CNN: TV too diverse? Why it's only a start

 

Deadline's TV editor Nellie Andreeva created a stir with her latest column, originally titled "Pilots 2015: The Year of Ethnic Castings -- About Time or Too Much of Good Thing," and now headlined simply "Pilots 2015: The Year Of Ethnic Castings."

In the piece she suggests that television may have gotten too diverse and that blacks may now be overrepresented on cable and broadcast television programs.

Andreeva says some wonder, in this "sea of change" if "the pendulum might have swung a bit too far in the opposite direction." This is like wondering if there are too many kids with high SAT scores at college, too many women in the workforce or too many gays getting married.

My grandpa was born in 1922 and was nearly 30 by the time the first black TV show, "Amos 'n' Andy," debuted in 1951. He didn't have a television set at the time, just a radio.

My mom says he bought a black-and-white TV for the family in the early '60s. His favorite TV shows were the news and anything with "colored people" on it. He'd sit in his favorite chair, flipping through maybe six channels, stopping excitedly on whatever channel showed the rare black face.

From "The Flip Wilson Show," "Good Times," "The Jeffersons" and "Sanford and Son" in the '70s, to "The Cosby Show," "A Different World" and "Amen" in the '80s, he was enthralled. In the '90s, a heyday of black folk on TV, he just went overboard, because he could. Grandpa's downtime was packed with "The Steve Harvey Show," "Hangin' With Mr. Cooper" and "Living Single." He couldn't get enough of black faces.

Today I watch, and occasionally hate-watch -- the act of watching a show where the lead characters drive you nuts -- "Scandal," "Empire," "How to Get Away With Murder" and "Being Mary Jane" nearly every week.

Like my grandfather I can't get enough, not only of black faces but my options of them. There are finally enough black people on TV that I can skip a couple of predominately black shows and not feel bad about not "supporting."

I no longer feel obligated to watch the bad black show just because it's got black people. (Yes, many black people think this way.) This freedom is what I imagine white people feel like except they can always, at any time of day, any day of the week, any month of the year and in any year since the dawn of television -- including today -- turn on the television and see their faces and culture reflected. I still have designated nights.

But this is progress, however, small it might be. Diversity on TV is worth celebrating, even if Andreeva, feels "ethnic" people have overrun television like Atlanta zombies in "The Walking Dead." This year is one of the first since the '90s, where black folk can flip around from channel to channel on an occasional night and see a variety of themselves.

From ghetto fabulous (Taraji Henson as Cookie Lyon and Terrence Howard as Lucious Lyon) to beyond bourgeoisie (Gabrielle Union as Mary Jane) to conniving and complicated (Viola Davis as Annalise Keating) to so damn confusing (Kerry Washington as Olivia Pope), black thespians, black actresses, especially, have been making big waves in prime time despite their minuscule numbers. Yes, minuscule. Two to three predominately black shows per network -- and I'm being very generous -- per week isn't domination; it's an introduction to the possibilities. And while I'm loving this start, it seems Andreeva isn't.

Another concern of hers is that "there has been a significant number of parts designated as ethnic this year, making them off-limits for Caucasian actors." Oh, the horror! White actors whose faces have been overrepresented on television since its origins are losing (some of) their exclusivity and privilege and must (finally) make (just a little) room for people with more melanin.

I'm curious as to exactly what will happen because there are people of color taking up an exaggerated "half" the roles for new shows. Will white actors starve in the streets of Hollywood? Will white viewers stop watching TV because you know, relating to a character or family "of color" must somehow be impossible for them? Will white people stop winning nearly all the acting awards? The end is nigh.

Read the full story on CNN.com 

Ask Demetria: "My Bestie Slept With My FWB!"

Dear Demetria:

"My best friend of seven years slept with my “friend with benefits.” Yes, I have no claim to the man, but I let them both know prior to this incident—after they made out in front of me while drunk—that it made me uncomfortable. They both agreed to respect how I felt.

"Fast-forward two weeks: We all go out and have a couple drinks. Everyone crashes at my place. We wake up the next morning and she tells me they had sex in my house, on my couch, while I, other friends and my younger brother were sleeping not 50 feet away. I'm disgusted with both of them. How do I go about dealing with them? I feel like they both, mostly her, completely took advantage of my trust."

—Anonymous

Um ... what?

There is so much—so, so much—going on here that I don’t understand. It really seems as if you’re leaving out some critical details about lifestyle choices or sexuality that would make this story more cohesive.

Beating around the bush isn’t my strong suit, so let me just ask: Did you and your bestie of seven years ever have a threesome with your “friend with benefits,” or perhaps with other men prior to him? That is the only way this story even sort of makes sense.

If you and your friend are used to having threesomes or sharing guys in some fashion—just FYI, you wouldn’t be the first person to write in about it—then there would be a somewhat logical explanation for why she would make out with a guy you’re dating—or just having sex with—right in front of you. Her thought process would be something like, “We always share! So this is perfectly fine!”

Maybe she was warming him up for you and didn’t think she was out of line. That still wouldn’t explain why she had sex with him when you were sleeping just a few feet away and after you asked them not to, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

This, or something along these lines, has to be what’s at play. Because anybody else would have gone full HAM if she found her best friend and a guy she was having sex with making out. The general rule is that a best friend shouldn’t be kissing (or flirting with)—much less sleeping with—a man you’re dating unless she has permission. (Hey, some people get down like that.) It doesn’t matter if you don’t have a committed relationship with the guy and you’re both single.

I mean, it’s bold to go after your best friend’s sex buddy, period. But it’s huevos almighty to do it right up in front of your face, like, “Oh, I see you sitting there and I will pretend I don’t.”

Then you see this profound disrespect and you just say, “Hey, guys, don’t do that anymore”? I’m not saying you should have flipped tables. I am saying that no one would blame you if you did. I’m also saying that at the very moment you saw them making out, you should have ended your friendship and your sexual relationship, on the spot. That’s what most people would have done.

You chose not to, for whatever reason 99 percent of people will not understand. And 100 percent of people will never understand why you maintained both relationships and chose to go out drinking with them and then invited them home with you and didn’t sit up all night watching them. I’m extremely baffled by a lot in this story, but this part baffles me the most.

Read the full post on TheRoot.com 

Ask Demetria: "My BF Doesn't Want to Spend His Birthday With Me!"

Dear Demetria:

"I’ve been with my boyfriend for almost a year. It’s our first time spending our birthdays with each other. I was planning something for his birthday, but he told me he might go out of town with his friends. I told him it was fine because it’s his birthday and he can spend it how he wants.

"But I feel a way about it because he’s made several trips with friends since we’ve been together, and we haven’t had the chance to take one trip together because of conflicting work and school schedules. I feel he should spend his birthday with me. I also feel that if his plans with his friends don’t go through, I’m just his fallback plan.

"He says he really wants to spend it with me but wants to travel internationally while he has time off from school. He suggested we could celebrate our birthdays together when mine happens two weeks later. Am I making a big deal out of nothing? Should I just let it go?"

—Anonymous

I understand your frustration with your boyfriend’s choices, but you have to take some accountability for your own frustration. You made plans for your boyfriend’s birthday without checking with him first.

In fairness to you, most couples do tend to spend their birthdays—and major holidays—together. But instead of assuming that was the case with your boyfriend, you should have told him you wanted to spend the day together before you started making plans. That’s on you.

What’s also on you is that when he told you he made plans with friends, you were disappointed and didn’t say so. You had put some effort into celebrating the day and spending it with him. When he told you he was thinking of spending the day with his friends, instead of pretending that it was OK, you should have said, “Hey, I was hoping to spend the day with you. I’ve been making plans.”

Not speaking up is on you. Because you didn’t say anything, your boyfriend is walking around thinking everything is A-OK. It would be awesome if your boyfriend were a mind reader or more considerate, but he isn’t. So you have to tell him when you’re unhappy if you actually want him to address your unhappiness.

There’s another issue at play. You have made it a priority to spend your time with someone who isn’t doing the same for you. Putting you on the back burner while he spends time with his friends seems to be a regular occurrence. It says a lot about how he feels about you.

I’ll give you a nugget of wisdom that was told to me and has served me well: People make time and space for what’s important to them. Given what you’ve said about your boyfriend in your query, I’m not sure how important you are to him.

I’ll give you another nugget: Don’t make a priority of someone who only makes you an option. You feel like a fallback plan on his birthday because you are.

I’ve had birthdays that I wanted to spend alone or wanted to travel. I also recognized that I was in a relationship and that I would alienate my partner and likely hurt his feelings. One year I spent the entire day alone at the beach, and after the sun went down we had dinner. Another year I had dinner with him and left for vacation the day after my birthday. These are the “sacrifices” committed people make for each other.

Read more on The Root.com 

Raven -Symone: "Some People Just Look Like Animals" (Sigh)

I knew someone Black was going to come to the defense of former Univision host Rodner Figueroa who was recently fired after he compared First Lady Michelle Obama to Planet of the Apes. I guessed Don Lemon, maybe Stacey Dash.  They’ve both made a brand out of going right when all the other black people go left. It gets them more attention. But you know who else is starting to do that too? Raven-Symoné.

Yesterday, she visited The View as a guest host. And when the topic of Figueroa’s comments about FLOTUS came up, Raven-Symoné, wondered if he was actually being racist in comparing the First Lady to an ape, an allusion with historically racist implications.

“But was he saying it ‘racist-like?’” Raven-Symoné interjected, as if there is anyway to compare a black woman to an ape that’s not racist. “Because [Figueroa] did say he voted for [Obama] later and I don’t think he was saying it racist.”

Huh? Is this like the Oklahoma SAE frat guy who sang about lynching black folk to the tune of “If You’re Happy and You Know It”, and when he was called racist, he posted a picture of a black girl he took to the frat’s dance one year? Because, you know, a date with a black woman at any point in history automatically cancels out any possibility of ever being racist, even when doing something blatantly racist, right? Is Figueroa that kind of not racist?

Things got more confusing as Raven-Symoné kept on. “Not Michelle…but some people look like animals,” she added. “I look like a bird, so can I be mad if somebody calls me Toucan Sam?”

Um… last I checked there were no historically racist implications about African-Americans and the bird on the Fruit Loops box. And while Raven-Symoné may be under the impression that she looks like a beloved feathered friend— I disagree, but she’s entitled to think what she wants about her appearance— Michelle Obama doesn’t look anything like anything like a damn ape. So what does Symoné thinking she looks like a bird have to do with anything at all?

From most black folk, this would be a brain fart, like the time Sherri Shepherd couldn’t make a solid call on whether the world was flat, or round. But Symoné—not to confused with cute “Olivia”, who she played on TV over two decades ago—is starting to show a pattern of ignorance when it comes to race (and sexuality). And she’s starting to seem deeper in the Instagram memes of “Olivia” than she does in actual grown-up interviews.

In October, she had a sit down with Oprah where she just sounded utterly confused. “I don’t want to be labeled gay….I’m a human who loves other humans. …I’m American not African-American.  I don’t know what country I’m from in Africa, but I do know I have roots in Louisiana. I’m an American, and that’s a colorless person.”

