Sir, Have Some Decorum: On Kanye West Comparing Fiancee Kim K to Michelle Obama

Kanye West has lost his damn mind.  I thought that when he made an ode to Kim Kardashian calling her his “perfect bitch”, then announced she was pregnant for him—while she was still married to someone else— by calling her his “baby mama”. There was that short-lived campaign to get KK a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. This despite Kardashian and Co.’s repeated insistence that they are not acting on their long–running reality show. Oh, and then there are the antics during Ye's latest tour, which features Ye being being hoisted into the air by 10 naked-looking and melanin-deficient women while he screams… Not anything in particular. Just. Screams. (I’m sure there’s some artistic merit to that, or better, I hope there is, but I’m clueless as to what it could be.)

And now, as if to add more grandeur to his delusion, there is Ye’s recent rant that fiancée Kim K is deserving of the same attention of First Lady Michelle Obama. On Monday, speaking at Ryan Seacrest’s radio show, West told the host:

There’s no way Kim Kardashian shouldn’t be on the cover of Vogue. She’s like the most intriguing woman right now. She’s got Barbara Walters calling her like every day ... and collectively we’re the most influential with clothing.

“No one is looking at what [President] Obama is wearing. Michelle Obama cannot Instagram a pic like what my girl Instagrammed the other day.

Sigh.

Earlier this year, two things happened: Justin Timberlake covered the Jacksons' “Shake Your Body (Down To The Ground)”. And by cover, I mean he went there, doing the song and Michael Jackson’s original choreography. Writing for Vulture, Lindsey Weber gushed of the performance, “Can Justin Timberlake just put out an album of Jacksons covers? We mean all the Jackson songs — Michael, Janet, Jackson 5, all of them. It would be outstanding, and he (and his band!) already knows all the appropriate moves."

This combination sent writer Alexander Hardy (aka The Colored Boy) from zero to MF 100:

While JT is generally tolerable provided there are dancers and sangin', groovin', and two-steppin' ass Blacks behind him, one of his appropriation-approving Black friends needs to take the wheel and steer the Motherfucker Please Mobile safely back into the appropriate lane.

He's been allowed to frolic freely as Diet Michael, the empowered part-time impersonator lucky that nobody has ever peeped the counterfeit tags on his Groove. Pulling references, ideas, and rejected albums from Him: safe. "No feelings were harmed in the making of this fake Black song," and shit like that. Similar to how you treat your uncle who's on "that stuff": Ruin YOUR shit, but don't come around here trying to sell Big Mama's couch and fuck up her good credit, scumbag. That's YOUR own, private shit show. Keep your tragedy to yourself, playboy. All ultimately harmless, really.

But a cover of "Shake Your Body (Down To The Ground)?" With the actual choreo? With that soul-free wax paper voice of his?

Bitch, have some decorum.

That last part? That’s actually what I want to say to Kanye. But I’m a life coach and all now, so I try to walk the talk and reel in the thoughts in my head and re-interpret them to something more suitable for civilized and quotable society before they come out my mouth, a skill Kanye would to well to adapt. That “I’mma just say anything” is still mildly amusing even if the schtick is past stale when Ye’s sweating himself and his fiancé only. But when he decided to drag the First Lady & El Presidente into it, a MF* went too far.

You want your lady on the cover of Vogue? Fine. She’ll have a better shot when you get out of her closet and get her her old wardrobe back. Her fashion has been downhill every since you got involved. FYI: because an item of clothing has a European designer label and costs a lot does not automatically make it hot. Kim was “influential” in fashion and doing just fine before you ran up in her walk-in with your personal stylist, the one who kept you in leather pants for the entire summer.

But back to Vogue. Though Kim hasn’t redeemed herself from that monstrosity you put her in for the Met Ball (pictured left), you still want her considered for the cover of Vogue. These latest round of statements assure you’ve already burned your bridge with Anna Wintour. But if you want more beef for just the sake of it, talk about one of the random white girls I can’t identify or distinguish from any of the others, but stares out at me from the Vogue cover each month. Talk about how that random white woman is being celebrated for her fashion while your white woman is an international household name and can’t get on. That’s fair. But to pretend your lady, who for the record, I actually like, think is hot, and find pretty harmless, is worthy of any comparison to the first Black First Lady?

“Sir”, have some decorum.

Barbara Walters calls your chick once a day? That’s nice. Walters is one of the greatest journalists of all time and she’s funny on The View now. But you know who calls Michelle Obama at least threes times a day? The Leader of the Free World, a man whose clothes no one pays attention to because 1) he wears a variation of the same ish every day; and 2) because there are more important things to discuss than fashion when you’re speaking of a man who spends his days RUNNING THE GOT DAMN UNITED STATES.

The difference between your lady and the President’s Lady is his wife doesn’t have to Instagram a pic like what your girl did the other day to keep folks paying attention. Your girl posts a pic of her post-baby ass (because that's why she's relevant) and the Internet goes wild. Michelle Obama cuts her bangs (and remains fully dressed) and it has a similar effect, except way, way bigger. And she gets the cover of Vogue. Twice.

There’s levels to this ish, according to Meek Mill. And there’s a cute little spoof making the Internet rounds right now of what First Lady Michelle Obama would say in response to your latest meltdown if she actually cared, that sums it up well. This is my favorite part of faux Michelle’s response:

I once overheard some of our summer interns talking about you — about how mad you get when you're compared to other rappers, because your peers are Jesus and Jobs and Walt Disney.

So you have to understand where I'm coming from when I say it's laughable for my 21-year marriage to be mentioned on the same website as your thing with Kim.

Imagine if someone compared you to Papoose, Kanye. Well, you're Barack's Papoose. And yes, Kim is my Remy Ma.

