If Rihanna Is About That Thug Life…I Am Too

See, I tried to let it slide because the unthinkable happened. I’m not so sure how it happened, but it did. I’m a Rihanna fan.

After her debacle with Chris Brown, I let my umbrella down and threw it in the trunk because I didn’t see her the same anymore. I just knew that she was a young girl who was head over hills in love and possibly off her rocker, but also under the watchful eye of a four-star publicity and management team (not denying that I don’t feel this way still). I’ve never actually purchased any of her albums, but somehow I always end up having them. Crazily enough, I started following her on Twitter, and I decided that her tweets were just fun enough, just edgy enough to imagine that she, this 24-year-old island girl could be like a “play sister” or cousin. The one who does and says way too much, but that’s what you like about her. She bears watching, as my mama would say.

Finally succumbing to the pop culture pressure, I listened to Talk That Talk.  ”Where Have You Been” and “Watch and Learn” sealed the deal. That album is a winner and is in heavy rotation in every place I can possibly listen to music.  I played a Rihanna playlist on Spotify and realized that I know more of her songs by heart than I’d care to admit, and while her performances are hit or miss, her fashion sense and free spirit are lovable.

But that still doesn’t excuse this “Thug Life” phase she’s going through.

A few months back, she tweeted a picture of her knuckles with the letters of “Thug Life,” a term coined by Tupac Shakur that started a movement, tatted on each finger. Cue those crickets. I can’t think of anyone who is farther from living the Thug Life than Robyn Fenty, and though I don’t know what she does behind closed doors, I can bet that thuggin’ it on the corner isn’t one of them. But, hey, what do I know? Then, I let it go, but seeing the Good Girl Gone Bad in a candid with “Thug Life” written across her stomach (did she use a Sharpie?)  a la Tupac made me cringe. I don’ t think taking exotic trip abroad with lavish shopping sprees is what he had in mind, though his definition is debatable.

If Rihanna is living the “Thug Life,” hell, so am I. I’ve compiled a list of things I do or have done that prove it:

1. Park in the handicap spot to run in the dry cleaners. 

Okay, I know it’s illegal, but I’m only running in there for like, five minutes, tops. For those five minutes though, I’m living life on the edge.

2. Purposely not wish everyone happy birthday on  Facebook.

I’m really wrong for this. Birthdays are special, and people should be wished well on their day. The problem is when a million people have the same birthday. Geez, somebody’s gonna miss out. Sorry.

3. Order kids meals at fast food chains even though I don’t have kids. 

Everyone knows that children receive the proper meal portions for the right price. I will tear a 6-piece nugget meal from Chick-fil-A UP! I can’t tell you how many mini coloring books and cows I have stashed. I could keep a five-year-old entertained for days.

4. Listen to and rap ratchet, ignant rap music at extremely high levels in my car.

You really don’t wanna see when Jeezy’s “Superfreak” or “Cashing Out”  by whoever he is or even “No More Pain” by the great Tupac himself comes on. I’ve always done this though. It’s a part of me, atleast until I have children.

4. Don’t always tip the person who brings me my carry-out order.

I read somewhere that this is “ratchet” behavior. So be it. I’m picking my food up, so I’m doing all the work. Most times I do tip, but it’s usually not 18 percent. Nah, who mad?

5. Colored my hair with African Pride’s at-home dye system

This here is what adventure and thug dreams are made of. Only I would buy a home-coloring box set and take it to a stylist for professional use only. My 18-year-old self needed to be slapped. I died to have my hair died, and what better time to do than when I was in college five hours away from home? When my mama visited New Orleans for Thanksgiving, I had hot pink streaked hair. She and I both died. Eventually, it toned down, but for a good month, I looked like Nick Minaj by the head. Smh

6. Unapologetically ate a funnel cake outside when it was windy.

There’s no way to remain cute or look like you have any sense of decorum while doing this. Just know that I looked like I’d gotten into a fight with a bag of powdered sugar by the second bite.

7. Watch Unsung: Minnie Riperton without crying a river. 

You wanna see real tattooed tears flow? Watch that episode of Unsung. I dare you! You cannot do it, but I managed to only let two lonely tears fall when I watched it last night. I didn’t even need Kleenex. Now, THAT is “thug life.”