To who? Don Imus? Paula Deen? The Ferguson PD? The NYPD? George Zimmerman? Or…

Read more on The Grio  [dot_recommends post_type='add']

Ask Demetria: "My Man Doesn't Like My Natural Hair"

Dear Demetria:

I did a big chop yesterday. I sent a picture to my live-in fiance, who is the father to my 2-year-old daughter. He responded that I looked crazy and that he doesn’t like short hair. When I got home, he asked me if I was going for the lesbian look. I asked him if I needed to ask him for permission to cut my hair. Now what? —Anonymous

Oh, dear.

Hopefully this can be fixed. And by “this” I mean the discord in your relationship, not your hair. For clarity, there’s nothing wrong with wearing your hair natural, and your hair doesn’t need fixing. There’s also nothing wrong with short hair.

Despite your mate’s ignorant comment, it’s not an outward sign to sensible people that you’re a lesbian, although it does seem to be a popular point of view somehow. I’ve been natural on and off since I was 16 and have done five big chops. I’ve heard commentary about being a lesbian each time. It’s profoundly ignorant. Don’t people know there are lesbians with long hair? Or better, don’t they realize how basic it is to intertwine hair and sexuality?

Anyway, it seems you’ve made a big mistake here, not in cutting off your perm, but in not discussing your decision with your mate. You didn’t have to get “permission” for your decision, but you should have had a discussion with him before drastically altering your appearance. He needed a heads-up, just as, if he had locks or facial hair, you probably would want to know before he cut them or shaved, since he would come home (or out of the bathroom) looking very different from the last time you saw him.

There should have been a chat that went something like, “Hey, babe. I’m thinking about getting rid of my perm and cutting my hair short. What do you think about that?” He could have filled you in on his thoughts. Even if he didn’t like the idea, you would have known what you were walking into beforehand, and both of you would have been better equipped to deal with it when you cut your hair short.

Perhaps you could have waited and grown your natural hair out a little longer before you did the big chop. Or you could have cut your hair in stages so that a short haircut wouldn’t have been so jarring to him. But that conversation didn’t happen, and you were both blindsided—him by your decision, and you by his reaction.

He’s not out of line to be shocked by a drastic change, but I’m concerned about how he handled his dismay. If he doesn’t like your hair, so be it. He’s entitled to have his own opinion. But insulting your appearance by saying you looked “crazy” and questioning your sexuality were way out of line. Does he frequently speak to you this way when he’s upset? That’s the real issue here, not your hair.

But back to what you asked: “Now what?” Explain to him why you cut your hair. Maybe it was for the health of your hair, maybe you were over the expense (and pain) of perming. Maybe you’re over buying into mainstream culture’s beauty standards. Or maybe you just think natural is on trend. Whatever the reason, offer it up. Perhaps understanding your rationale will help him come to terms with your choice. (I’m hoping if he’s your live-in fiance and father of your child, he’s a rationale man, even if in this instance he hasn’t demonstrated it thus far.)

After that, add that you understand he’s not onboard (perhaps yet?) with your hair, but it’s absolutely not OK to insult you or your hair, no matter how much he disapproves. He certainly wouldn’t be OK with you insulting his appearance, especially when he would probably be feeling vulnerable after a big change.

Depending on how much you value his attraction to you, you do have options for your natural hair. You can experiment with hair products and colors. You can grow your hair out. You can also wear protective styles such as wigs or weaves or braids. Or if your intent is “just” to wear your hair as it is currently, you can continue to maintain it as is, and he will have to get over it.

Read more on TheRoot.com

Fight Night: Brawling in the 'Burbs Before Phones Had Video

Kids aren't going to sh--. They've been ain’t sh-- for awhile. There just weren't as many cameras around to document it.

Like millions of other people, I watched the cell phone footage of a 15 year old girl getting pummeled in a Brooklyn McDonald's. It's frightening, deplorable, horrendous,  and every other hyper-negative word you can think of too. But this behavior among kids isn't new. It's just filmed, and "witnessed" by adults who have the proper perspective on how horrible this behavior is instead of not-yet sensitized or desensitized teenagers who exist in the social circles where this might be common. Many, many years ago, I was once in those circles. Sort of.

I grew up in the suburbs of DC when the Nation's Capital was alternately known and feared as the "Murder Capital". My parents would have the news on the TV every morning as I got ready for school and I'd hear the murder stats from the night before. Two bodies here, another there. Several bodies if there was the unfortunate combination of being hot and a long weekend. Almost always, the victims and perpetrators were young Black boys and men, ages 15-22. There was a culture of violence that hung over the city, one that penetrated the suburbs and prep and private schools that my teenage friends and I attended.

The first time I heard Outkast's Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik, I was 15, standing in Michael's* driveway with my kinda boyfriend (it was high school; it was weird) and some of their friends. Michael was the best friend of Kinda BF, who was 17, lived in a big house in the suburbs and was a senior at an all-boys private high school renowned for his athletes. Michael was Kinda BF's classmate.

I don't remember Michael's car, but it was new and shiny and he'd just purchased new speakers with enough volume to leave my ears ringing when the music stopped and enough bass to vibrate thru my body when "Player's Ball" played. The car was parked in the main driveway to his parents' house, not the other one that ran past the pool, leading to the pool house.

Graduation was approaching and Michael was throwing a party in his pool house to mark the occasion. He'd hired a very popular go-go band** to perform on the "stage", the part of the living room that wasn't sunken.  I was looking forward to it.

My two girls, also friends of Michael and Kinda BF, also were going to Michael's party. I asked my mother if I could go. I pleaded my case. It was a friend of Kinda BF's, my "friend-- cause you know Black parents don't acknowledge boyfriends-- and my mother really liked him.  It was a graduation party. The guy was from a "good" family, lived in a very cushy neighborhood, actually in (redacted celebrity's) old house, and went to a respected school. Pleeaaaassssse???

Mum said, "yes", then an hour before I was supposed to leave, came and told me, "I'm sorry, no. Something doesn't feel right." I pleaded. No was the final answer. I relented (like I had a choice). Then I lied, said I was going to the movies and went to the party anyway.

The pool house was a fire hazard, packed when we got there before 10. Plenty of boys, plenty of girls, bodies spilling outside to escape the heat indoors. It was sticky hot, so maybe the A/C was broke. Or maybe it was just too many damn people. The speakers sounded like the ones in Michael's car. The band was awesome.

I spotted Kinda BF and he came over and guided me and my girls to an empty table with no chairs in the corner of the room. It was near a window. Thank God.

We wanted to dance, but with all the people we could hardly move. Two of us climbed on the table, which sounds way more lecherous than it was. I did more gawking than moving. I'd never been to a party like this.

I was pretty sheltered growing up. I went to school dances, which consisted of a big gym, 100 people (my high school was really small) and mostly alternative rock music since Black folk were a minority of the school population. I'd been snuck into a college party once when I went with my god mother to visit my god sister for Homecoming. I was 14 and she guarded me like she was still my babysitter. I stayed over at a classmate's house once and we snuck out to hang with her boyfriend, a white guy in his mid-20s, who took us to his friend's dumpy apartment. There were 10 people, I was the only Black girl and everyone was high off some next ish (not weed, not coke). I sat on the floor in the corner, drank not even half a beer, and watched as someone high saw fit to give whatever they were on to the two hamsters in a cage on the floor. One hamster then attacked the other, killed him and ate his brain as everyone watched like it was The National Geographic channel.

Michael's party wasn't any of that. This was 300 Black teenagers. There were bodies each moving their own way, but all on the same beat, red cups, the smell of weed, and foggy, perspiration on the upper part of the windows because of the heat. It was like "House Party", sans the pre- coordinated dance battles.

I was watching, taking it all in, but I still can't tell you what started the brawl. The music was playing, the people were partying, and suddenly fists were flying. There were boys fighting and tussling, half bent and striking blows wherever they could land them. The music stopped, girls screamed. My best friend and I were still on the table, clutching each other and staring, backed away to the furthest edge from the action. The crowd hurriedly scattered back and into a circle in that instinctual way that humans react when folks start brawling.

In the center of the action was one guy throwing wild fists, outnumbered by the five or six boys punching and jabbing at him. He fought as hard as long as he could, then resigned to self preservation, he covered his head with his forearms and bent over. He fell over from a punch, curled into the fetal position and the opposing boys, wearing Timbs and the steel-toe boots that were in fashion at the time, stomped him out. At first he responded to the blows by flinching, tucking into himself in a tighter ball. And then he loosened and didn't respond at all to being struck.

Everyone watched and no one intervened. Why? The excuses are many. No one could believe it was happening. Everyone was scared. No one wanted to jump in to stop it and end up getting their ass beat too. Years later, I read about a 20-something woman in Queens named Kitty Genovese who was attacked in a NYC alley way, 51 years ago today. She screamed for help and tens of people heard her, but no one helped. Psychologists explained the inaction as the Bystander Effect. As explained by Psychology Today, it's "the phenomenon in which the greater the number of people present, the less likely people are to help a person in distress. When an emergency situation occurs, observers are more likely to take action if there are few or no other witnesses. Being part of a large crowd makes it so no single person has to take responsibility for an action (or inaction)." Maybe that was it.

The only reason no one taped it was because of the crude technology of the time. We all had cell phones, but it would be years before we could even just text on them. We certainly weren't more evolved.

The sound of the gunshot probably saved that boy. It rang out, and I knew to duck from the time I was leaving an off campus party with that same god sister. There was more screaming and everyone, including the boys jumping the guy on the floor, scattered. Kinda BF appeared from nowhere and snatched me off the table. I grabbed my best friend's hand as we ran out the door.  We looked back and our third friend, Angel, wasn't there. I tried to stop, but Kinda BF pulled my arm and we all ran out the door, down the long driveway back to the main road, which was lit up like the crime scene it was.

At the end of the driveway, Kinda BF left us. It was safe. There were police cars everywhere. A couple of ambulances and at least one fire truck. Kids were scattered all over the place. And in the middle of it all was my mother.

Mama Belle knew I was full of sh-- when I left the house, talking about going to the movies. She'd thought of my punishment before I left. And she knew the party would end up a sh-- show, but figured I had to learn danger the hard way. But then she was standing there ironing clothes while I was standing on somebody’s table and thought, “Lawd, let me go get my child.” Black mamas be knowing. So she drove 10 minutes to the neighborhood where [redacted athlete's] old house was, and came upon all of the lights from the emergency vehicles.

She wasn't even mad at me (and I didn't get punished). She just wanted to know if I was all right, if my bestie was okay, and where was Angel* who was always with us, but wasn't standing there. We didn't know.

So we waited and worried at the end of the driveway, looking down, looking for Angel. Mama wouldn't let me and Bestie go back to the house. The police probably would have stopped us if we tried.

Fifteen minutes later, Angel comes waking down the street, not the driveway. When the fight started, she left us on the table and ran out. She was running down the driveway when the first shot went off, so she turned left and ran into the woods to hide. She saw us run down the driveway. She only came out the woods when she decided it was safe. She was rattled, but fine.

I don't remember how Angel and my bestie got home. I walked to the car behind my mother thankful and not at all embarrassed that she'd showed up to get me out of there.

Kinda BF called the next day to make sure I was okay. He'd seen my mother in the crowd, so he knew I made it home safe. He told me later the boy who got jumped had 50 stitches and broken ribs. I was thankful for that too. I thought he was left for dead. Oh, and nobody was hit by all the bullets.

*All the names are changed.