You and yours and President Obama and his both hang out with Beyonce’ (and Jay) at social events, and it seems you’ve somehow come to think this makes you and Kim all in the same gang with the Obamas.

For clarity, it does not.

*I added a “motherfucker so ig’ant folks can hear me.

For Men Who Hate Scandal Because A Black Woman Humping A Powerful White Man Is Too Much

I wish I could take credit for this one. It's everything I've ever wanted to say, but notably didn't put so cleanly, about the backlash to 'Scandal'. Dear Urban Sophisticate, you won for this one!!!   "Our society also suggests that women live and navigate their lives by the directions of a moral compass created by men but not followed by men. Enough of the double standards, if she’s a bed wεnch whοre then what does that make him?   "Let’s take a look at some of the entertainment choices of men: Strip clubs, pοrn, hip-hop music, and Hollywood movies — all of which we find so fascinating. But where’s our moral compass on these things? Broken, huh? We find fault in the scandalous occurrences in the show “Scandal” with Olivia Pope and Fitz but what about the degrading music in hip-hop? The dehumanizing scenes in pοrn flicks? The objectification of women exuded in many movies and music videos? We’re allowed to enjoy these forms of entertainment without too much of a peep from our female counterparts.

"Fellas, it’s understandable how you can feel the show is lacking some sense of morality. The problem is, before you attack the morality of women who watch the show, hold up a mirror at your choices of entertainment. If you’re so concerned about Scandal showing black women in a negative light, then hold your favorite rappers accountable, hold the movie directors accountable, the womanizers you call friends accountable, but ultimately hold yourself accountable for the actions that you commit that may be disrespectful to Black women." Welp.

Ask Demetria: Separate Bedrooms at Mom's House: A Black Thing?

"My girlfriend and I are planning to visit my mother. She's upset because my mother has told us we'll have to sleep in separate rooms, since we are not married. My girlfriend says I let my mother push me around too much, but my mother has always had these rules. My girlfriend is now suggesting that this is being done because she is white. Help!" --U.H.  Maybe you do have a habit of letting your mother push you around too much. I have no clue. But on the issue of separate rooms, there's not much you can do, and you don't have much of a leg to stand on. You and your lady are traveling to your mother's home, and since Mama pays the mortgage, she gets to create whatever rules she sees fit for her house. It's a dictatorship, not a democracy.   And this rule, about unmarried young adults not sharing a room, is pretty common for black households. I'm sure there's at least one set of random black parents who are like, "Sure! Sleep together!" but I haven't met them or heard of them yet.

The stories I do hear illustrate what extremes many black families take with this rule. For instance, after reading your query, I joked with my mother that my fiance and I should be able to share a room this Thanksgiving, since, you know, we're getting married. Her response: "Was there a wedding ceremony that I didn't attend?" Bottom line: A "ring on it" isn't good enough to share a bed in her home; only a marriage license grants permission.

I mentioned your story to a friend, who responded with a story about how her mother once told her own 60-something brother who was visiting with his live-in girlfriend that they had to sleep in separate rooms. Being an unquestionably grown man and all, who wanted to sleep next to his woman, he wasn't happy about that. But it was either abide by his sister's rules for her home, don't visit or pay for a hotel. He went with his sister's rules.

Read more: here 

The Root: The Truth About Being the Other Woman

Last week, former Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick was sentenced to 28 years in prison for corruption. Even though Kilpatrick's name has become synonymous with corrupt politics, most people outside of Detroit don't know the details of the case that landed Kilpatrick a conviction in March for racketeering conspiracy, fraud, extortion and tax crimes.  To some people, including me, Kilpatrick is best-known for carrying on an affair with his chief of staff. It was a highly publicized and salacious situation that came to light when the Detroit Free Press printed the racy text messages between Kilpatrick and Christine Beatty.

In 2009 they both served time -- 99 days for Kilpatrick for obstruction of justice and 120 days for Beatty for lying under oath. His ongoing court cases and recent conviction and sentencing have kept Kilpatrick in the news, but less has been known of Beatty, who has flown under the radar -- until now.

The November issue of Essence magazine (which features Scandal star Kerry Washington on the cover) carries a three-page personal essay (not available online) by Beatty, "A Real-Life Scandal," about the fallout from her affair with Detroit's ex-mayor. It's a juicy read, but Fitz and Olivia it is not. Unlike the couple in TV's most riveting political affair, the real-life story of the other woman is painful, tragic and, ultimately, just plain sad.

Read more: here

The Other Side of the Game Pt. 3

In case you missed it: Part 1, Part 2  The morning I was supposed to be dressing for the brunch that like everybody would be at—except me—I got a call from my boy, the first one I mentioned. He was frantic. He wanted me to cross state lines and come visit him.

A few months prior, he’d moved to Jersey into a "luxury" building, what he described as a two-bedroom with a doorman, a high floor and a view of the Manhattan skyline from his bedroom. It sounded like heaven to me, who was living in a long-ago renovated one-bedroom on the top floor of seen-better-days townhouse in Park Slope. My place was big—for a NYC apartment— and I had an office and plenty of closet space. It was five minutes walking distance from a row filled with resties and boutiques for clothes I couldn't afford. For a first apartment, it was  “cute”. The floors sloped, which my mother found appalling, and if I stuck out both arms in the bathroom, I could touch both walls. It wasn't much, but it was home and in Brooklyn.

Anyway, it was important. He needed to talk and didn’t want to do it over the phone. I only agreed to leave Brooklyn on a weekend because 1) he was never frantic; 2) I’d already let one friend down that week; and 3) traveling to Jersey beat sulking in my apartment alone because I was missing The Best Brunch Ever.