My Birthday Manifesto

Well, people, it’s here. Today is my 30th birthday. How’d it get here so fast? I remember my 18th birthday like it was this morning, rather than yesterday. Yesterday, my family and friends threw me an awesome party. I am beyond blessed to have people in my life who genuinely care about me and show it. I stayed up until 12 a.m. and at 12:04, it hit me that I am officially out of my 20s, and I wanted to cry. For like, three seconds. Then I was over it. Instead of looking back on the past and comparing myself to others and their accomplishments by this age, I’ll embrace what’s to come because I know without a doubt that I am favored by God. Things will only get better with time.

Meanwhile, since I’d already reposted “30 Things Every Woman Should Have Before She Turns 30,” I figured I’d do a manifesto after I received a funny email about how to write one. A manifesto is defined as a “written statement declaring publicly the intentions, motives, or views of its issuer.” I immediately thought about Clutch Magazine’s manifesto. I always thought it was cute, so why not do one of my own?

My Manifesto

I will live my life and make decisions with purpose and intention. (Except for when I want to catch a good sale.)

I will do what makes me happy, even if it doesn’t pay off right away now. I know it will.

While I know my small circle of friends is more than sufficient, there’s nothing wrong with being “sociable” outside of that circle.

I will work harder to reciprocate the love and care shown to me for my family and friends.

Time is nothing to play with. Use it strategically and to your best advantage.

Community is important. I should invest in it.

I know that “the club” is not the be all, end all. There are so many other things to do, I don’t care what R. Kelly says. (I’ve known this for a while though.)

Reading is what’s up. And of course, writing is, too.

I will take better care of myself physically. I’ve made it to 30 without having to take hypertension meds. That’s a miracle.

God loves me, so I will let my light shine, so others can see He loves them, too. (Yes, I went old school.)

Now that that’s out of the way, let me get my birthday dance on.

While I’m Waiting…

I’m sitting here waiting for a publicist to call for an interview. A 4:30 p.m. call has turned into a 5:45 p.m. and still waiting call. Those are the breaks though. Anyway, it’s been crazy busy for me lately. Actually, it’s just been crazy–period. I’m snowed in and a little antsy because I’m impatient over this interview, plus I have other stories to write. Of course, I’d rather procrastinate and blog, instead of washing my hair until my call comes around. So here are a few things that have gone on in the past month.

I volunteered at St. Jude. During lunch, I participated reading program for working professionals. Instead of reading to a group of kids, you visit each waiting room and offer kids books from the book cart to read. If they’d like, you can read to them individually. I read to two kids: a Latino boy, about six-years-old. His parents, who could barely speak English, thanked me for reading to him. That was the only time he and his younger sister were able to calm down. I also read a mini cardboard book to a 20-month-old who entertained herself by tapping her little tush repeatedly. She saw my cell phone and wanted to play with it. I enjoyed myself. I’ll definitely do again later this month.

I visited a mosque for the first time. Correction: It was actually a study group, which is a “mosque in training,”  as I’m told in the Nation of Islam. I was invited to hear the son of Elijah Muhammad, Yasin Muhammad speak about a campaign to target poverty and lynching in Mississippi. If you didn’t know, a young African-American man was hanged in Greenville, Miss. It was reported as a suicide, but locals say otherwise. Read it here.

It was an interesting experience. I’m not Muslim, and I’m a tad ashamed that what I expected wasn’t all at what it really was. It’s good to explore other religions and beliefs. It doesn’t make you less committed to yours, especially if your belief is as strong as it should be.

So my surgery isn’t anywhere in the near future like I hoped it would be. After a couple of “woosahs,” I was okay with it. That means now that I can enjoy all of the activities ahead for February. I might as well enjoy life before I’m on lockdown for six weeks. Yeah.

Last night, my mama told me she knows I’m not cut out for a 9-5 job. Oh God, what a relief! I’d been feeling that way for a while, but never really admitted to myself. My philosophy is I haven’t come to terms with whatever until I say it aloud or write it down somewhere. I just knew if I told her that she’d tell me I was crazy. I mean, I do have bills to pay. BIG bills. So, how can I do this? All I know to do is keep doing what I have to do until I can do what I want to do, and pray, of course.

Speaking of writing this down and coming to terms, after about four months, I finally wrote about my granny’s passing in my journal. I wrote about it here, but not in my journal where only I can see. I hadn’t written since the week she entered the hospital. There were so many things I could have written in there about other random stuff, but I knew I’d have to write that she died first. Does that mean I hadn’t accepted it all along? I don’t think so, but it was really hard to deal with.