**A word about go-gos. The music isn't inherently violent, but the dancing is largely erratic. Combine good music, wild dancing, a bunch of drunk and high folks, and a culture of violence with people hyper sensitive about "respect" and it's a recipe for disaster. I've been to one actual go-go in DC in my entire life (it was after Michael's party). That night, I was searched like I was entering prison. The band's policy, incorporated into the verses, was "one fight, good night." That night, someone got shot, and the band played on. Technically, a shooting isn't a fight, and because of that interpretation of policy, I stopped going. The party was fun, but wasn't worth my life.

I Ugly Cried in Nairobi

I had a breakdown in Nairobi. Like full-on heaving sobs, snotty tears and all.

Don't be alarmed. I do this at least once every time I travel overseas. I love traveling. I love seeing new parts of the world and meeting new people and learning and appreciating new cultures. As long as I am able, I will get on a plane regularly and go see some world. But there’s stress that comes with being far out of your comfort zone, especially when you're solo, as I was my final day in Kenya.

Solo at home, you can operate on auto-pilot. You know the rhythm of “your” world. Abroad, you don’t. And as a result, you're hyper-aware, operating with all senses (if you're smart). There's the realization that there are thousands of miles between you and the next person who personally gives a damn if something goes wrong. You are all you've got. That means you've got to be over sensitive about looking right to cross the street, your surroundings, your purse, your cash flow (because credit cards are iffy, as are ATMs) and the battery life on your phone, a savior for its GPS and list of places to go, as much as it is an emergency lifeline to you and home.

Taking off the blinders and living completely is the thrill-- and occasional trigger-- of traveling. This caused my flip out. Allow me to explain.

I had a lot on my plate that day. Getting back to Brooklyn, required a plane ride back to Nairobi, a 9 hour layover in the city, then a 8 hour plane to Heathrow, a 3 hour layover there, then another 8 hour flight to JFK. It's all minor when it's broken down. But combined it's an (lengthy) ordeal.

The plane back to Nairobi was one of those 8 seaters where you feel every bump in the air. I hate little planes (mostly because of Aaliyah). I sang gospel songs softly the entire ride. The driver who was arranged to meet me at the airport didn't make it. The cab driver who took me to the hotel couldn't find it. The hotel-- though safe and secure-- wasn't at all like it was advertised.

I navigated the city just fine. I walked around sucking up the energy and people watching. Nairobi's Central Business District is more vibrant and alive than even Times Square. I had lunch by the rooftop pool of a swanky hotel, then headed to the city market to pick up last minute souvenirs for friends and family. I haggled for bracelets and stuffed animals and a belt for my husband just fine. "We are not arguing, my Sister," the vendor, a woman, said. "Just discussing what's fair for us." It's a great line. I was overcharged, of course, but I didn’t feel ripped off.

I left her stall with my gifts in tow, and wandered toward the exit. On a wall, I spotted a print of Maasai warriors similar to one I'd admired in the hotel room I’d just left. The woman, older and who reminded me of my deceased maternal grandmother, saw me looking and quoted a price. Too much. "I have more for you," she said. "Come..." So I followed her into the stall.

She's got a pile of 200 paintings and she's flipping. And I want to take home half of them. Two, I just couldn't leave behind.

The walls of my apartment are like an art gallery (they’re blank on The Show because the network won't pay for clearance, and blurring the art out looks weird on camera). I’ve made a habit to pick up a painting (and/or jewelry) in every country I visit.

Years ago, I went to the summer home of [name redacted so as not to name drop] a well-known magazine editor who I (and my mother) admire. Her house was like an art gallery too, with sculptures and paintings collected during her travels. I complimented a piece of jewelry she wore that day. She told me she'd picked it up in another country and it was years was before I was born. I admired her lifestyle too. I committed to creating an art gallery and jewelry box reflecting my travels.

So, at the stall in Nairobi, I got a painting for me, and one for my mama/parents house. My mom is no fan of my travels to anywhere in Africa and will likely not see the continent herself. But she will have a piece of the continent in her dressing room.

I didn't have enough money for the purchase, so I offered to go to an ATM, and return. Or, I had American dollars at my hotel close by. I could go and come back. The woman suggested I take the paintings and her husband would walk with me to my hotel to collect the money.

Her husband, the splitting image of my (also deceased) maternal grandfather, walks up. He's an older man, in his 70s, he'll tell me later, on our walk. I ask how long they've been married. He smiles. His upper row is perfectly straight on the left side, entirely missing on the right. If he had his full teeth, he would have had my grandfather's smile too. He says, “oh, a long time.”

So we walk to the hotel, 3 blocks away. He, Mr. Geoffrey, tells me he was born near Mount Kenya. He had 2 sisters and 6 brothers. One sister is gone, 2 brothers died. They were all over 100 when they passed. He, in his 70s, is the baby of the family. He doesn't go back to his birthplace because he doesn't like it there. He and his wife have a house in the Nairobi suburbs. They've had their current business for 10 years. He asks where I'm from, if I have family, if I like Kenya. He tells me he's worked in the stall for 10 years and never walks this way.

At the hotel, he waits while I run up to grab the money. We exchange money for posters in the lobby, and I offer to walk with him back to the market. He smiles and looks at me incredulously. "I am fine. You don't need to walk with me," he says. I tell him I have to go back out, and that way, as I need an ATM. I don't have money for the cab to the airport.

He says he'll walk with me to find one. I insist I'll be fine. He tells me that the area is fine during the day, but can be seedy at night. They call Nairobi, "Nai-robbery" sometimes and it's not always safe after dark, he says. Dusk is coming. I don't see any harm in accepting his chivalry. I relent.

So we walk, and he asks me if it's my first trip to Kenya. And he asks if I'm married and have family. And if I like Kenya. And he says he's worked in the stall for 10 years and he's never walked this way before. And I assume he wasn't paying attention earlier because he was making small talk with a stranger. And then we find an ATM and it doesn't accept my card.

So we start walking again and he asks if it's my first trip to Kenya and if I enjoyed it, and if I'm married and have a family. And I answer the third time just like it's the first as I realize something is wrong.

He stops to ask a security guard in Swahili where there's an ATM, and the man points inside a building and it turns out it's a money exchange, but no ATM. As we walk out, he cautions me to slow down. I apologize. I walk fast even when I'm trying to walk slow, and I've inconvenienced my elder. He says, no, he's worried about me. The sidewalks aren't always smooth and he doesn't want me to fall. He's fine*.

So we walk again, slowly for my own good, searching. And Mr. Geoffrey tells me that he hasn't walked these streets in awhile and he and his wife have worked at the market for 10 years. And then he asks if it's my first trip to Kenya and if I have a husband and family. And then I realize he has Alzheimer's.

My grandmother had it. And she did the same thing. She would get stuck in a train of thought and just loop the same conversation over and over and over. And I feel... sad. And vulnerable. Like, this old man who looks lke my grandfather saw me, and saw my vulnerability as a "stranger in a strange land" and he wanted to look after me, and he may or may not know that he's the one that needs looking after.

We find a Barclays ATM. My card works. I can get to the airport just fine, assuming I can find a cab, but the hotel should be able to call me one.

On the walk back to the hotel, he asks if it's my first time in Kenya, and if I liked it, and if I have a husband and family, and this time he asks if I'll come back to Kenya. I say that I will and I will come with my husband. He invites me to stay with him and his wife as they have a house outside of the city. We could come and stay for one or two days. I tell him I will take his information and I would love that. He tells me that he's worked in the stall for 10 years, he and his wife, and he hasn't walked this way before. My eyes begin to well up with tears.

He is a very kind man, who looks like my grandfather (except shorter) and reminds me of my grandmother. And for whatever reason he has taken a liking to me and wanted to keep me safe, though it's debate-able whether I needed it or not, and what could a 70 year old man do if harm came anyway? But it was a kind gesture and it eased my anxiety. And it also made me feel extra vulnerable as this very vulnerable person sees me as the one in need of help. And now I'm emotionally rattled, even more vulnerable. And trying to hide it from Mr. Geoffrey.

I also wonder if his wife knows he has Alzheimer's. She has to know he's forgetting things. But does she know how bad this gets? We (my family) knew my grandmother couldn't remember things the same and would get stuck in a loop. But she was otherwise fine and doctors said there wasn't anything we could do. The loops weren't so bad and were pretty harmless. So we paid a bit more attention and more or less let her be.

But then one day she told her husband she was going to the grocery store and didn't come back. Hours later, someone called my mom and described my grandmother to her and asked if she knew her. Grandma had gone to the grocery store, come out to the parking lot after shopping and couldn't find her car. She was looking for a vehicle she had when I was growing up, not the current one. She's been walking around the parking lot aimlessly until the woman spotted her, stopped her, and found my Mom’s number in my grandmother’s purse.

At the hotel, Mr. Geoffrey scribbles his name and mobile number on a piece of paper and I sniff back tears. The desk attendant notices something is wrong and offers me a bottle of water. I take the water and the paper and thank Mr. Geoffery again and ask him to thank his wife and say goodbye to her. And I ask if he remembers how to get back to the market, and he looks at me like I'm stupid. Then he offers to give me his number so I can come visit him and his wife when I come back to Kenya.

I show him the number he just gave me. He smiles and shakes my hand and I thank him as he waves goodbye and walks out. I follow him to the sidewalk and watch him walk to the corner. He turns left in the direction of the market three blocks down.

I go back in the hotel, round the corner for the stairs to my room and COMPLETELY LOSE IT, like fat tears, and spit and bent over heaving sobs. I’ve done this twice before in my life. One, I don’t really talk about (I was barefoot in the middle of the street, but it’s the reason I left the Hamptons in Season One of “The Show” and I won't talk about it publicly as along as my father is alive out of respect.) The other time was when my grandfather died.

I'd gone to the nursing home where he lived with my grandmother. Their room had twin beds, and his was made up and empty like he had never been there. My grandmother and parents were in the room, and my grandmother kept asking, "where's my Honey?", her name for my grandfather.

She had Alzheimer's so she couldn't remember he was dead. The fist two times she asked, we told her he'd died. And we watched twice as she absorbed that traumatic shock of finding out her husband of 60+ years was never coming back, then promptly forgot. After that when she asked, we lied and said he was on his way back to the room. I held it together until my parents and I had to leave her to go to the funeral home and see the body. I walked out the room, turned the corner, leaned against the wall and lost my entire sh-- (just like I did in that Nairobi stairwell) as my parents stared at me wide-eyed.

So I go up to my shabby room and sit on the edge of the bed and sob and snot, and tears and spit get on my dress, and then I call CBW, one of only four people in the world (other than my parents) who can calm me down when I'm like this. I tell him the whole story and then apologize for scaring him because, you know, your wife calls you from the other side of the world crying uncontrollably, the first thing you think is that she’s been raped or robbed. And really she's just upset because she misses her grandparents and feels helpless. He talks me off my ledge and tells me it’s okay and because he said it is, it is.

After I get off the phone, I wash my face, gather my sh--, and hop in a cab to go meet a reader (and new friend) who lives in Kenya. It's my last night in Nairobi and I want to make the most of it and keep building memories, even if the man who just triggered so many probably already doesn’t remember me.

*Kenyans be walking. Like I walk fast, just because. But when I was out for my morning walk in Diani, I was hoofing, and this guy pushing a wheel barrow of old electronics came up from behind me out of nowhere and outpaced me... barefoot. And did not break a sweat.