The directions to Jersey involved a 45-minute train ride to the city, a 20 minute trip on the Path, then a long ride on a shuttle bus to my boy’s building. It took forever to get there and I couldn’t imagine how my boy made this trip after the parties without a car.

I get off the bus and look out at the view of Manhattan on the other side of the water. Geezus. He didn’t lie about the view. It’s gorgeous. I look at the address I scribbled down, then up at the building in front of me. It’s a high rise, but not a luxury building. Inside, there’s no doorman. Is this the right building?

I call him to double-check. He assures me the address is correct.

I look for the elevator, but there isn’t one. His apartment is 5C, a fifth floor walk-up. Huh?

He greets me, panting, at the door. He smells like Newports when he hugs me “hello.” There’s a pile of butts in the ashtray. He looks as frantic as he sounded on the phone.

I look around at the apartment. Decent, like mine, but nothing to write home about, like mine. He shows me around the place. From his room, you actually can see Manhattan… if you stick your head awkwardly all the way in the corner , almost like you’re looking around something. I can’t see the view from the other bedroom because that’s his roommate’s room. He didn’t mention he had one prior.

“D, I fucked up,” he says, when we settle on the futon.

The short version: he’s $20,000 in debt.  The Life he was living? On credit. He, too, thought he was doing something wrong, grinding all those hours, and still making no real money. And he hung out with the brand marketers who while only 5-6 years older than us, were living the life he—and I—wanted. And he wanted to be part of the team, not like the “little brother” and so he made a decision to look and live the part, like he was one of them and somehow it was all supposed to square up on the back end. Eventually. he'd make what they made, or he'd get some sort of windfall from doing a big party and then he'd be even. But until that "somehow" or windfall happened, he wasn't willing to suffer through mediocrity like a civilian* or appear like someone who wanted to be put on. He wanted to be on.

And he was. When they traveled, he traveled. When they spent, he spent. When they got fly, so did he. The difference was he was spending his own money; their lifestyle was being sponsored by corporate brands.

He’d only figured this out the day before, after he’d maxed out his second card buying a last-minute plane ticket to MIA for the VMAs and booking a suite at the Lowes. But it was “worth it” because his boy, one of the promoters, or, er, branders, had scored an extra ticket for him to attend the show too. The group was hosting an unofficial after-party.

So my boy hit up his own boy to find out what flight he was on, and dude informed him that the party they were throwing fell through and he wasn’t going to Miami.

My boy: huh? I already bought my ticket.

His boy: You got it big baller. I’mma be like you when I grow up.

My boy: What do you mean you’re not going?!

His boy: [XX brand] ain’t paying, so I ain’t playing. I’mma sit this one out.

My boy: *_^_^ ___________*

He was a newbie. In the industry for less than a year, he hadn’t figured out how to play the real game, the one no one really talks about, but most of the people you look at and think, “LIVING!” are playing,especially if they work in entertainment or finance or Corporate America, or are celebs whose Life you might envy.

My boy was devastated. “D, what am I gonna do? I might have to file for bankruptcy.” *

Twenty thousand was a number I couldn’t even fathom. It was more than half my salary at my 9 to 5. More than triple what was in my savings account (before Miami).

I reach for a cigarette, he lights it and we both slump back on the futon.

“Dude”, I finally say after a long exhale. “Fu-uuuck.”

Epilogue

My boy didn’t file for bankruptcy. He moved home—out of NYC—and in with his folks. He got a job, and paid off the debt in a year. He is now a VERY successful business owner, largely due to his ability to implement the NYC model of lifestyle branding in another city. And yes, he lives The Life... when someone else is paying.

*civilian: (n) 1. someone who doesn't work in the fashion, entertainment industry. 2. people who pay for parties. 3. person who works a government job. 4. anyone who could be described as "wack"

The Other Side of the Game Part 2

The Other Side of the Game, Part 1 This happened: My boy, a different one, threw a brunch for his birthday a week after I got back from Miami. Me and three friends had gone down for a week—four of us in a double room at the “good” Marriott by Nikki Beach. We ate, drank, and partied well. We shopped too and I went goo gobs over budget acting like I had the ends of my friend with the inheritance.

The invite to my boy’s party listed the all-you-can-drink brunch at $70, including tax and tip. For brunch? I could cover the cost, but I didn’t have it. And by “have”, I mean I’d realized there was a certain number in my savings account that made me feel secure, and if I dipped below it—even further— I’d get moreanxious.

I had a goal number I was trying to reach for the year, and Miami, though worth it, had put a severe dent in my plans. I wanted to go to the birthday brunch and I played with possibilities of how many extra hours I could spend fact-checking or what stories I could pitch to build my savings back up. But in the end, I just wasn’t willing to swing it, and even for my boy’s birthday, it wasn’t worth it. $70 for brunch?!

And because I couldn’t think of it as “pfft. What’s $70?” I felt like a loser. Everyone else seemed to be able to do everything they wanted, and I had to pick and choose. Life isn’t fair, but I wanted it to be anyway.

I tried to cheer myself by leaving my debit card at the office and window-shopping on my lunch break. I was wandering thru a maze of clothes I couldn’t afford when I was interrupted.

“Shopping for my party?” he asked.

It was the birthday boy, loaded down with bags from the expensive department store. I hadn’t sent the email telling him I wouldn’t make it because I was a loser because that made me feel more like one. This awkward confrontation was my fault.

“Actually, no,’” I told him meekly. “I’m not going to make it.”

It was his birthday and he was my friend, so of course, he glared at me and pointedly asked, “Why?” not bothering to hide his irritation.

MC Breed said there was no future in fronting, so I told the truth. “I can’t afford it. I’d have to buy a dress, and maybe shoes, and then there’s the cost of brunch…” I rambled.