I refused to open the drawer where I keep her obituaries. The week following the funeral, I put her obituary picture (a young picture) and a recent one that I loved on a disc to print out. I even bought special frames to put them in. They were going to sit atop my bookshelf in my living so I could always see her smiling, and anyone who visited me would see her. Every week I promised myself I would walk to the Walgreen’s directly across from my job to print those pictures, but I found every excuse in the book not to. The disc is still in my bag. The picture frames are laying on the bookcase. I still haven’t done it.

It took talking to a friend to realize I was avoiding her death, as if I don’t think about it everyday already. After our conversation, I went to my room and wrote in my journal. I cried from the first sentence to the last, BUT I felt so much better. I FEEL so much better. God continues to keep His promise by sending her to me in my dreams–often. So I’m alright. In a way, I have channeled her. As often as I’m allowed, I sit down and watch Dr. Phil while eating candy uncontrollably. In a little while, those pictures will be up for sure.

Whew, I didn’t even mean to go, but there it is. Anyway, maybe my interview will call in soon. Smooches!

2010 Rewind…My Life in Blog Posts

The year 2011 is upon us, and I can’t say I thought this year would have turned out the way it did at all. To quote the Mr. Clarence from Coming to America, it was “good and terrible.” My faith makes me know that my good always outweighs my bad, so let’s take a look.

1. My first yoga experience: Yeah, it’s not me. I’ve got to find something else. Maybe Zumba.

2. My first story for Honey was published. I interviewed my former Dream Man, Brian White.

3. Thanks to a freelance gig, I was turned on to a wonderful Memphian writer, Dolen Perkins-Valdez, author of Wench. Read it!

4. I was-named project creator for a project that never happened. Oh well. It was a flop, but I connected with some great bloggers and writers. What’s up, D In the D Life!

 

5. I celebrated my 29th birthday on the West Coast. Viva Las Vegas!  Shout out to my Asian fam at Club Tao.

6. I took another position at my job. It’s um, different, but I’m learning new things and re-learning some old things, too.

7. I’m a brace face AGAIN. I up and decided to get braces, including having them extract four teeth in the process. I love them just as much as I did when I was 14. 

         

8. I interviewed my Mentor in My Head, Aliya S. King  and saw Janet Jackson in one weekend at Essence Music Festival.  

       

9. My first time on a beach. I know, I know. Why did it take 29 years to get to one? For years, all I wanted to do was feel sand between my toes. During our getaway to the DMV, instead of taking a train to NYC, my friends surprised me. What a feeling!

10. My granny went on in September. I love and miss her so. I still cry and still get sad, but I know she’s where she’s supposed to be. This was definitely the lowest point of my life, but I’m getting stronger.

11. I received a story assignment from the Final Call newspaper, and it turned out to be a cover story. Talk about surprises! You just never know what’s coming down the pike for you. This story opened my eyes to a lot of things: Poverty, peonage and protocol. I’m grateful for the experience.

12. As of December 18, 2010, I have been relaxer-free for a year. I still haven’t gotten the full swing of things, but read about my rants here and here. I got a post on CurlyNikki.com out of it!

13. I tried ice skating for first time in over 15 years. I was a little rusty, but it was fun overall. No falls or slip-ups!

14. #ImaddictedtoTwitter It brings me so much joy and pain at the same time. It’s like a boyfriend you wish you had the guts to break up with. From Chris Brown/RazB beef to connecting with great writers to finding great sources for my stories, Twitter supplies it all. What will the next major social network be? I’m not signing up.

Thankful

I’m sitting up in my bed watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, preparing to work on a story. It’s cold and gloomy outside, but warm and toasty in my house. I’m going to my mama’s house later on, so she can teach me how to make her dressing (again), and tomorrow, I’ll be traveling to New Orleans to enjoy yet another Bayou Classic with family and friends.

I am thankful.

I would be lying if I said I don’t complain about things every now and then. I’m not where I thought I would be, nor am I doing what I thought I’d be doing at this point in my ife. The crazy thing is, I don’t know if I ever really had a specific plan for my future,  but I did have an idea. But what are ideas without implementation and follow through? Yeah.

However, when I really take time to think about it, I can’t help but be thankful.  For years, I sat in church watching people hoop and holler, shout and nod their heads about thankfulness to God for little things. As I’ve gotten older, I get it. I can sleep peacefully in a warm bed in my own home. I have sufficient income to take care of my needs and wants. My job is not fulfilling, but doors in other areas keep opening.  Though few in number, I have an awesome family and great friends.  