Nairobi Day 4: Baby Elephants x 100 Shilling Tequila Shots

 

I planned to write an actual Day 4 post, but….

Cousin G and I went to see the elephants in the morning.

And on the way back to the cottage, we stopped at the grocery store.

And at the grocery store, I bought two big bottles of water, a bug bottle of juice, and a bottle of rose for under $6.

I drank half the rose for brunch, sorta. It would have been actual brunch, but there was no food because we only bought enough for 4 days, but we've been here for 5. And I would have bought food at the store, execpt our third party was supposed to be ready when we got back*, so we could go eat, but she wasn't, so....

So then we (finally) all went to the market to eat. And then we went to the Maasai market to shop (which I have to go back to before I leave because everyone and there mother wants me to bring them bangles home… which I’m complaining about like I mind, but I don’t.)

And then we left the market and went to the Tribe hotel for a sundowner, ie, drinks at a location that has a great view of the setting sun. I drank virgin juice because, you know, I drank half a bottle of wine for “brunch” while I waited (and waited) for the third party of our crew to get ready to go to the mall. I’m 35, I think about the state of my liver, and I fear hangovers.

And then… and now we get to the real issue.

So remember the guy Cousin G and I met last night? The party promoter? Him. Well, him told us that Juniper Social was the move for Friday night. And we took him’s advice.

The spot is a mini-mansion run by an ex-pat who moved to Kenya to do serious work, but then quit her job to host parties in her backyard. Her house is huge, the grounds are too, and she just does these random parties on the weekends. It’s like Chef Roble’s “Everyday People”, but like not with a retractable roof, and to be fair, less people. The DJ here is sick, although I couldn't identify any of the songs. There was a groove going. The people were very fly.

Oh, and shout out to the South African chickie who tapped me on the shoulder and was like, “I knew it was you! Ok, I thought it was you, and then I went to your blog and saw you were in Nairobi and then I was like, 'it’s you!'” Sweet chick. She watched The Show That Shall Not Be Named in South Africa. Go figure.

So, the guy from last night, left a few things out about this party.

1. how dope it is.
2. how good the food is.
3. the 100 shilling tequila shots.

If you follow me on IG, you already know this story.

Juniper is an unoffical restaurant that turns into a "scene". At 8:30, they stop serving food and table service is no more. They’ve found an ingenious way to get people up from the table ad to the bar: 100 shilling shots.

At 8:30, a bell rings, and tequila shots go on sale… for the US equivalent of around .90 cents. They’re served with orange slices instead of the traditional lime. Salt is optional. I don't partake.

Oh, and there was a tub of beer.

How many I had is none of your business. I’m on vacation and I’m not driving. And I’m sober enough to crank out 500+ words for this post and upload the pictures. (But cannot operate heavy machinery.)

And with that said, good night.

*the third party has requested that I note she was on meds.

Day 3- Tales from Nairobi: “White, like you and me…”

So, I mentioned yesterday that I hadn’t seen any white people really, and that it was odd when I did. I was accused of seeming “slightly irritated” that there were none around. Um… not sure where that assumption came from, especially given the crack about gentrified Brooklyn. But for clarity, it was an observation about the things that I’ve seen, or not. I’m the same chick who wrote 3000 words on Black Jesus changing her life and quoted  Khalil Abdul Muhammad calling white Jesus, “cracker Christ”  on IG. Don’t get me twisted.

Anyway, we didn’t do much today. I didn’t get to sleep until 4AM, because: jet lag. I finally woke up around 1, then proceeded to do almost nothing, unless walking around the cottage trying to take pics of our duo of monkeys count. Oh, and I turned in my assignment for The Root.

Around 7, Cousin G and I headed out to the Westlands. Remember the girl from yesterday who my friends ran into at the airport? She said there was a string of clubs and it was worth checking out. So we did.

We decide on a restie called Havana, which I chose solely because of the name and the assumption that it had margaritas. (They did, but I actually went with Amarula since it’s hard to get in the States.) The place next door, Bacchus (?) was super cute, but empty.

It was pretty light in Havana when we walked in, but filled up quickly (and was rammed out by the time we left at 11). Oh, and there were white people. Like almost all white people dining and drinking, which is weird to see in, you know, a Black country. Oh, and hip-hop, mostly of the Mos Def, Talb Kweli, dead prez, Ghostface variety. It was, in short, heaven.

Anyway, white people gonna white. Me and Cousin G are sitting at the bar talking about nothing and watching a football game (and by football, I mean soccer) and this white guy comes and taps me on the shoulder like a kid would. I turn, he wants to know if me and the woman sitting next to me, who I am sitting with my back toward, are together. Um… no.

Well, in that case, he wants to know if I can scoot my chair two inches to the left and if she can go two inches to the right and he can squeeze a bar stool in there.

Sir.

I look at him. I look at her. I look at the space, and I say, “Sir. You think it’s a good idea for you to squeeze yourself into this tiny space and you want both of us to move so you can do it?

He nods.

Like I said. White people gonna white.

I scoot over. She scoots over, and he grabs a stool and moves in so he can watch the game at the bar.

So me and Cousin G kick it. A guy, whose name I wish I got, overhears us, and comes over to ask us, “Are you American?”

“How did you know?” I ask. Random observation: I’ve stopped using contractions when I speak. People do not use them often, if at all, overseas.

“I have ears,” he says.

Turns out he’s a party promoter and he’s hosting Nairobi’s First Mardi Gras next week. Yes, he knows it’s late, but no one in Nairobi knows that. And he didn’t get the sponsors until late, and nobody in Nairobi parties on a Tuesday. It’s contained from Thursday till Sunday.  Oh, and he did this event in Cape Town last year and it was a hit.

He wants to know if we’ll come and passes G a flyer. The headlining DJ? A friend of a friend I was e-introduced to before the trip, who I’ve been trying to get up with all week. He told me he’s “a musician”. He never mentioned he’s like the MOS of Nairobi. (Though I did think something was up when he mentioned he had to leave this weekend to “work” in Nambia, and when I mentioned wanting to do an event at a local hot spot and he was like, “you want me to put you in contact with the manager?” An hour later the manager was like, “whatever you want. Have it.")

So since dude is chatty, I have questions, starting with, “Where did all these white people come from?”

Turns out there’s a bunch of ex-pats that live in Nairobi, a bunch of white folk who work for the embassies or UN, and then there are the white Kenyans with colonial family ties and old money and they been here forever.

Then he gives me an alternate spot to host my meet up and a list of places to go. Bet. Then he excuses himself to meet up with some “mates”. Good day.

So our time has come to an end. The bill comes and G and I are trying to figure out what to do about the tab. I mean we covered it, but the tip is in question. The lady from last night said if you leave anything, it’s 50 shillings or 100. There’s no percentage tip here. But that just feels wrong, you know?

So we’re picking money up and putting it back down, and picking it up and putting it down. And then the white guy next to us finally asks, “what are you doing?”

We explain: we are trying to figure out the tip.

So he explains, it’s basically what the girl said last night. Then he asks where we’re from. We actually tell the truth: America not Jamaica. We ask where he is from, Kenya, sorta and Sweden. Either he or his dad was in the Navy, he lived a bunch of places, but he’s here now, so… Then he goes on to explain further that

Kenyans in general don’t tip each other, but… wait for it… “they expect it from white people like you two and me.”

I’m sorry, what?!

I look at Cousin G, like did I just hear what I heard? I’ve been called a lot of things: light skinned, not light skinned, caramel, red,redbone, Black, African-American, Negro, colored (South Africa), Sistah, Sister, Queen, Princess, N-bomb and more, but not never-ever have I been called “white.”

White, eh?

Cousin G, who is my complexion, has no reaction. He’s just listening, so I just turn and look at the man again. He’s kinda dark for a white guy, but he is melanin deficient sitting up in the East African sun everyday. I have no idea what he’s talking about now. “White like you and me…” is looping through my head.

Now I gotta find out how Kenyans define race (as it’s a social based system, it’s subject to the whims of each country). Is there some weird hierarchy, like foreign-with-money (the assumption worldwide is that all Americans of al colors are wealthy) equals “white". Or was this like the most delusional and literally color-blind white man ever?

I need answers.

48 Hours in Nairobi: 10 New Observations

1. So yesterday, I told you that the first song I head on the radio in Nairobi was Adina Howard’s “Freak Like Me”.  It stood out to me because the station didn’t appear to be oldies. The announcer was doing a call-out for women who had given birth at 12/13 and were now raising daughters who were pregnant at 12/13. The demo had to contain a lot of women 24-26 for that call out (and my driver was no more than 25, okay maybe 30. You never know with Black people). The station was also advertising an upcoming expose about homosexuality in Nairobi. Apparently, sex tourism and "down low” behavior are an issue, and homosexuality isn’t all that tolerated. It all sounded very Springer 90s. I say all that to say this: for a station with salacious topics and a mid-20s demo, I expected to hear hip-hop or R&B, or whoever the local music artists are, not a song that was popular when I was, literally, 19. After that came some unidentifiable Michael McDonald-esque music.

2. So yesterday, our driver, Amos, takes us from the cottage to the city. We were supposed to go to this tourist heavy all-meat restaurant, literally it’s named Carnivore. (I was along for the adventure. I’m a pesca.) Anyway. Traffic was abysmal, so Amos was like, “um, no.” So he says he’ll take us to the city to a nice place. Great.  (He's also not sold on us going to a tourist spot where the waiters dress up in zebra print.) He recommends an American coffee shop that serves burgers and shakes. I get it. We’re Americans, he thinks we want American ish. We don’t. We detour to an organic spot for local food instead. What’s playing from the speakers? Usher's “Confessions", and Kelly Rowland’s one-hit, the one about “make Mama proud." Oh, and that one Kerry Hilson song  that had Kanye on the intro. On repeat. We figure someone put together their "moving on" playlist and is smitten with a new boo. I tell you all this to say, in, now 48 hours, I’ve heard no hip-hop, which I am delightfully fine with. And the radio program directors of Nairobi have great taste in music.

3. When in doubt/ lost/ in need of A/C or wi-fi, find the nearest American hotel, talk loud so everyone hears your accent and assumes you’re staying there, and use what you need at your leisure.

4. They have a Coldstone Creamery in Nairobi. So far, I’ve seen one McDonald’s and one KFC, which please me greatly, but not for the reasons you imagine. I like going to visit another country and feeling like I’m in another country. Traveling to shop in a bunch of stores with marked up American goods that were made in China isn’t a vacation. Nairobi has some imports, but they mostly have their own ish. This makes me happy.

5. Every city has its classic cup caking spot. For BK it’s DUMBO or the BK waterfront. For DC, it used to be Hains Point, but it seems to have moved to National Harbor. In Philly, it’s the top of the “Rocky” steps. For Nairobi, it seems to be the rooftop of the International Conference Center. It’s appears to be the tallest building in Nairobi and there’s a 360 view of the city. There were multiple couples just hanging out, enjoying the breeze and the view. From what I can tell, PDA isn’t a big thing here, which I only noticed because I saw a woman holding a man’s arm and it stood out because I’ve rarely seen people touch. Is that the culture? The influence of Islam? I dunno. But even on the roof, the couples sat or stood close next to each other, but never touched.

