changed in 30+ years. And a good deal of that is reflected in this sequel, the result of which is not necessarily the movie we thought it might be, but then again what should we have expected thirty years later? We should have learned our lesson after what happened with The Best Man Holiday. However, Black actors need the work, and that pile of dirty laundry won't sort, wash, or fold itself. This will definitely get you through two loads.

I haven't had a chance to read all of the ancillary articles that have been written about who didn't return to Zamunda and why, but I have my list of folks whom I felt should have at least been offered a cameo. Let's start with Lisa's sister Patrice, played by Allison Dean in the original movie. Somehow, I feel as if a very humorous side story could have been built around her presence, at the very least, she should have been running the Queens location of McDowell's. And what about the landlord, portrayed by Frankie Faison? Because if y'all went and scraped the barrel to find the rapping twins from the nightclub and somehow justified keeping the barber shop quartet alive all of these years...

Yeah, there were a lot of random cameos. And I will just leave it at that.

This entire effort was random. Because the plot is thin and clearly influenced by The Lion King. And Princess and the Frog. With nods to Black Panther, Cinderella (with Brandy), Star Wars, and The Princess Diaries. So I will just come out and say that this was a Disney movie with curse words, or one of those awkward SNL skits that lasts way too long so by the time the joke lands, you're just watching to see if it is funny.

So let me get to the women's empowerment message, which is an acknowledgement that Eddie Murphy has really grown up (somewhat though, because he still loves fart jokes.) The gratuitous sexism from the original film is toned down, somewhat. Although the plot centers on the discovery of a male heir to the throne of Zamunda, it never makes sense that he would or could ascend to the throne over his native-born sisters. Consistent from the original is the notion that women can think and choose for themselves; and if you missed that message, watch the movie again. The most poignant moment in this film comes when the late Queen Aoleon (the great Madge Sinclair) is recalled as the most sensible member of the Joffer royal family. Her voice of reason is certainly missed, but as this is a classic Disney film set up, her spirit hovers over the choices that are made, and we get another fairy tale ending. 

That Coming 2 America is so self-aware as to mock itself is genius, clearly a nod to Shrek, which was the series of unabashed anti-Disney animated films Murphy starred in during the early 2000s. That was very effective as a comedic device, as was the importation of several of the most memorable jokes and gags from the original. However, part of the overall joke from our first visit to Zamunda was the fact that almost no one had heard of it (which worked in a pre-Google world). But now that we have been there and to Wakanda, I think we need to devise better ways of showcasing Africa other than these highly stylized, fictional MET Gala utopias. And in my opinion, someone should have reconsidered making light of geo-political atrocities (warlords and kidnappings) because Boko Haram isn't funny. 

The Hub says I am just hyper-sensitive because most viewers are unaware of global affairs. I haven't thoroughly checked woke Black Twitter, but if he is right, then that's one of several metajokes that might catch on after the second or third viewing. There are others, including the perpetual Trading Places references, the product placement spoofs, and the fact that Murphy's evolution is due to his becoming a proud #GirlDad. Yet, despite giving the women more substance this time around, this is still Eddie Murphy at his Murphyest, just older and wiser.

So the moral of this story is not to wait 30 years to revisit happily ever after and expect things to be as funny as they were the first time. It will be an entirely new story, and while it will try to be as funny as possible, it has to stand on its own. And if you missed that message the first time, then watch it again. I'm sure you have more laundry.