He shrugged. “Don’t you have a credit card?”

I did. But it was for emergencies.

I don’t know what look I gave him, but whatever it was, it inspired him to tell me that was how he was paid for everything, including the new suit, and shoes, and tie(s) and socks he’d just purchased to be fly for his party.

“Just put it on your card, “ he advised, like it was that simple. And maybe it was for him. But it wasn’t for me. It was unfathomable for me to put a $70 brunch (!)on my credit card for two reasons:

1. I was proud of myself for financing my move to NYC without going into debt. I’d decided that debt was for school loans, buying property and getting out of major jams only. Or when I leave my debit card—never in my wallet—at home and find myself buying lunch at work with no other means to pay for it.

2. Upon moving back to NYC, I’d immediately developed this phobia of not being able to make it in New York and having to head back home. Again. I was – and am—terrified of going broke. There’s still a number—a much higher one—where I will become anxious (and unbearable) if one of my accounts falls below it, even for a “good” reason.

I’d gone out of my financial mind in Miami. I had to reel it in and be responsible again if wanted to make it to thirty without worry lines. I was saving money for… I dunno. But do you really need a reason to save?* I stuck to my decision to skip the brunch. He told me what an amazing time I’d be missing and all the people that I really wanted to get to know who would be there. I felt even more like a loser when I got back to my desk, but at least my friend knew I couldn't make it advance.

Read more: Friday

The Other Side of the Game Part 1

I have to give a nod to Boyce Watkins for putting me on to  “’25 Sitting On 25 Mill’: Why Rap Culture Is Ruining Our Generation’s Perception of Money”. Writer Jennifer Sanchez put into words an issue that I’ve thought about often, but for some reason I’ve never written about.  Sanchez (hilariously*) writes:   Here I am: 25 and employed by a company that pays me pretty well. That’s all well and good, but where the hell is my Lamborghini?!   This is bullsh*t.

Our generation has grown up thinking that we are young, we are talented, and we deserve boats and h**s.

It seems as if somehow, we have all seen the exception, and now believe that this is the standard of living.  Every time I go out with my friends, the boys in our group decide that we have to get a table. No matter the financial situation any of us are in, we are going to party at a table that costs a grand.  We are going to drink Ciroc that is way too expensive and sit in a crowded room that is way too sweaty, and we are going to take Instagram pictures because THIS IS HOW WE LIVE.

We have rented limos to drive us around for nights of club hopping, planned weekend trips to Atlantic City to stay in presidential suites, and bought VIP tickets to events that were completely unnecessary. Why?  Because Big Sean does it. A$AP Rocky does it. Because Tyga hasn’t had a hit since “Rack City”, and even he does it. So, why don’t we?

The reason why I share this is because I know I’m not the only one.  One conversation with coworkers, or a quick scroll through my Twitter timeline, shows that our whole generation is buying Louis Vuitton belts, going to Miami for our best friend’s birthday, and trying to finance things we really can’t afford. I call this hilarious-- and strikingly honest--  because it’s a woe as old as time itself. That, and change the name brands and the rappers mentioned and nix social media, and I could have written this excerpt 9 years ago, but far less well.

So now I have to tell you a story (or three).

This year was the first in four that I didn’t work July 4 weekend. When I worked at The Magazine, I worked—all day and all night— at their annual music festival. The year after I left, a sponsor picked up the tab to send me down to work their booth, and of course, enjoy the festivities.

I wanted to go this year too—since it was now a tradition and all—but eh… I wasn't paying for it because I've never paid for it. Why start now?

So over the holiday weekend this year, I’m prancing around Brooklyn and run into a good friend, who I connected with while working at the festival all those times. Currently, he is on a network TV show and has had a long career as a working actor. If I told you his name, you’d immediately know who he is.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked when I saw him hanging out CBW’s favorite spot. I expected him to be in New Orleans as usual. He was a staple at the festival, there every year I was, and many years long before that.

“I was about to ask you the same”, he said.

I laughed. “Brands wasn’t paying, so I ain’t playing,” I said.

He smirked, and laughed too. “Same here.”

A decade ago, I moved to New York. I had a city job that barely covered the bills and had great benefits. I freelanced for magazines on the side back when even as a novice, writing a quick profile of a new artist for a black publication could put enough in your account to afford a RT plane ticket to Miami. Every other week, I worked Friday night after working my main job, and 14 hours on both Saturday and Sunday as a fact checker for a sports magazine that paid exceptionally well by the hour.  With all the jobs combined, I was able to etch out a living that allowed me to hang out with my finance crew—on the rare occasions I wasn’t working—and not be considered the “broke friend.”

I had a friend—genuine friend, no “” needed—  then, a guy who recently moved to NYC and taken an entry-level job on the business side of a popular magazine. He rolled with these “older” guys who worked there and did parties on the side, but called themselves “a brand marketing group” instead of promoters.

As the newbie, my friend took pictures at their events. He never told me how much he made and I never asked. I knew about what his job at the magazine paid, so I guessed we were in the same income bracket on the 9 to 5, but I figured he must make crazy money taking pictures because he lived a life I could only fathom.

Between the two jobs, he grinded—sun up to sun coming back up on some nights when he was working parties with the group.  And he rewarded himself handsomely. Fresh outfits and fresh kicks for every event. A bottle or a table every place he went even when it wasn’t “his” event.  When he traveled—often and to every major industry event in another city — it was first class and suites at the best hotels in Miami, LA, Las Vegas, etc. Tickets to every artist performance, and front row at that.