6. So. We try to go to this restaurant, only to find out its actually closed on Tuesdays. Whatever. We hear live music, so we wander over to the crowd.  It’s a outdoor music spot, Seemas (not sure of spelling.) The first thing I notice is the abundance of men, and two girls in tight dresses grinding on each other. Hmm. This strikes me as  odd because of my previous observation. So, we sit and have a drink and a meal. One of my traveling companions orders a “Tusker” because they’re advertised in Kenya the way Heineken is advertised in the US. Cool. The bottles are ginormous. I sneak a sip. It tastes exactly like Corona. I notice a few tables full of women. Most are sitting, some standing and they’re  in really tight dresses and standing wide. The service was a little slow, but we only minded because we were in a rush. That’s not the point of this, this is: a woman my friends met in the airport while waiting for me, called out of the blue to ask where we were. Turns out, she works near by. So she comes to meet us. As she walks us out, she asks what we thought of the spot. It was cool for what it was. She comments on the number of prostitutes. The girls grinding?And standing really wide? Advertising services. They call them “night girls” in Nairobi. The woman says that there are tons of them in that area and she’s surprised more weren’t out that night. She adds that while technically illegal, police mostly turn their heads about it.  We mention this to the driver, Amos, in the car on the way home. He says otherwise: “run away or you will be arrested,” he cautions. He adds that he doesn’t drink Tuskers anymore. “I drink two and I black out.” Womp.

7. The Hustle— so we pass by the City Market, and go in. It’s beyond obvious that we’re not American. People who were just chilling in  their stalls, look alive, and start calling out to us, “My Sister…”, “My Brother…” Like every. single. vendor. They call “jambo”, “karibu” (welcome), invite us to look at their wares (“looking is free!”) They are super aggressive, and I say this as a New Yorker. In fact, I was so overwhelmed at being verbally accosted, that I turned around and left. As our small group was walking along the street, two different men came up to chat with the gent in our group. They wanted to know if we were going on safari, where we were from (more on that in a second), what our plans were for our visit, blah, blah, blah. And even when we gave the brush off, the guys continued to walk with us for blocks. like at least 6 blocks each.

8. We’re Jamaican. I don’t know what about any of us reads as Jamaican, but that's the assumption. One of the girls in the group has braids, but so do half the women of Nairobi. The guy has a beard. I have my hair in a high bun. I know Jamaican. Nothing about us looks so. But constantly we’re asked, “You all are Jamaican?” I’m missing some backstory/cultural link, I think.

9. Musky Men: let me say this blunty: the vast majority of the men I have encountered in Kenya are scentless. As a whole Kenyan men smell exactly like American men. I am not in anyway implying that the men of Kenya smell bad. I am, however, saying that in the 48 hours I have been in Nairobi, I have encountered more men with with a strong underarm scent than I have encountered in other places I have travelled to. And I don’t mean homeless men or poor men. I mean men that are working jobs and funk up the whole phone store when they walk in on what appears to be their lunch hour. I mean the guy who checked my ticket to get to the roof where the couples were cup caking. I mean, just a random collar-shirted guy you pass in the street and think, “Good Lord, man!”

10. The Sixties— Nairobi is a modern city. It’s a tech hub for Hova’s sake. Everyone’s got a cell phone, there are electronic stores every five feet you walk downtown. And you can’t go in any crowded place without passing through a metal detector and getting swiped down like you’re going though airport security. At the really important places, your bag goes through a Xray machine. But the infrastructure, especially the buildings,  is very 70s. It’s like the government built everything they needed, did a good job the first round, and decided they were done. That’s not a bad thing. It does however make you feel like you’re in a time warp as you walk around the city. That said it’s a relatively clean city (sorta), especially given the number of people walking around. I walked around in flip flops, which when I do that in NYC, the bottom of my feet are black. Not even grey here, even though I walked and walked and walked today. I did see a couple open sewage streams, and the alleys weren’t the cleanest, but where, I ask, are alleys clean?

BONUS:  I’m… intrigued by the security here. In addition to noticing the metal detectors everywhere today, I also noticed that the cops walk around holding vintage AK47s... like baseball bats, if you’re just walking along at your leisure with one. So again, I’m wondering, is Nairobi that bad and America is better off in this regard? Or is it about the same and Americans are naive? I dunno. The guy and I were walking from a park back to the city centre earlier today, right? We’re talking about being bummed because we can’t do Lamu and Mombasa. There’s no plane that goes between the two cities anymore and the bus that travels is frequently robbed, or worse. Six months ago, some extremists hijacked a bus and killed all the infidels. So… yeah, no. We’re not taking the bus. My mother and husband would never forgive me. The alternative is to fly to Mombassa, fly back to Nairobi, then fly to Lamu, which again, no.  So we chose Lamu. We’re talking about this as we walk, and suddenly there’s a BOOM! We freeze immediately. And the “let out”, hundreds of people everywhere, do too. Cops go running in the direction of the sound. The guy and I stay frozen until everyone else starts moving. I can tell from the reaction that this city is shell-shocked just like NYC, post 9/11. (Literally, my VERY first observation walking out of the Nairobi airport was “hmm.. smells like post 9/11.”)  Maybe all the security is the government’s way of providing peace of mind. Maybe they actually need that ish.

BONUS 2: Before our guy of the group began going along with the Jamaican thing, he tells this one guy, a market vendor that he's American. The guy responds, "America? We call it Obama Land". LMAO.

10 Random Observations I Made in Nairobi (in the first 24 hours)

I’ll tell my random how I got here  (as in Nairobi) story another day. It involves a mother being unimpressed by flamingos and over-concerned (I think) about terrorism, me missing a connecting flight in London (thus delaying my arrival by 9 hours) and being temporarily separated from my travel buddies (while chill-laxing at the Hilton Nairobi, which was a great hotel…. 40 years ago). It’s a ‘lemons into lemonade’ tale, that CBW pointed out is comprised of first world problems in a third world country. I, however, think it's worth telling.

Anyway. My top 10 observations about Nairobi within the first 24 hours. These observations are subject to change, be debunked, or be the gospel truth, depending on what happens over the next 16 days. I apologize in advance for any offended Kenyans. Whenever a newbie writes about a city—a home city to many someones—there’s no way not to offend unless the reviews are glowing. This isn’t that.

So without further delay:

1. The traffic here, at least in rush hour, is sh—. I read that in multiple places and in this travel group I’m in where several people recently visited Nairobi. I thought they were exaggerating. Nothing could be worse than Atlanta or LA at rush hour. Nairobi is worse than both combined. It took an hour-plus, to get from the airport to the city, a distance that should have taken about 15 minutes, tops. To credit, the driver said traffic is better in the city, but still unpredictable. He suggested I give myself a few extra HOURS to get to the airport from the city when I leave in two weeks.

2. There are people walking everywhere— at least in the city. Like everywhere. It’s not like Times Square walking where everyone sticks to sidewalks. It’s people EVERYWHERE. I’m not explaining this properly. Ok. You know how people pour onto the sidewalk and into the street when there's a let out from the club? The let out. That's what the city centre of Nairobi is like, all dang day. It's super busy. You need a break just from walking around.

3.  I don’t see white people— at least not in the part of downtown I was in. Why does this matter? So… when I was in college at a PWI, I used to play this game I made up where at any given moment, I would stop and give myself 5 seconds to spot another Black person on campus. I lost a surprising amount of the time even though Black students made up 10 percent of the campus population at the time. I tell you this to say, I played, “spot a white person” after I left the airport. Until I went to dinner by the UN, I spotted three. If you wonder why this is so fascinating? Because I’m American and white people are the majority everywhere you look, and the parts of Brooklyn I most frequent are hella gentrified now. So just generally walking around and there are no white people is… different. Not good, not bad, just different.

4. I haven’t heard hip-hop yet. Like NOTHING. Maybe the cab drivers I’ve had don’t like rap. Who knows?  The first song played when I got in the cab from the airport? Adina Howard’s “Freak Like Me.” I’ve heard Nairobi is a party city. Google “what to do in Nairobi” then click “Images.” LOL.

5. You know how people are always saying Americans are slobs? It’s because in a lot of other countries, especially predominately Black countries, men put on a collared shirt and pants to go out, even if it’s to do dirty business. Just walking around in a t-shirt and shorts or sweats is unheard of. I was riding thru the city people-watching. I didn’t see one person in a t-shirt. ). A surprising number of men had on dark blue suits. It seems  dark blue suits are “a thing”. And the women had heels, and often, stockings. Didn’t see one mini-skirt. (And it’s 80+ degrees).

6. I'm staying with friends at a cottage on an "estate". There is a rooster on the grounds. Somehow I was unaware that roosters "go off" for like an hour each morning BEFORE actual sunrise. I thought it was one and done big moment and that’s the song for the day. Yeah, no. So I’ve been up since 6:32 AM my time.

7. About the cottage. It is small and clean, and beyond suitable size for 3 people. It has just the basics. Enough comfort to be comfortable, nothing that would be considered fancy or excessive, at least by US standards. I'm struck already by how much I can do with "simple" and "less" here, and better, how unnecessary “more” is. I've been thinking a lot about necessities and space post- marriage as CBW and I  now live in what was formally "my" one bedroom apartment. It was big for one, seems small for two. (And moving doesn't make sense at this point). But actually, there's quite enough space and too much stuff. I gave away half my closet before I got married. I'm inclined to give away half of what's left too. I would rather have the space than the stuff.

8. One of my travel mates read that Nairobi has amazing Thai food for some reason.  Whatever she read didn't lie. I had the best Thai food ever in life for like $5 last night. It was a green fish curry and at least 4 servings. I ate two. Either "take home" isn't a thing here or the guy didn't understand me, so that's that.

9. Kenyans speak English fluently. My ears haven't adjusted to the dialect yet. So I'm all, "sorry?", "huh?", "sorry?" like I’m basic. We have a driver who's been teaching us well, basic words in Swahili: "Jambo" (which oddly enough, I know from watching "Mean Girls"). "Asante" (thank you). That's all I learned so far. It's been a day. American cultural currency, even for Black people, is an underrated American privilege.  American films/ TV have been exported worldwide. Our dialect is not foreign to the ear.

10. Um. It's  85 during the day and cold at night. I slept in a sweatshirt. You know how Black Americans will say, "it's Africa hot!". Yeah, we gotta be more specific. Maybe West Africa hot? I dunno. I haven’t made it to West Africa yet. I’ve not been able to make two offers to go to Nigeria, and had to decline another for reasons I will probably explain in “A Bride in Brooklyn” (the sequel to ABIB.) Anyway, the point remains, everywhere in Africa isn't hot all the time.

BONUS: I'm trying to judge the extent of the terrorism issue here. So I ride up to the Hilton yesterday. The car is stopped and surrounded by armed security, and the driver must pop the hood and the trunk for double inspection. Same happens when the second driver comes to pick me up and take me to my friends at the cottage. So, terrorism is an issue everywhere, as I tried to explain to my very anxious mother. Yes, there was a mall attack in Nairobi, but there were recent threats to the Mall of America too. September 11, Boston Marathon. And America is supposed to be "safe." So I guess what I'm trying to figure out is Kenya hyper-sensitive/smart in taking the precaution to search cars, or is America being naive? Or is it that Kenya has greater threats? Hmmm.