So, though my granny isn’t here with me physically, I thank God because He sends her to me in my dreams. Three years ago to date, I was in the hospital with my Daddy after suffering a heart attack and stroke. Today’s he’s alright. I am blessed, and I don’t take that for granted. Sure, I could wish to saunter up and down the brightly-lit streets of New York City, be a well-known writer or travel across the globe, but the things that really matter, I already have, I already do. I must be thankful for what I have before I can be taken to the next level.

Today, I will bask in the blessings God has bestowed. He’s greater than great.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Lessons Homecoming Should Teach You

Unless you’ve been under a rock (and just don’t care for urban media) you read about the backlash Vibe Magazine is getting regarding a story published about former cross-dressing Morehouse students. I won’t go into details, but regardless of the story’s content or point, students took it personally, defending their dear Morehouse to the death. Amongst the pandemonium, I read a tweet in my timeline that said HBCU elitism is hysterical.

You know what I say to that? Damn right! Why shouldn’t it be?

Nothing gets us more excited than rattling off famous alumni, bragging on our historical value or how great our marching band is, except that which emcompasses it all— HOMECOMING.  

That’s right. It’s HBCU Homecoming season, one of the most wonderful times of the year! I attended mine this weekend, and I’m still recuperating. In 11 years, I’ve only missed one, and I still regret it. Around July, even May, the buzz question is likely to be: “You goin’ to Homecoming?” The week prior to the festivities, I listened to the male BFF talk about the foolery and debauchery sure to ensue for the weekend. Things that only college-age folks should do, he and his boys were planning to do 10x. When I questioned his sense of decorum, he simply replied like he always does: “What do you mean?? It’s HOMECOMING!!

 This is the standard answer/excuse to do things you have no business doing for the weekend. Maybe that’s the appeal of it all. Every year thousands of alumni, some even with baby strollers and diaper bags in tow arrive on campus ready for tailgating, football games and partying (My linesister and her husband attended with all four of their children–eight-month old included).

One might ask why must we travel from near and far every year. Is it that serious??

YES.

Is it really possible to compact the culmination of feelings, good times and experiences of four years into two to three days?

YES, even if you almost kill yourself in the process. After you take the following week to re-up, you know it was worth it. (I’m speaking from experience here.) As I get older, I see that Homecoming should be more than a weekend, but a time to reflect and learn, even while recovering from a hangover. I present lessons Homecoming should teach you:

1. Fine ain’t always forever.

How disappointing it is to see the “finest guy/girl on the yard” at Homecoming resembling Mr. Potato Head. Time can either make or break all of us. Yes, marriage and babies can change us, but atleast be recognizable. If seeing folks who have “fallen off” doesn’t sadden you, it should atleast inspire you to tighten yourself up.

2. Graduation does not equal maturity.

Unfortunately, when we walk across the stage and become an “adult,” we don’t automatically change mentally or emotionally. Having a high-paying job, big house, spouse and even children doesn’t make some any less of the assholes they were in college. All you can do is give them time… or not give a damn. It is what it is.

3. Thankfully, things and people can really change–you included.

Remember that guy/girl you used to be head over heels in love with?  That chick who hated you for no apparent reason? That non-ceasing awkward feeling you had always when around that certain someone? All of that can fade and things can be back to normal. What a relief.

4. But some things remain the same.

Aside from minor changes, you can actually have the same or somewhat similar fun you had in college. For many, this is the one time of the year when they can swap the suit and tie or power suit for jeans, fitted dresses and glam to down endless drinks (or Omega Oil, Alpha Punch or Nupe Juice). Everyone seems to have the same agenda: go in. Have you ever smelled or felt a memory? That happened to me as my friends I danced uncontrollably in the middle of the floor at party. Just like old times.

5. You really didn’t know everyone.

Know matter how off the charts your popularity was, there’s always someone you missed that you wish you hadn’t. Maybe they sat next to you in Biology or worked with you at your off-campus job. Maybe they always saw you in the union. So when they approach you, it’s a surprise. Just because you didn’t see them, doesn’t mean they didn’t exist.

6.  I’m not sure it’s possible to have a good Homecoming if you didn’t make the best of the time you had when you were there.

Maybe I’m wrong, but why come “home” to a place you didn’t care for when you were there? Homecoming isn’t only about partying, but it’s about appreciation for your school, reflection on your experiences. Have you ever gone to Homecoming with someone who hated their college years? Me neither, but I can imagine it’s not fun. No, you can’t get the time back, but you can make the best of today.