Clearly, I was doing something wrong. I worked. I grinded. 13 days on, 1 day off for that first year. If I budgeted (and had the time off and didn’t have a deadline), I could treat myself to traveling coach and stay in a standard room in a nice hotel. I could buy a bag, a pretty dress, and afford a fancy meal and a concert. But those were treats, not a lifestyle. I didn’t want to splurge every now and again. I wanted to live The Life like my boy.

I knew women my age who lived The Life—largely off their backs, even if they would swear up and down that wasn’t the case. I had one friend who received a large inheritance—I knew the amount—and even she didn’t have it like that. I wanted to live it and I was willing to work for it. But try as I might, I couldn’t figure it out.

I was doing something wrong, but what?

Part 2: Wednesday

The Root: 10 Types of Black Guys Every Woman Has Dated

Earlier this week the Washington Post published a list of "The 10 D.C. Guys We've All Dated." It included "the chill Republican dude" who wears shirts with whales on them, "the organic kale guy" who makes homemade quiche and "the Clarendon guy" who downs shots of Fireball and never misses brunch. While I'm sure there are chill black Republicans with whale shirts, black guys who enjoy organic greens and those who never miss Sunday brunch, the list read as if it were made for a certain population -- namely the yuppie 20- and 30-something transplants who have taken over the city -- and some black readers just didn't get it or weren't feeling it.

"What a biased list," wrote one commenter, who created her own (hilarious) list of black "types" one may encounter in the nation's capital. "It's sad stories like this [that] overlook the people who have been living in this city for generations. HELLO! We are still here and we read the paper too."

Well, we at The Root heard you loud and clear, and we've created our own, more inclusive list of "The 10 Guys Black Women From Anywhere May Actually Have Dated" -- hopefully only briefly.

1. The God

At 35 he has two degrees, a six-figure income, no kids and a mortgage. And yes, he's straight. On paper, he sounds ideal. How is he single? Because in person he's a nightmare. He's convinced himself that his presence is a present, and he reminds you of that (and his "accomplishments") at every opportunity.

• 2. The 'Single' Husband

  Of course you didn't know he was married, or you never would have given him your number. But he conveniently left out that tidbit of info when he approached at happy hour.

  You're on the phone with him one late evening and hear a woman's voice in the background. "Who's that?" you ask.

  "Oh, that's just my wife," he says casually, as if he's explaining that the dog was barking. "Is that a problem for you?" he inquires.

  You don't understand what type of relationship he and his wife have, but the point is they have one, and you are out. Click.

• 3. The Conspiracy Theorist

  Everything boils down to someone trying to keep a brother, well, down. A fictitious TV heroine dating a white guy? The white man devaluing black love. He gets cut off in traffic? The white man trying to make him late for work. Valentine's Day? Another way the white man gets the black man to spend money to keep a brother broke.

  4. The Brother Who Doesn't Really Like Black People

• If you published the transcript to any of his rants on what's wrong with black people, it would read like the minutes from a KKK meeting. According to him, the sum of black culture is baby daddies, piss-poor morality, consumerism and fried chicken. In defense of black people you mention jazz music, red-velvet cake and Jesus, who had hair like lamb's wool. You remind this brother that he is actually black. He promptly lists all his nonblack ancestors to distance himself from the race.

5. The Drunk

He doesn't think he has a drinking problem because he consumes top-shelf booze from a crystal tumbler. This is supposed to separate him from the college student drinking mystery punch from a red cup. But it doesn't matter how or what he drinks if he gets frat-boy wasted all the same. With a few pours in his system, this otherwise mild-mannered and emotionally conservative man is prone to instigating a fight at the club or doing his best Drake impression from "Marvin's Room". Of course, he remembers none of it the next day.

Read more: here

Timing Is Everything (Another London Story), The End

In case you missed it: Part 1, Part 2 In 2002, I’m back in the same position I was the summer of ’99. I moved to New York for graduate school, graduated, then couldn’t find a job so I moved back home to Maryland. I never unpack the boxes of my stuff because that would be like accepting that living in Maryland is permanent. I’m dating a guy, Blue Eyes, who I’ve given the same speech I once gave Logan about not wanting anything serious, and yet again, I’m in some weird emotional entanglement.

There’s also another guy too, "Dude", who I see at the club every weekend and who I have a school girl crush on, but he’s never asked for my number. But neither of them—the latter for obvious reasons—was going to stop me from moving to New York (although Blue Eyes gave me serious reservations about leaving.)

I got a call with a job offer in the city. I took it immediately. I went to the city and found an apartment in three days. That apartment didn’t have central air. That’s how my mother and I ended up at a department store one afternoon looking for an AC unit.

Some salesman is explaining BTUs to us and I’m trying to guess how big my apartment is since in a rookie mistake, I never measured the rooms. He's trying to get us to take the bigger one “just to be sure” and I’m trying to figure out if it will fit in the window, which I also forgot to measure— another rookie mistake.

And then I hear my name, “[Belle]?!”

I turn around to see a guy coming toward me hurriedly and all wide-eyed. Mum actually recognizes him first. “Isn’t that… that boy?”, she aks.

Well, thanks for all that detail, Mum.

He smiles. I’d remember that smile anywhere. And then it all comes back. Well, the end of it anyway.

He walks up happy to see me, and I stand there looking at him. “You remember me, right? Logan?”

I purse my lips to keep from smiling. The good stuff’s coming back now too.

“I do.”

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’m good. You?”

“Did you like London?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t write me back.”

So much for small talk, huh? I look around to see where Mum is. I'm hoping she's close so I can avoid this conversation, but no, she’s off somewhere with the salesman looking at even bigger air conditioners. Here we go.

“You thought I would after your letter?” I ask.

“You should have,” he insists.

Oh, really?

“What else was there to say?”