That's it for now.  Today is my first "city day" with the group, so hopefully, I'll have plenty of observations to make tomorrow.

Meet 'Being Mary Jane's "Cutty Buddy", Thomas Q. Jones

The closing scenes of last Tuesday night’s Being Mary Jane threw us all for a loop. After shooing away her ex, Mary Jane returned home and seemed to be in for the night. Suddenly she was getting dressed and heading back out to see a man we were introduced to only as “Cutty Buddy,” her friend with benefits who had more to give.

Well, her “friend” has an actual name. It’s Brandon in the TV series, and in real life he goes by Thomas Q. Jones. The now-retired NFL player has taken his talents from the football field to the small and big screens. (That explains that body, right?)

The Root caught up with the athlete-turned-actor to find out about his transition to Hollywood (difficult), if we’ll see more of him on Being Mary Jane (maybe) and where we can see him next (Straight Outta Compton, in theaters Aug. 14).

The Root: I shared with my friends that I was interviewing you. All the women responded, “Cutty Buddy!” and the guys were like, “Hold up? The football player?!” Why and how did you make the decision to go from being an athlete to an actor?

Thomas Q. Jones: When I [left] football, I was in this dead space. My whole life had been football since I was 5 or 6 years old. I didn’t have anything that I loved to do anymore, and it was a tough time for me. I’ve never been a drinker, but I was up at 8, 9 a.m. drinking Corona. I found acting as a way to detox from football. Football and acting are a lot alike. There’s a lot of raw emotion you release on Sunday as a football player. I put all of that into whatever character I’m playing.

TR: I was live-tweeting Being Mary Jane the other night when you appeared. That scene almost broke the Internet, and “Cutty Buddy” began trending. What has the response been like since the show?

TQJ: It’s been really cool. It’s always good to get a positive response. It’s a great show, one of the best on TV. Great cast, great writing. Gabrielle Union is amazing as Mary Jane. The audience is rooting for her to win, and maybe my character will be a part of that.

Read more on The Root

Beyonce is Perfectly Imperfect (And You Will Deal)

 

Water is wet. The sky is blue. Beyoncé is imperfect.

All of these are fundamental truths, but somehow one just became evident yesterday after website The Beyonce World leaked more than two hundred un-retouched  Beyoncé images from her 2013 L’Oreal campaign. In the “worst” of the images, which are eons more flattering than many people can manage for their VSCO cam–edited Instagram photos, Beyoncé’s face looks puffier than usual, mostly result of poor camera angles. Despite the heavy makeup— this is an ad for L’Oreal after all— her jawline has blemishes. Her plump lips are framed with “laugh lines”, a genetic trait undoubtedly passed down from her mother, “Mama” Tina Knowles.

So no, these pictures are not “flawless”, an image Beyoncé— and near every other woman in the public eye since the dawn of photography and film— has tried to project for years. They are pictures of what an attractive woman looks like with harsh lighting and a professional grade camera zoomed inches from her face. And still, Beyonce looks imperfect and perfectly fine.

What isn’t fine, however, is the hysteria and backlash over Beyoncé’s unretouched photos, a response that was notably absent when an unretouched photo of supermodel Cindy Crawford began making the online rounds last week. That leaked photo, which showed Crawford with cellulite and a soft midsection, was an outtake from a photoshoot for Marie Claire Mexico and Latin America.

American Marie Claire called the photo “real… honest… gorgeous.” CNN asked if Crawford’s cellulite was “empowering” and published an article that stumbled all over itself with praise for the image. Cosmo called Crawford’s photo, an “excellent reminder that ~unretouched~ photos are gorgeous, and so are our flaws.”  There was so much praise for Crawford, you would have thought she published the image herself. She didn’t.

And I humbly ask, where is all the celebration and praise for Beyoncé’s unretouched photos? Instead, people have gone nuts.

I don’t understand the alarm, the type that led Gawker to title a story about Beyoncé’s photos “Uh-Oh: Beyonce’s Face Is Uh-Oh” and snarked, “[these] should make you and Solange feel a little bit more secure about yourselves.” Really? The feedback was so bad that The Beyonce World removed the unretouched Beyonce images from their website, and actually apologized for upsetting people.

READ MORE on The Grio

Recap: Match Made in Heaven, Ep. 3: Meet Mama Maggie

There are 15 women left in the house, down from the original 24. Two ladies voluntarily left, 7 were kicked out. With these numbers, “Match Made in Heaven” is looking more like “Survivor” than dating show.

Two of the women that left provided a good portion of the drama/ ratchet antics on the show, And since this is reality TV, everyone can’t be well-adjusted. So who’s gonna turn up? Um. That would be Shawn’s mama, Maggie. (And of course, Dolly.)

At first, Mama seems pretty chill. After Shawn introduces her, Mama conducts a polite receiving line of hugs as the girls greet her. But we know from the commercials that Mama has another side. Infamously, she threatened to “f--- up a b----h” for coming at her son the wrong way.

Mama Maggie will be staying at the house. Shawn explains to his harem, “you are the princesses. She is the queen.” Got it? He adds that he will make his own decisions, “but her influence will weight heavy on my mind and my heart.” Translation: I’m not a mam’s boy, but I love my mama.

With Shawn standing nearby, Mom tells the ladies, to be themselves and “enjoy the ride. And at the end we will se who wise my young son’s heart.” What she means is, you see me standing here, act like you have some sense and I might put in a good word. When Shawn leaves, the real Mama Maggie, the one from the trailers, seeps out. “I can be sweet. I can even be your best friend,” she tells the women. “But I can be your worst enemy as well.” Oh.

Mama is unimpressed with the cleanliness of the house. There are clothes, luggage, and a surprising amount of drying hair weave everywhere. To credit, the women don’t have a lot of space. One room has at least 8 beds in it. These chicks are sleeping like they’re in barracks. I don’t get it. We’ve seen the panoramic view of this mansion. Surely, there’s enough space so the women don’t have to bunk up. However, a bunch of people sleeping in close quarters is a guaranteed way to cause drama.

Still, there’s no excuse for all of the unmade beds. (Confession: I don’t make my bed everyday. But when my room is shown on TV, it is.) Mama is appalled. “What makes them think that my son wants a dirty ass woman?” she asks.

Mama picks a space in the largest room and has the production staff set up a Queen size bed just for her among all the bunks. Catch that subliminal shade.

Today’s group date is at the casino. Shawn is doing his best James Bond impression. He begins by flirting with Alexandria aka Nes’s house boo. Nes doesn’t like the idea of Shawn and Alex hooking up without her, so she tells Shawn, “we’re a package deal, so what you gonna do?” Was that a threesome offer? Shawn thinks so. He squeezes them both into a hug, as Mecca stares at them like a menacing villain from across the room.

Shawn eventually wanders away to find out what the other ladies are up to. At the Texas Hold Em table, he mutters something about “every move being a good move as long as you make a move.” This is all the encouragement Angela, a busty blonde, who’s been leaning over the table to show off her cleavage to Shawn, needs. She asks him to meet her outside so they can have some time alone, which in reality TV world means “let’s make out!”

Mama’s “hussy radar” goes off. She doesn’t see Shawn, so she wanders into the parking lot to find Angela and Shawn tonguing each other down. Needless to say, the make out session comes to an abrupt end and all three head back inside.

Pastor J is there now, and he’s got a challenge. He wants all the ladies, who are all dolled up, of course, to remove their make up in exchange for a slow dance with Shawn, and maybe a one-on-one date later.

“One of the easiest things you should ever do is show the real you, “ Pastor J says. True. He also wants Shawn to see what he could be waking up to in the morning. To credit, the girls are all still quite attractive sans make up.

Khalena bails. “My mom always told me you take it off one layer at a time. You don’t shock the man,” she says. I’m with her mama on this one.

Shawn picks Phoenix for the date. He, still in his tux, takes her, still in her gown, to “the hood”. He says that back in 2008 he was living in a similar spot.   Their date takes place in an unfinished basement, replete with sleeping bags, wine in brown paper bags and PB& J sandwiches. I ain’t even mad at this date. When you really connect with someone, it doesn’t matter where you are, just who you’re with.

Phoenix doesn’t flinch at the cheap date. She’s had her own hard times as a single mom, and she and her son were once on welfare. She gets it. Shawn cries, then they cuddle. I’m adding Phoneix to my list of suitable choices for Shawn along with Mecca.

The following morning, Pastor J sends a letter to the house saying he wants Shawn to do a one-on-one date with Khalena, who bailed on the make-up challenge. Khalena contours her face, adds some tracks, gets fancy and heads out to their date in wine country.

Of course, Shawn wants to know why Khalena didn’t take off her make up for him. She explains succinctly: “the roll over face is for the roll over.” Still not mad at her (or her mama). Shawn is amused. They toast “to the roll over”, then head to an above ground pool that’s been set up in the middle of the vineyard. It’s odd—and clearly a production prop—but I’m down for anything that includes Shawn taking his shirt off. Good job, producers.

Back at the house, Pastor J has a new challenge: temptation. He presents the ladies with apples. If one of the women bite the apple, it will bring Khalena’s date with Shawn to the end. While the women contemplate, what to do Mama Maggie reminds them “jealousy is a curse”. But, “this is a competition,” she adds.

Dolly decides to bite the apple. “[Khalena] didn’t take her make up off the other night. She does not deserve this date,” Dolly reasons. Fair enough. Angelique bites as well. “I just want him to come back and barbeque with us,” she explains. “Is that too much to ask for?”

At the vineyard, Shawn and Khalena are lounging in the pool making googly eyes at each other and about to share their first kiss when suddenly the pool breaks down and they go sliding into the mud. Producers show up (off camera) to tell Shawn there’s an emergency at the house and he has to go. And he has to leave Khalena at the vineyard. She has about the epic meltdown you would expect about being muddy and left behind.

When Khalena returns to the house, she is understandably pissed. Producers have filled her in on what happened, and she is out for blood, figuratively speaking.

Dolly speaks up and take responsibility for ruining her date. “I’m not remorseful,” she says. “It’s a comp.e.tition.” Dolly claps in Khalena’s face to emphasize each syllable, and the girls end up tussling with Mama Maggie looking on. The housemates break it up. This is Dolly’s second fight and I am entirely over her.

Later, Alexandria tearfully apologizes to Khalena for ruining her date. They hug and make up.

Now it’s time for the third elimination. Shawn, who looks glorious in his grey suit and sparkling diamond earrings (I got a thing for that), sits down with his Mom to get her thoughts on the princesses of the house. She’s no fan of Angela, “the hussy.”

Shawn also talks to Pastor J, who isn’t so much a fan of Dolly. Shawn, however likes that Dolly is ride-or-die. Surely, it helps the show that she keeps some drama going, so I don’t see her going home anytime soon.

Pastor J offers Alexandria immunity, which I’m sure makes Nes happy.

To the phones!! Mecca is over this ish. “’I’m just ready for these seat fillers to exit the premises.” I like this chick. Of course, she gets a “please stay” text.

Angela’s going to the bridge, as is Brandy, whose made no impression. Christina – not E.--- is going home. She guesses that she wasn’t assertive enough. So is Dani, who received immunity from Pastor J last week. Dolly, for a second time, and Khalena are headed to the bridge as well.

Angela gets sent back first. “You have a tough task with my mother in the house,” Shawn warns. Mom is not happy.