7. Looking back, it really wasn’t that serious. Really.

Everyone has regrets. It’s not humanly possible not to. Possibly, there were some missed opportunities, slip-ups and rejections while in college. It happens. Then, you may have thought you weren’t going to live through it all. It’s funny how when you mature, work and acquire real responsibility and bills, those old wounds and hurts dim in comparison. Hopefully, you can find strength in them. So when you see that girl who “stole” your boyfriend or you think about the pageant you didn’t place in, do us all a favor–think about your life now and let it go.

No matter what school you attended–Happy Homecoming! And if you didn’t go to school, find one to attend. It hasn’t stopped anyone else.

Memories of Her

She was a pretty lady. Fair skin, black hair, a big smile and a switch no one could match. When she wasn’t press and curling my hair in her own beauty shop, she was doing work in the church. On any given Sunday (or night of the week), you could find her patrolling the Sunday School department upstairs in our church as superintendent, making sure classes were running smoothly–and checking to see if my friends and I were in sitting in our classes, instead of playing out in the hall. You could find her greeting visitors and members alike during “passing of the peace.” She loved people, and to her, no one was a stranger. They all loved her back.

She would make announcements about special things going on in the church. She was the only I knew that didn’t need, nor request a microphone to speak. Her posture, her voice, her confidence and her charisma made everyone listen to what she had to say. In a scrapbook made for her 80th birthday, I described it as the “It Factor.” She just had this thing about her, and I always hoped just a piece of “It” would trickle down to me.

She was very intentional. An authority figure to some. A mother to all. Though I  never heard her say it, she definitely lived by the motto, “To be early is to be on time. To be on time is to be late. And to be late is unacceptable.” If I had to speak at church, she would throw me a smile and slowly nod her head up and down until I finished. I wasn’t sure if it was a nod of encouragement or approval, but I wanted both. I was proud to be her granddaughter, and I wanted her proud in return. 

As a child, I didn’t stay with her for extended periods too often, but when I did, two things were for certain: (1) I would have to climb to get into her sky-high bed for my 8:30 bedtime and (2) She would be up at the crack of dawn. At 5 a.m., she already had breakfast ready. Uusally rice, egg and salmon or slightly burned bacon.

Once she retired from cosmetology,  she moved one shampoo bowl and one hair dryer to her living room. Still, a few faithful customers would patronize, but when they weren’t there, I always wondered what she would do alone in that house for days on end. She wrote a lot—all kinds of things. Plays, speeches, letters to her children and even her own obituary. I suppose that’s who I get this writing thing from. She kept a written record of everything–family history, her sisters and brothers’ birth dates,  telephone numbers, addresses, milestones, etc. She was the first one to tell me to keep an address book. When my cell phone shut down, I wished I’d listened to her.

When I moved back home, I would visit her often. As I lay on her sofa after work, she would tell me stories about sharecropping in “the country.” She, like so many others, was originally from Mississippi. It wasn’t until she met my grandfather, a quartet singer, while singing at a local concert, that she moved to Memphis. She would tell me about the Civil Rights Movement and even how her father, a biracial man, would pass for white when he went “up yonder to Chicago.” Then, when we thought she had Alzheimer’s Disease, I was always amazed at her longterm memory. My favorite story was about her first time using indoor plumbing toilet, instead of going into the outhouse. She’d seen times change so much.

A few years later, she went into a nursing home after a stroke. By the grace of God, she bounced back, maneuvering her wheelchair or walker. My mom would get her dolled up every Sunday for church and she would eat dinner with the family afterwards. She was always there for family gatherings just as she’d always been. That was a hard, but sweet time.

Visiting her almost daily wasn’t an obligation, but something I wanted to do. Eventually I learned that she only wanted two packages of the “pink stuff” (sweetner) in her iced tea, she wanted her dentures taken out, clothes laid out and a trip to the bathroom after dinner (in that order). She wanted her shoes directly in front of the night table and her television had to be on Channel 5 or TV One. We would even watch Martin, my favorite show, together. Above all, she needed a jacket with every outfit, because “this ol’ lady gets cold.” Though her independence had dwindled, she was still in control.

She began a love affair with Werther’s Original candies. So much so, that all of her children would keep bags of them on hand, just in case her stash was low. There were many other things she did and said that made her so very special. Her wit, her attitude, her strong will made her the woman she was.