“A lot. If you called when you got back you might have wanted to hear what I had to say too.”

I look at him blankly, refusing to egg him on. He studies me, seeming to debate whether he wants to say it now. Understandable. He is at work at all. And I'm not exactly a willing participant in this conversation.

“Let me take you out," he offers. "We can talk about it.”

He flashes that smile. Apparently, he’s fully aware now of the affect it has on women. God, he's cute.  I wish we had a different history.

I shake my head. “No point. I’m moving to New York.”

“You got into grad school?” he asks like he's excited for me.

He remembered, but he’s a little late. “I finished grad school in December. I’m moving up there permanently this time.” Or I hope it's permanent.

“Always on the move, huh?” He chuckles. “So let me call you then.” It’s a statement, not a question. It requires me to give him my new number, a 917, not a 240 like back in the day. I’d had it changed the first night I moved to New York for grad school.

“How old is your kid?” I ask. I suddenly want to have this conversation now, if for no other reason than he's acting like everything is fine when it isn't and I want to wrap up every loose end before I leave.

“That’s the thing. My ex? She had a miscarriage!” He exclaims that his ex lost their baby with the same joy a doctor would announcing, “It’s a boy!”

I don’t know if he realizes how fucked up that sounds, but I do.  “Wow… that’s… I’m sorry to hear that.” I’m completely thrown off not just by the news, but his supreme delight over it.

“I’m not,” he says nonchalantly. “So can I call you?”

Like. Wow. I laugh—not giggle—because I don’t know what else to do. “Uh… I need to go find my mom. I’m leaving tomorrow and we got errands and…”

He gets it. “That’s a no, huh?"

I shrug awkwardly. “Yeah, that’s a no.”  I nod, trying to find something else to say to officially end this conversation politely and thankfully, he lets me off the hook.

“Well, it was good seeing you, D. Good luck in New York. I’ guess I’ll just read your byline sometime, huh?”

I tell him thanks, and wander off to find my mother at the register.

Fin.

Timing Is Everything (Another London Story)

When I was 20, I studied abroad in London. But that’s not the part that matters (and I’ve told that story many times before), this is: the summer before I left for the UK, I was at a local electronics store in June, shopping for CDs and met a guy. I hadn’t handed out my number to anyone in months and I was deliberately in between boyfriends. I planned to spend the summer and the rest of the year unattached. I’d never been to London, didn’t know what promises it held and I didn’t want there to be anything holding me back or distracting me from exploring any and all options I might encounter abroad.

Dating and relationships are hard enough without distance. And what I really didn’t want was to get attached to someone, head overseas and spend my whole time yearning to be at home. Or worse, to get over there, yearn for my significant other, then he breaks up with me because he meets someone else/ can’t do the distance. Then I’d be overseas nursing myself through a break up.

So in that aisle in the electronics store when he, Logan, introduced himself and asked, “you got a man?” I told him, “Nah, and not looking for one” and I meant it.

He scrunched up his face because I guess women don’t say that too often. So I explained, “I’m going away for awhile. I don’t want to miss anyone.”

“You think you’ll miss me?” He said with the cockiness of Denzel in “Mo Better Blues.”

Now, if you’re gonna date a man who reminds you of Denzel, the goal is Denzel in the latter half of “Malcolm X”, or Denzel in “John Q”, or “The Great Debaters”. Even troubled but loyal Denzel in “Antoine Fischer”. But “Training Day” Denzel or “Flight” Denzel, and “Mo Better Blues” Denzel are not the Denzels you’re supposed to go for. In one he was a psychopath, in another he was an alcoholic and in the latter, he had severe honesty and commitment issues. But good Lord, did he have swagger. And at 20, that still counted for something.

I laughed at his question. Ok, giggled. “I might”, I told him.

“Then let me get your number then,” he said. He flashed a smile, pearly, pretty, even, but with enough imperfections to show he didn’t ever have braces. It was perfect… to me.

I smiled, that same knowing smile (less luminous) that Nina gave Darius when he stood at her doorstep after their first date and said, “I just want to come up and talk”, and rattled off my number.

Turns out, he was boyfriend material. Underneath the swagger at our introduction was a guy who was funny and silly and goofy in a totally un-annoying way, and he was also attentive, and smart and insightful. We would talk for hours about nothing and everything or sometimes just sit in silence and be content. We were immediately comfortable. Oh, and that perfect smile was framed by perfect lips and he was a great kisser.

That summer, I go to that electronics store as often as humanly possible under the guise of needing new music, a new Disc Man, batteries, and anything that I could conveniently get anywhere else, but couldn’t just say “hi” to Logan.

He’d come by after work in his uniform and we’d hang out in my parents’ basement. We’d go out to Jasper’s, a nearby restaurant with cheap, good food and strong drinks. He was 22, so he’d order a Bone Crusher and I’d sneak sips from his glass when the waitress wasn’t looking.

Anyway, we carry on this way for the whole summer. And of course, it goes from two people pretending to be friends to two people pretending they aren’t more than friends. I like him. A lot. But I’ve got a line in the sand. I’m not going to London with a boyfriend or a "situation" either.

In the last moments I’m with him before I leave, we're hanging out in my basement as usual. Before midnight, I walk him upstairs and we go out on the porch. I say to him awkwardly, “so this is it.” I don’t really want it to be, but I’m looking at the big picture of what I want, not the distracting details of what I have. He asks for my address – because in 1999 everyone did not have email or an Internet connection-- and says he’ll stay in touch. I think it’s a nice thing to say, but I don’t expect him to. Nice gesture though. Told you he was a good guy.

“You’ll call me when you get back, right?” he says.

I promise that I will. I kiss him goodbye, savoring his thick bottom lip, and he goes on his way. I go to my bedroom to continue packing.