Shanwn isn’t too thrilled about the fight between Khalena and Dolly, but he likes Dolly's passion, and respects Dolly’s jealousy. Both of them will stay.

Bye-bye Brandy.

What did you think of tonight’s episode?

NOTE: I’ve learned that the show is taking a hiatus after this episode, and will return at a later, not-yet-given date. I’ll be tuning in. Will you?

Tyga Disses Black Culture to Defend "Friendship" With Underage Girl

I swear this is not a Kardashian story. Well, not really. Allow me to explain.

On Friday afternoon, famous-for-having-a phatty Amber Rose was asked during a radio interview with The Breakfast Club about the alleged relationship between rapper, Tyga, 25, and Kylie Jenner, 17. In case it matters: Tyga is the ex-boyfriend and father of child to Rose’s best friend.

“She’s a baby, she needs to go to bed at 7 o’clock and relax,” Rose said of the youngest Jenner. “[Tyga] should be ashamed of himself. For sure.”

Whether Rose said this to defend her friend or not, it was still sound logic. But Jenner’s older sister, Khloe Kardashian, took offense and responded to Rose via Twitter, referencing Rose’s days as an underage stripper. All hell broke loose. I’ll spare you the ugly details, as this is not a Kardashian story.

What this is a story about is Tyga, the actual target of Rose’s angst. And Tyga’s appearance on The Breakfast Club radio show on Tuesday morning to address his alleged relationship with a 17 year old (and more).  What Tyga said during that interview was worse than any of the insults hurled by Rose or Kardashian.

When inevitably asked about Kylie Jenner, Tyga denied they were in a relationship (of course). He blamed TMZ for mischaracterizing his friendship with Jenner, which includes European travel destinations, sneaking out of parties together, and posting snuggly photos on Instagram.

Tyga went on to explain the misunderstanding is due to culture differences, not him and Kylie doing a bunch of stuff usually reserved for people in relationships.

“In black culture it’s different,” he began. “If you hang around somebody you’re smashing them. White people, white culture, it’s different. They really friends. It’s genuine, it’s different. How we think is a little different with our mentality.”

Oh. So let me get all this Birth of A Nation logic straight. White people know how to form friendships and emotional attachments, but Black people just can’t help but to keep it all the way primitive. And TMZ, who Tyga cites as originally mischaracterizing his friendship, and who also once referred to a respected Black mayor as a “crackhead” in their announcement of his passing, is apparently Black culture now. The more you know.

Now look, I get that Tyga is trying to do everything possible to keep the authorities out of his “friendship”, as in the state of California, Kylie’s primary residence, a sexual relationship between an adult and anyone under 18 is illegal, if only a misdemeanor. I entirely expected Tyga to offer some sort of defense for this “friendship”— which is still sketchy to me and most everyone with good sense because of the vast age gap.

What I didn’t expect was for him to throw Black culture under the bus to justify these R. Kelly-ish shenanigans. I mean, Tyga had all day, and all night to come up with an explanation for his friendship with an underage girl 8 years his junior, and this Black-people-can’t-be-friends BS is the best he could do? I mean, it’s not a good defense for several reasons, and the obvious one other than trading in ignorant stereotypes about Black sexuality is, hello? Tyga you’re Compton-bred Black, a product of Black culture. By his own backwards logic, if Black folks can’t be just friends, then he and Jenner aren’t.

Read more HERE 

Ask Demetria: My BFF Isn't Happy for My Pregnancy

Dear Demetria:

My best friend and I were living together when I met my boyfriend. When I became pregnant, he started to stay over every night because I got off work late and he was concerned for my safety. She started to become very distant and eventually moved out.

After she left, she called to say that we should split the remaining bills three ways because my boyfriend was always there while I was at work. Needless to say, I told her I wasn’t interested in being friends anymore. I also felt like she wasn’t happy for me to have a baby, which always pissed me off. Am I wrong? —Anonymous

Yes, you are wrong, entirely and unequivocally. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you are so excited about, focused on and consumed with this pending baby that you’ve become distracted and dropped the ball.

Take a step back for a moment and consider this scenario from your best friend’s perspective. She and her bestie moved in together with hopes of having a fun bachelorette pad. You get a boyfriend soon thereafter, which isn’t a bad thing, and then you became pregnant. Life happens. But she signed on for two adults to live together. Not you and your man and a crying newborn.

Having a boyfriend is fine. But having him there “every night”? Not so much. Every time she wanted to run from the bedroom to the kitchen or the bedroom to the bathroom, she had to throw on some pants or a robe, lest she flash her goods to your man. It meant that when she came home from work, she couldn’t just chill out, braless, in front of the TV to enjoy Scandal. It meant that she had to turn up the stereo to drown out the sound of you and your man getting it on. It meant that she couldn’t ever just be comfortable in her own home anymore, unless she was secluded in her room. That’s no way to live.

If your man was at the house “every night” and, if she is to be believed, was also there while you were at work—did you give him a key?—that means he lived there. You moved him in as the third roommate without discussing it with your roommate. If you wanted to cover his bills, so be it. But you had your friend picking up your man’s financial slack. And you started a family while you were living down the hall and said nothing to her about it. That’s why she was distant. The baby didn’t have anything to do with it.

Now, about your boyfriend. I’m concerned about your situation.

Read more on The Root 

Recap: Match Made in Heaven Ep. 2: Meet the (Sorta) Virgins

This episode “held no cut cards”, as we like to say in the DMV. We have “conflict" straight out the gate. Our bachelor, Shawn, is 32, and Phoenix, 33, and Jen, 29, think Shawn should be with an “older” woman, someone closer to his age, instead of one of the house’s gaggle of early twenty-somethings.  Um, they’re right, but Mercedes, 22, doesn’t agree and is offended.

Phoenix points out, “This is supposed to be about finding the love of your life and they’re here taking body shots.” Again, Phoenix ain’t lie. The issue here is that Phoenix and Jen are over 30 and pushing 30. They want a husband yesterday. Most of the younger girls know they have time to kill and they’re not as focused. If they are single at 29, and 33, and want husbands/families, they will probably be more like Phoenix and Jen.

Anyway, Mercedes rants to the other women about her elders and Dolly points out, “if you’re sitting up here in this competition and you worried about what somebody has to say to you, you need to go home." Welp.

Somehow this angers Victoria, who reminds me of an German Coco (Ice T’s wife), and she and Dolly almost brawl. Victoria is also the most ratchet white chick ever to make TV. I don’t buy this fight. It’s made-for-tv madness.

Mecca, 22, pipes in to give the stereotypical “I’m not here for any of you” line that must be given at least once per reality TV competition show. She may be fresh off the breast, but she is focused. Take that, Phoenix and Jen.

Dolly is obsessed with Mecca, a New York socialite, for having the sides of her hair shaved. She says her edges look like pubic hair. As a habit, I don’t snark on people’s appearance. (I don't like it when it's done to me.) But Dolly, have you seen your weave? You don't have room to make fun of others.

Pastor J arrives and informs the ladies that they will have a “group” date, i.e., one man and 20 women, volunteering for Habitat for Humanity to build homes. All the ladies wear tight clothes and put on full faces of make-up. I mean, this is a date. Victoria wears sandals to do construction. She’s told to stand on the sidewalk.

Mecca and Phoenix flirt as they work. They are experts at this. Take notes.

Shawn gets a text from Pastor J. Um.. I think he’s nervous because he’s reading like Floyd Mayweather. It’s time for his first one-on-one date. He picks Mecca. (Bow down, Dolly.)

The date looks like it’s in the Middle East, replete with sand dunes and camels. I am dying to know where this was shot. The show is filmed in LA. Is this in Nevada? Is this a set? I want to go there.

So, riding a camel has always been on my bucket list. But maybe I’m taking it off. It looks terribly uncomfortable for two people to ride. Maybe that’s a solo activity, despite the number of humps. Hmmm.

Mecca is adorable in this red jumpsuit. And you are watching a Master Flirt here. Chick is finishing Shawn’s sentences, leaning into the nook, and talking future plans of mutual moguldum… on date one. She has Shawn eating out of her hand. He says as much, “that girl seems like she would consume a man’s mind.”

Just to be extra ass-y, she takes an “Usie” of herself and Shawn on the camel. “So fear me”, she snarks to the ladies back at the house. Um. I love this chick.

After the camel ride, Mecca and Shawn get cuddly in the sand. They toast to their first date. “Team Mecca. Team Shawn, one day being Team Us.” She stole that last part from EJ Johnson, but I ain’t mad at her. Neither is Shawn. They make out underneath the stars, and in the tent. Shawn says he’ll dream about her... “and maybe more than that.” Was that a masturbation joke?

Back at the house, Ness, 24, is looking forward to a date with Shawn because she’s never been in a relationship with a man. Ever. She’s more interested in her curvy housemate, Alexandria, than Shawn. I know why producers picked for her the show, but I desperately want know why she auditioned.

Later, the girls are sitting around hating trying to figure out why Shawn picked Mecca for the first date. (Um. Did you see her ass in that had-to-be-American Apparel one-piece at the construction site? Duh!) Dolly is still talking about Mecca’s sides. I'm unclear.  Shawn doesn’t have a problem, why does she?

Elsewhere in the house, two of the blondes, Jamie and Victoria, have become inseparable and dubbed themselves “The Blonde-tourage.” They seem to have bonded mostly over getting real f—ed up together. Dani is also white and blond, but notes she ain’t a part of whatever they’re on.

In the pool, drunk Victoria tries to start a fight with Jade, a model from New Jersey, who looks sweet an innocent. But Jade was The Wrong One and is probably from  Newark, cause she went from 0 to 100 real quick and shut Victoria all the way down. I ain’t even mad at her.

The “following morning”, Pastor J stops by the house to announce it’s time for another date with Shawn. He picks the two “virgins” — Mercedes and Nes. The logic is there’s no chance at sex anytime soon, so everyone can focus on each other.

Hold up. I need to know how we’re defining virgin. Does becoming celibate make you a virgin? If you’ve had sex with “plenty of women", but you don’t “know” penis in the Biblical sense, are you a virgin? I’m confused. To Mercedes credit, she says "born-again". Nes volunteers herself as one.

Some of the other women feel judged that "the virgins" are picked to date Shawn before them. “It’s like they threw the Scarlet letter on us, and let us walk around with it,” says Dani.

Mercedes and Nes both show up for a yacht date with Shawn wearing all white. (Really, producers? LOL.) Shawn is in all linen, the universal uniform of 21st century Black men on boats.

Nes is nervous to confess that she’s a (sort of) virgin, as is Mercedes. Shawn seems pleasantly surprised, and gives them high-fives. Whew! That could have gone either way. But this is still weird. The two virgins are on a date with one man, and they’re all cuddled up like it’s a threesome.

Eventually, Shawn asks for one-on-one time with each woman, and he starts with Mercedes. Mercedes gives him her best sell: “If I’mma ride or die for Jesus, you know that I’m going to be ride or die for the one I’m meant to be with.” We’ve seen what Shawn looks like when he’s really into a woman. This is what it looks like when he isn’t. He calls Mercedes “awesome” and says he “respects her immensely”. That’s code for Friend Zone.