On September 19, 2010, as I was holding her hand, Viva Adell Farr Wooten took her last breath. Only a week later, I’m wondering why I was there to feel her burning hot hands, see her eyes close for the final time. It’s something I’ll likely never forget, but I know I saw her spirit ascend into Heaven to be with God. That’s what gives me peace.

The funeral is over. Family and friends have gone, and I’m still crying. I would give anything to hear her refer to me as, “My chile,” call any of her sons, biological or not, “Boy” or any woman, child or adult, “Lil girl”. I would comb her hair one last time because she believed in looking her best or see her eyes to light up when I pulled a few pieces of candy out for her. I would sit with her in silence when it just wasn’t anything else to talk about.

I can’t do any of those things anymore, but I will hear that pretty lady in my heart for always. I loved her, and she loved me even more, just like she did all of her children, so there are no regrets. So as I try to figure out how to move on, yet keep her memory alive, I continue to be thankful to God for giving her to me–to us, the people she touched in so many different ways.

She is missed. She will be loved forever. She is “simply beautiful.”

My Childhood Was Better Than Yours

This weekend, I went to my nephew’s 7th birthday party. He’s become quite intersted in bowling, even though the bowling ball is bigger than his entire body. Obviously the party was at a bowling alley. What seemed like a million little people zoomed around the lanes, jumping for joy when the bumpers that were up (for kids only, I discovered. I’m too old to bowl with bumpers. Damn) pushed the ball into a few pins. They screamed and ate Transformers birthday cake and pizza.

I started to think about my own birthday parties as a child. I didn’t have a big blowout every year, but the ones I had were memorable. I think one–maybe my 6th–was at Pizza Hut. Today that would be a lame location, but then, in the 80s? It was heaven. Nothing like pizza, the ultimate kid food and endless friends running around. I eventually had one at Showbiz, now known to kids as Chuck E. Cheese. It was the best, even though I was terrified of the Gorilla that played the piano. That was real fun.

What do kids have now–period. Nothing but computers, cell phones and a few visits to Incredible Pizza. Confession: I went to Incredible Pizza for the first time this month and had as much fun as the children. Shame.

Reading Danyel Smith’s Tumblr, The Smithian, I came across a quote taken from a recent story in The Independent, “The internet comes of age: Meet the tweeny bloggers’.” According to the story, “Children as young as three are firing up their laptops and connecting,” says Susie Mesure.

There’s nothing–absolutely nothing wrong with developing bright minds early on. The world and everything in it is driven by technology, but is it really good organic fun? I’ll tell you what I enjoyed in my childhood and why it’s better than what these kids have now.

We had better cartoons. Better yet, we had Saturday morning cartoons. I remember being as young as six or seven, getting up early at 7:30 a.m., fixing a bowl of cereal and wrapping up in covers on the couch to watch cartoons for two straight hours—until wrestling came on at 10 a.m. From Gummi Bears to Kid N’ Play and Alvin and the Chipmunks, we had the best. I can’t forget about He-Man, Transformers, She-Ra, Ducktales, ThunderCats and anything from Warner Brothers and Disney. 

We had better toys. What do kids play with these days besides PS3′s and iPhones? I know I’m not the only one who remembers the Sears Wishbook distributed for the holiday season. I wanted everything in that book (except boys’ toys). The EZ Bake Oven? Barbie California Dunebuggy? Legos?

We had better music. Let it be known that 80s/early 90s  music crushes music today. Sure, we have beats and sounds we never could have imagined then thanks to Timbaland, Swizzy and Kanye, but there’s so special about the generic sound of Bobby Brown’s “Every Little Step” (shout out to Babyface) or “If Your Heart Isn’t In It” by Atlantic Starr. It beats the hell out of listening to Wacka Flocka scream his name out over and over again. And if you need any more proof that 80s music was better, grab a Purple Rain soundtrack. Cased closed.

Our electronics sucked, so we had to interact with each other. Even I, an only child, had my fair share of “playing outside,”  running through the sprinklers and playing “Red Light/Green Light” in the middle of the street. I didn’t have  cell phone that can do anything imaginable to entertain me for hours on end like kids today. It pains me to see a group of children sitting together, but glued to their phones.  The closest thing we had then was the Atari and Nintendo. True, the Nintendo went hard–really hard–but after a while, even it got old. I couldn’t imagine sitting in front of a computer web-surfing. Do you remember the first Apple computer? The print-outs had perforated edges. No color. Straight analog.