To be continued...

The Spring Break That Never Should Have Happened, Part 4

IN CASE YOU MISSED IT: The previous 'chapters to "The Spring Break That Never Should Have Happened" are here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3  

The bail bondsman isn’t there when Margaret, the officer and I arrive at the jail. I heed my mother’s advice to take care of Margaret and plead with the officer not to put her behind bars, insisting (lying) that the bondsman is on his way. It doesn’t work. He tells Margaret to give me her jewelry.

I don’t know how I know to ask him if Margaret will be put in gen pop or solitary. Maybe criminal justice class? (I did want to be a lawyer for a while.) The officer says for the first 24 hours Margaret will have her own cell. After that—Jesus!—she will be with the other women. There’s no way we’ll be here that long… is there?

I wait in the visitor’s area, seated in front of a row of counters that look kind of like what you see at the bank. The glass here is bullet proof too. There are phones on each side of the glass. Wow. Just like TV.

Margaret is processed in the back. I know from the one time in high school where my civics class went on a “field trip” to the country jail* that she’s being finger printed and her mug shot taken. I wonder if they’ll make her put on different clothes.

I check my watch. It’s inching up to 5AM. The bail bondsman should have been here by now.

I hear a knock and look up to see Margaret standing at the window, on the other side of the bulletproof glass. I run up to the window and yell, “Are you ok?”

She points to the phone on her side of the glass. I pick it up and yell again, “ARE YOU OK?”

“You don’t have to yell,” she says, laughing at me. She has on the same clothes. Her elbow is casually rested on the counter, her hand up to her mouth which is slightly open. She is what we call back home, blown.

“What. The. Fuck, Meach?” she asks. “What. The. Fuck?”

“I—“ I don’t know what to say. “I don’t even know, Mar.”

“I need a cigarette,” she says.

“Should I put money in your commissary?” I joke.

She tells me that her cell is small, but clean, and affirms that she is alone. “Jail is nothing like Oz,” she says. “Go figure.”

I tell her I talked to her mother, that she actually didn’t freak out, and that a bail bondsman is (allegedly) on the way. We debate how once we get home, how long it will be before either of us are allowed to drive again.

“Weeks?” she asks.

“At least a month,” I counter.

“You think? That means they’ll have to drive us where we need to go like we’re in high school.”

“Dude, once they drop us back at campus, they’re not coming to get us until the semester’s over.”

“Shit. You’re right.”

At some point we do Celie and Nettie’s patty cake routine from “The Color Purple” through the glass because we’re assholes and if we don’t keep laughing, we’ll start crying.

Eventually, a guard comes to tell Margaret that she has to go back to her cell. I knock on the glass to tell him that the bail bondsman is real close and if could just wait… Either he can’t hear me, he ignores me or both. He says something stern to Margaret (I can tell by his body language). She hangs up the phone and waves “goodbye.” At least she doesn’t look nervous.

I slump back in my seat and reach for my phone to call my Mom again and ask if she can call the bail bondsman to find out where he is.  As I fumble around in my bag, the Exit door squeaks open. It’s a portly Black man in a suit like the ones Steve Harvey wears on “Showtime At the Apollo” and a hat like this. I can’t tell if he’s a preacher or a pimp. Sometimes they wear the clothes.

“You Deme-trah?” the man asks, mispronouncing my name.

I don’t correct him. I do nod.

“Girl, your Daddy sent me. I’m Mr. Francis.”

AKA The bail bondsman.

Mr. Francis tells me to stay put—like I was going anywhere—and heads into the back office, greeting the staff like he works there. In a way, I guess he does. He’s gone about 10 minutes, and when he comes back, Margaret is with him. Her eyes are wide and her face reads, “WTF?” I know she has commentary on Mr. Francis. I ignore that and hug her like I’m Celie and she’s Nettie.

We follow Mr. Francis out to the parking lot, and I want to tie up the loose ends before we head back to Maryland. I pause at the exit door to ask Mr. Francis if he needs anything else and if my Dad took care of everything because we’re about to get on the road.

“Girl, where you think you going?” Mr. Francis laughs and literally his belly shakes. “You’re staying in Virginia tonight.”

The reasoning is that 1) it’s too late (or early, depending on how you look at it) to drive; 2) we haven’t slept all night; and 3) Mr. Francis’s neighbor told him to take care of Margaret and I like we were Mr. Francis’s daughters. That means Mr. Francis is putting us up in a hotel and we can leave after a good night’s rest.

There’s more to it, of course. Mr. Francis is taking care of us because the wire transfer into his bank account takes a few hours to clear. Normally, he wouldn’t have put up any money until the money was in his account, but his neighbor has vouched for my Dad, and Margaret and I.  But Mr. Francis, whether he’s a pimp or preacher, is clearly a man about his motherf***in money. If this situation were to be taken out of context, Margaret and I are being held for ransom until Mr. Francis is paid.

Mr. Francis says he’s taking us to a hotel, and directs us to follow him in our car. “Do you think you can stay within the speed limit, ladies?” he jokes and chuckles to himself. We had that one coming.

Margaret and I watch from the steps in front of the jail as Mr. Francis gets into his Lexus. The car sinks when he does.

Margaret waits for his door to close before she says anything, then finally, “Meach?”

“Yes, Mar?”

“You know your father sent a pimp to bail me out of jail, right?”

Part 5: Monday. (It's written.)

*Quick story: I went to a mostly white school. My 10^th grade Civics teacher decided a trip to jail would be a great way to see the penal system at work. Me and my Black classmate —a Kool Aid drinking type —are the only Black people. I do NOT want to go on this trip for the obvious reason, Black people don’t visit jail for amusement. Anyway, get to the jail, go in the guard’s room that overlooks an indoor recreation area. There are 300 Black men of varying adult ages behind thick glass. Maybe 5 Latinos, no white men or Asian men.