Nes has had plenty of practice flirting with the ladies, and it translates to men, it seems. A flustered Shawn asks her, “Are your eyes real?” Our usually debonair bachelor is fumbling here. Then he hits her with, “I know I’m the guy that’s worthy of your soul.” That’s straight out of the (dated) Billy Dee/ Harold Melvin handbook. After his time with Nes, Shawn declares, “it was like a Ralph Lauren ad… very sexy.” He’s smitten.

Pastor J texts Shawn and tells him to ask one of the women on a private date. It’s Nes. Surprise, surprise. (That was sarcasm).

The private date is at the gargantuan mansion, in the hot tub, in front of the Roman statues, next to the Olympic size pool. This place is laid the f— out. But what’s more impressive is Shawn taking off his shirt. Yowza!!!!

“This is nothing I’m used to.” Nes says. “I’m used to a womanly body, that’s what turns me on.” Later she admits he is the first man she’s been physically attracted to ever. She was once emotionally attracted to a man in high school. Oh.

What’s certain is Shawn is attracted to her. She’s got a lil' body on her and Shawn is tongue tied again. “You got swag, man. You do,” he slurs. Then, because she’s a flight attendant, he tells her is always wanted to join the Mile-High club. Really, dude? When they kiss, Shawn practically inhales her.  “She has rocketed up to the top of the charts for me,” he says.

Back at the house, we learn Nes doesn’t feel the same way. Shawn was cool and all, but in her confessional, Nes is all about Alexandria. They go out to the jacuzzi to cuddle and Nes tells her about her date with Shawn. I’m unclear what part of the game this is.

Elimination is just around the corner, so Pastor J meets with Shawn to see who he’s feeling. Pastor J is wearing one of Steve Harvey’s suits, pre-Marjoire. The pastor seems like a nice guy, but the pimp connotations of the suits are distracting me. I digress.

At the elimination, Nes decides that she is becoming sexually attracted to Shawn. I thought that was covered in physically attracted, but maybe not. Like I find Amber Rose physically attractive, but I don’t want to do her. I just like looking at her. So maybe that’s the distinction.

Sorry, let me focus. It’s the second elimination and three women are going home. Pastor J gives immunity to “Dani”,  the blonde with all the tats who isn’t always drunk.

Shawn begins sending out his “yay” or “nay” texts. Mecca isn’t the first (or fifth) to receive a “yay” and starts to freak out. She had nothing to worry about, especially not after that "I’m not looking or a man, I’m looking for a champion” line. That was some epic ish. Some anorexic white chick makes fun of Mecca’s weight, suggesting she needs to do sit ups. Again, I ask, but Ma’am, but have you seen her ass tho’?

Brittany, a pretty girl, who has left no impression whatsoever is sent home. Mercedes is saying goodbye as well. She leaves the house wearing a freak’um, stripper heels and clutching a gigantic Bible. (She tweeted me later to say, "We were told to dress this way, not to say that I'm conservative; but I didn't know Christians were tied to the turtle-neck and the long ankle-length skirts uniform. You wanted me to have on my church stockings too huh, with the little #run in em? I'm sorry I thought this was 2015.")

Tanyka aka the chick who looks like Kelly Rowland, but not, and the Blonde-Courage gets called to the pool “to talk.” Everyone wants the drunk blondes to go. They get their wish.

Tanyka is going back to the house. Shawn says he just wanted to give her a head’s up that they haven’t spent anytime together. She deduces that he only called her to the pool to look at her ass, and by the way he stares as she walks off in her heels, I think she’s right.

Shawn is as baffled as to why producers brought on Jamie as the audience is. And I don’t know what antics of hers that were edited out, but our well-mannered bachelor releases the Philly on Jamie. “I do not want you,” he says. Damn, homie, you could have just texted her “We’re not a match”. He tries to explain to Victoria, “it’s not my fault that I don’t want [Jamie].” Now, I really want to know what scene(s) was cut.

Victoria says she doesn’t want to stay if Jamie goes. She gives Shawn a sneak-kiss goodbye, which he promptly wipes off with his handkerchief as the on-looking women cheer. Shawn admits he was fooled by Victoria until now.  “I was attracted to her and she’s crazy,” he says.

Word.

What did you think of Episode 2 of "Match Made in Heaven?"

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Watch Now: WE Tv's "Match Made in Heaven"

I swore up and down I wasn’t taking on any new TV shows this season. Between “Empire”, “Being Mary Jane”, “Scandal” and the return of “Walking Dead” threatening to take over my winter, there was just no room to tap into pop culture and still be productive. But I’m making one more exception this season for WE Tv’s "Match Made in Heaven” (Wednesdays, 8PM, WE Tv), which features “America’s first Black bachelor” (no Flavor Flav and Ray J don’t count.)

I was intrigued after seeing the commercials for the show. I’m a former romance book editor (I started my career editing books for Arabesque and Harlequin) and I love all the romance, wining and dining, and the search to find “The One”. But, I was still skeptical, given the “black bachelor” TV- history of "Flavor of Love" and "For the Love of Ray J”. I wanted to see more connection — as much as you can have filming a show— and less coonery.

Last week, I reached out to “Match Made in Heaven’s” bachelor, Shawn Bullard, to get the scoop, and really, to figure out if the show was worth my time. By the end of the interview, I was sold enough to check out the first episode.

"Black men are not portrayed the best on reality TV,” Bullard admitted. "We’re always yelling and calling women the b-name. I wanted to show another side to us. I wanted to be the professional gentleman, an educated, articulate black man, one who would let the world know that we know how to treat our women, how to court them, how to make them smile, how to talk to them.”

“Match Made in Heaven” follows the standard premise of all the “looking for love” shows. One man, in this case a 34 year old very attractive (and chiseled) millionaire, looking for love amongst a gaggle of ladies who have varying degrees of act-right.

Bullard’s search for love is assisted by Pastor Ken Johnson aka Pastor J, who has been married for 32 years and acts as a “den father” to the women. (There are pimp-ish connotations here because of Pastor J’s choice of suits and overall demeanor, but he’s not skeevy, save for the occasional Nelly quote.) For Bullard, Pastor J functions as an advisor of sorts, one who will point out a woman than Bullard may be overlooking, arrange a date, or save a lady from elimination.

In the first episode, Pastor J warns “Match Made in Heaven" may "get loud and sometimes it’s going to get nasty and ugly.” In our interview, Bullard ranked  the show as just a 2 on the ratchet meter, just enough to keep the audience entertained, but nothing to disgrace The Community.

There’s just a bit of that in the first episode. The group of ladies are mostly in their early 20s, with a few in their early 30s for good measure. The standard outrageous “types” for this sort of show are present. Among the 24, there’s a weedhead, a born-again virgin, a woman who’s “not here to make friends” , a woman I’m pretty sure is an exotic dancer, another woman who I can’t decide is a lesbian or bisexual, and finally an overwhelming assortment of blond white girls (they provide most of the drama), which Bullard doesn’t seem all that interested in so far (confession: I’ve already seen the next couple episodes.) There are also several women— more than normal for a show like this— who appear entirely sane. This is a good thing.

The only thing missing from the debut is Bullard’s mama, Maggie Bullard, who appears in the commercials. I got two words: fired up. And I’m done. I got to more: turn up. And I’m done. Mama Bullard, what I expect “Cookie” from Empire will eventually become, doesn’t show up until Episode 3, and she is worth the wait.

Check out the first episode and tell me what you think.

[embed]http://vimeo.com/119179935[/embed]

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Belle on the TJMS: How to Handle V-Day When You're Single

 

This morning, I called into the Tom Joyner Morning Show to speak with the crew, plus my friend and TJMS correspondent Jacque Reid, about how to celebrate Valentine’s Day if you're single (or about to be). 

Check out the audio here. 

From BlackAmericaWeb.com:

Jacque Reid talks to Demetria Lucas, author of ‘Don’t Waste Your Pretty’ and star of [That Show] about what women should do on Valentine’s Day if they’re single.

“If you’re in a relationship you definitely need to get him a gift. He wants to be pampered just like you. But the end goal is a little sex,” Lucas said.

JR: Should accept gifts from a guy you’re not into:

“If you’re not feeling him you shouldn’t just use him for dinner companionship.”

JR: What if he’s it? There’s no one else?

You need to suck it up and be alone.

JR: What should you do if you’re single:

“This is your day to hang out with your girlfriends, have a staycation, go out to the spa, do all the things in your city that you’ve always wanted to do , but never have time.... Valentine’s Day is not all about romantic love, you have to love yourself before you can expect anyone else to.

Jay: Should ladies send themselves flowers if they don’t have anyone?

I’m not mad it. If you want some roses, buy yourself some roses.

TJ: Is it possible for standards to be too high?

Yes, absolutely. If you can’t meet anyone, at all, ever and there’s a problem with everyone? It’s not them, it’s you.

JR: V-Day can be a make or break time. What if it’s just not working out. Should you cut ties before Valentine’s Day?

Every man in America is gonna be mad at me: No. Stay on and get your flowers and your gifts and have a good day. You put in the work to get that far, you get your reward.

Check out the full interview: HERE

Ask Demetria: The Mother of His Child Wants to Come to Our Wedding

Dear Demetria:

I’m getting married later this year. My fiance’s son is in the wedding and reception, and his mother wants to come to the reception. I said "yes" to the wedding, but she and I aren’t friends. No hard feelings toward her, I just don’t want her at my reception. My fiance said it’s not a big deal. How to handle this? —Anonymous

There’s no “right” answer here. I’ve thought about it a lot, and even I can’t settle on one. Let me present you with some ideas to consider that may help you make a final decision.

First, I don’t get why the ex would want to come to the wedding. It’s not for the kid, no matter how old he is. His father is present, and since it’s a wedding where his father is the groom, there likely will be grandparents, aunts and uncles and maybe even godparents present—i.e., plenty of family and “like family” people to watch over the child. So safety isn’t a valid concern, and surely the child has been alone with his father before.

Maybe this is some sort of closure for her? If she still has feelings for her ex, it could be like when a casket is closed at the funeral. Maybe there’s another way of looking at this. She may be over her child’s father, and her asking to attend the wedding is her way of showing support for the union—and for you, as the soon-to-be stepmother of her child. Not all exes sit around pining for what was.

The ex has been bold enough to ask for an invite, which is supremely bad etiquette. So you should be bold enough to ask her why she wants to come. Don’t be rude, but do be curious. It is a valid question.

Speaking of etiquette, it’s also rude to extend an invite to the wedding but not the reception. “If you invite someone to your wedding, they should be a part of the entire event,” says Lauren Beamon of Elle’s Couture Events (who was also my wedding planner). “Inviting someone to just the ceremony and not the entire wedding is like asking someone to come to a dinner party but telling them they can’t have dinner.”

But beyond the rudeness—and maybe you don’t mind being such on your wedding day—the ceremony is actually the sacred part of the wedding events. The reception is a celebration. You don’t know why your fiance’s ex wants to attend (which is why you should ask, to judge her motives), but on the off chance that she has some ill intentions, what you really don’t want is someone with bad energy sitting there and sending bad juju while she witnesses your vows—or, better yet, objecting to them when the minister asks.

Maybe you’re concerned about paying for her plate at the reception, or just unwilling to do so on general principle. Maybe you just don’t want her there because she’s an ex. I get that, especially the latter reason. But if you’re going to invite her to any part of the festivities, opt for the reception over the ceremony. The ceremony is really the part you need to have go off without a hitch.

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