We had real television shows. As opposed to “reality shows.” Kids today don’t know the fun of singing your favorite television sitcom’s opening song. If you didn’t know the words to “Married with Children,” “Cheers,” or “A Different World,” something was wrong. Then we had family oriented shows that allowed everyone to watch television together without covering eyes or ears. Thursday and Friday night television lineups were major events in my house. Umm, what comes on now? Don’t worry, I’ll wait….

Our fashion was better. Really, I didn’t have much of a choice of what I wore as I child, but thank God my mama knew what was “in” then. I say our fashion was better because it’s being repeated right now, but we rocked it first. I’ve already seen kids with high-top fades and Gumby cuts, so I’m waiting to see a Coca-Cola shirt any day now. I’ll never forget the day I got a pair of British Knights and L.A. Gear “Brats.” They came with five different sets of colored shoestrings. Yeah, it took me like, an hour, to tie my shoes, but it was worth it. We could have fun with our clothes and wear anything without the pressure of “fashion bloggers” and critics.

 Now, tell me. Do you really think you can top that? What do you think was the best growing up?

Remembering Michael

June 25, 2009

I was just about to begin my third class in a workshop series at a construction company. About 2o young white guys in dirty khaki pants and construction boots ran around, joking, shouting expletives to each other in true “dude fun.” A guy who was clearly as obsessed with his Smartphone as I was, sat content and quiet as a mouse peering into the small screen. He shouted out, “Dude, Michael Jackson’s in the hospital! It looks bad.”

“No shit? Michael Jackson?” someone asked.

Wait. Michael who? The Michael Jackson?

I quickly dismissed it, but to be sure, I logged on to CNN.com on my Blackberry. Under Breaking News, it read “Pop Star Hospitalized from Cardiac Arrest.” I started to get queasy, but I had a class to teach. Surely, within an hour, there would be good news. He was just sick a few months ago. He’ll recover.

The class ended. I immediately checked CNN again, ignoring the my missed calls. Michael Jackson was dead. I didn’t believe it. I packed up, and headed out to the car. My mama called because she knows me best.

“You know?”

“….Yeah.”

“Are you crying?”

“No, not yet.”

I turned the key in the ignition and heard the DJ confirm his death. After a while, his voice faded behind “Billie Jean.” It was real. The tears started to fall before I could put my car in reverse..

He was a regular human like any of us, not some invincible superhero or supernatural god. But he was Michael–special. He wasn’t supposed to die now. To me, he would be someone who would be there as he’d always been, even if it wasn’t always in the illuminous spotlight. He wasn’t supposed to die until he like, near 80. It was too soon.

Here’s my letter to him. Perhaps whatever took him to his death was stronger than the love he was drowned in by his family and fans.

Michael,

Today, there will be images of you flashing across television screens. People will flip through newspaper and magazine pages with your pictures plastered in them. Countless mouses will click to blog sites and social media sites filled with tributes to you, much like this one. Fans will press play to listen to your music. Some will opt for Jackson 5 songs, while others will listen to Thriller or Off the Wall. Today, your star will shine just as brightly as it always did.

I only hope that you see the overwhelming love that was sometimes invisible to you. The love that maybe you didn’t always have for yourself because you were so busy sharing your gift with us. We can be unappreciative sometimes.

If you didn’t know or weren’t always sure, I’ll tell you. You were beautiful. A beautiful black man. Out of the hundreds of pictures posted after your death, I gravitate towards your appearance in the 70s and 80s. Caramel skin with a awesomely shaped afro and a wide grin to match its width. You were a ladies man. Lest I not forget about the infamous Jheri Curl you rocked with such style. I still remember staring at the cover of the Thriller single for what seemed like hours as a little girl. You made that yellow sweater look so good.

When the beat hit, you seemed to transform from a subtle, wiry thing to an energetic and experienced machine. From a cocoon to a colorful butterfly. Your smile and movement lit up the stage, and you claimed it as your home. You were magical. How I longed to be like that…consumed by music so much so that I could never keep still.

Your voice was so light and smooth, any song could be considered  a lullaby. That’s what “Lady in My Life” is to me. That’s what “I Can’t Help It” is to me. You exuded feeling so innate and natural that even as a young boy, people believed what you were saying. That’s what “Who’s Loving You” and “Wanna Be Where You Are” were. A style so funky, one could not listen and move something on their bodies in response to you. That’s what “Baby Be Mine” and “Smooth Criminal” did for me.

Always wanting to perfect your craft though, you were a study, but you never stopped being a student. What you had was God-given and could never be taken away, even until your last hours.

You were a star.

A child of the 80s, you were a permanent fixture in my childhood. Everyone wanted a piece of you for their own. The Thriller jacket? I had the pink one. Moonwalker? I watched it until the tape broke. Captain Eon at the Disney Epcot Center? I went (though I was deathly afraid). Your world premiere videos on network television? It was a major event to see what you were going to do. Thank you for the “Remember the Time” video. Egyptians were people of color with skin bronzed in the sun. If there was any question as to whether you were “Black or White”, that video answered it.

So as I say goodbye to you again, know that you were loved by countless generations. The world’s love for you is as universal as your music. My mother grew up to your music, and my unborn children will dance and sing along with me to “Wanna Be Starting Something” as I do my Saturday morning cleaning. I’ll try my best to do that gravity-defying “Smooth Criminal” lean for them, and they will laugh because it’ll never come close to you.

Your message of love, peace and hope is not forgotten, and neither are you.

Rest in sweet peace, Michael Joseph Jackson. You are irreplaceable.

Love,

Alisha

Five Clues I’m Getting Old(er)

A few days ago, the besties and I were on one of our sporadic conference call talking about old times. Old times as in college days, which were like, 11 years ago. My, how time flies. One of the kids at my church tells another, “Miss Alisha’s old. She graduated in the 90s.” **Officially dead and gone**.

She said 90s like it was a lifetime ago. It wasn’t. In fact, it feels like yesterday. I’m not even 30 yet, but I can’t deny that I’m maturing. I do and say things that I would never have dreamed even five years ago. Here are a few points of proof I’m getting on up there:

1. I’m attending more summer events that require lawn chairs.

Yeah. Crawfish festivals, picnics, (Insert Name) at the Park–whatever. I’m all about it. Years before, nothing said “old as hell” more than a bunch of grown folks sitting around in lawn chairs drinking beers with face towels to wipe off sitting in their laps. Now? I say, “Bring it on!”

2. I hate this new writing/text code stuff the kids are using on social media sites.

Can somebody tell me what this means?

abula haven is a meszx she qot me trippinq ova hur b4a ii hit dha sheets.. ! tawkn 2 dha lil kuzzo/ lil 1 [tranecee]. ! i was txtn mi bestiee [ ashleyy] dnt knw wht happen doe.. qudd nytee fb.. bbl;

It’s one thing to use text message characters.  (IDK  for “I don’t know” or BRB  for “Be right back”). I get those. The purpose to is to shorten the words. Why are kids adding letters? Are they doing this to confuse adults? If so, they won. I can’t break my brain trying to decipher foolishness. I just want to beat them over their heads with a book. Read! Act like you know how to read and write. Contrary to what you think, it matters in the real world.

**Woo-sah**

3. I’d much rather do a small gathering with friends or dinner than a crowded, smokey club.

Flashback to New Year’s Eve 2008: I was in Atlanta with the BFF. We paid a grip, bought cutesy dresses and heels and stood out in the cold to get into what was supposedly the A’s hottest party. It was great indeed. The drinks mixed with the music, great friends and party favors made the night a success, but I still felt like something was missing. Afterwards, we went to a small house party where I was able to take off my shoes, eat party food and dance to 90s music from a friend’s iPod. Good times unrestricted. THAT made the night all worth it.

4. If and when I do go to the club, my maximum time in is an hour and 15 minutes—absolutely no longer than two hours.

There was a time when I would open the club and shut it down. I’d even stay for the “let out.” If a party was that on, I and other party-goers wouldn’t want the night to end. Can’t we stay just another hour? Now? Kill yoself. I can only do an hour and some change. It’s not worth it to stay any longer, especially if there’s “high-impact dancing” going on. (Which there shouldn’t be–atleast not regularly.) Besides, it’s only so long I can listen to Soulja Boy ‘nem singing off-key in my ear anyway.

5. What used to be “old” to me is now “young.”

Let me explain. When I was a youngin’, I remember seeing people come back for homecoming (or randomly walking around campus). They just seemed grown. Maybe the sleeve on their lineshirts read “Spring 97,” or they’d already graduated by the time I entered school as a freshman. Then, they were simply “old as hell.” Point blank. 25? 28? They might as well have had one foot in the nursing home. Conversely, I remember being so proud to scream out when the party hype man said, “If you 25+ and got money in your pockets, get yo’ mutha….!”(you know the rest)  Now, just a few years later at 29, I realize how young  I really was. Le sigh.