They can see us. We can see them.  The adult men start hooting and hollering, gesturing at us, mostly girls, all of us between the ages of 14-15. The white chicks in my class are visibly TERRIFIED, despite the glass, despite the guards. Our teacher picks up on this quickly, hustles us out the room.

In the van on the way back to school, one of the girls asks me, “weren’t you scared?”  I wasn’t actually. One, because there was bullet proof glass. Two, at 14-15 being objectified and harassed by older Black men from 18-70, even in groups, is like, normal. Because of the glass, I felt safer in jail than on the street.

The Grio: Who Makes Fun of Harriet Tubman?

Who makes fun of Harriet Tubman? Russell Simmons. That’s who.  Yesterday evening, a curious hashtag began to appear on Twitter, #harriettubmansextape. It was a video spoof, billed as “an off-record account of how Harriet Tubman blackmailed her master into letting her run the Underground Railroad!”   No. I’m not making this up.  I couldn’t if I tried.   The black abolitionist, who was born into slavery, escaped and put her freedom and life on the line repeatedly to free her family and other enslaved African-Americans via the Underground Railroad. And yesterday on All Def Digital (ADD), Russell Simmons’ new YouTube channel, this powerful and courageous black woman was reduced to a sexual parody.

In the “re-enactment,” Tubman (Shanna Malcolm) seduces her white master (Jason Horton).

“Oh, Massa, all these years I’ve been acting like I didn’t enjoy our special time together,” Tubman says, alluding to previous rapes. “But tonight, that’s all going to be different.”

Tubman’s cooning co-conspirator (DeStorm Power), another enslaved African, hides in the closet with a video camera. He encourages Tubman to “drop it like a hot comb” as she bends over. Post-coitus, Tubman threatens to tell her enslaver’s wife about their “affair.” He argues no one will believe her. Tubman offers a knowing glance to the audience watching and tells him to “get to work on that railroad, white ni**a”.

Somehow this video was supposed to be funny, but I didn’t laugh (or know of anyone who did). But Russell Simmons, the same man who rallied for justice in the Trayvon Martin case and against Don Lemon’s ignorance and domestic violence when a young rapper was seen on video attacking a woman, managed to find the video hilarious.  “[it’s the] funniest thing I’ve ever seen” he tweeted yesterday.

[video width="300" height="250" id="akRu9oyJT9U" type="youtube"]

Oh, is it now? Funnier than Def Comedy Jam even?

I don’t find anything, at all, amusing about the rape of black women or the debasement of a respected American icon. And given the collective outrage when Lil Wayne rapped of his desire to “beat that pu**y up like Emmett Till,” an allusion to the Chicago teen who was infamously murdered in Mississippi for whistling at a white woman in 1955, how did no one veto this idea?

Rape isn’t a joke,. Slavery isn’t a joke. Harriet Tubman and her sacrifices for black people are not a joke. And to selfishly mock the subjugation of black people, the rape of black women and a revered American heroine in exchange for Internet clicks and ad dollars is abhorrent. And unconscionable. And sick. And just plain trifling.

The Spring Break That Shouldn't Have Happened, Part 3

Part 1  Part 2 

My Mom calls me back as I’m following the police car with Margaret in it. The officer said the station was 10 minutes away and we’re driving straight down a two-lane road with no street lights. We should be there shortly.

Mum’s update is that she managed to track down my dad, who promptly tracked down a friend who doesn’t live far from Dinwiddie, Virginia (my theory that all Black people with degrees know each other extends beyond my generation) and that man just so happens to have a neighbor who is a bail bondsman— but that guy isn’t home yet.

Great.

She keeps asking if Margaret is okay, and I don’t know if she is because I’m not with her. When the police car drove by me to take the lead, I saw she was in the front seat, not the cage in the back. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

“Have you called Margaret’s parents?” she asks.

Shit. I haven’t. I’ve known Margaret since I was 13. We went to high school together. And while her parents think I’m a nice enough girl (and know my parents), they also think I’m a bad influence on Margaret, even if I’m only three days older than her.

This isn’t the first time we’ve gotten in trouble together, but nowhere near to this degree. It’s been more standard stuff, like missing curfew—by hours on the drive back from King’s Dominion (we hung out in the parking lot talking to boys)--- or the time we, sober, brought Margaret’s car back wreaking of champagne one New Year’s Eve.

The short version: My bestie, Tariq (if you read the book version of A Belle in Brooklyn, yes, that Tariq) and his friends rented a hotel suite for NYE one year and Margaret and I were invited to the party. We scored a bottle of champagne— because we couldn’t go empty-handed—  which caused us to leave for the party late. We’re in such a hurry that Margaret picks me up with her head scarf still on. I hop in and put the bottle of champagne on the floor by my feet.

So we’re driving on the highway—speeding and weaving—trying to get to the party before midnight and realize we’re not going to make it before the clock strikes 12.

“We’re not gonna make it!” Margaret whines at 11:58.

“We’re together. We can toast!”

I reach down for the bottle that’s been sliding all over the floor, and tear off the foil. I begin to untwist the wire and before I’m done… POP!!!!

“OhmiGod, OhmyGod, OHMYGOD!!!!” we’re screaming, not in unison.

There's champagne everywhere, inclding the the driver’s side of the windshield.  Because of the way I was holding the bottle—rule one: away from my face—  champagne exploded all over her side. Margaret can’t see shit.

She turns on the wipers, and that doesn't work for obvious reasons. Then she simultaneously slams on the brakes and whips off her head scarf. I grab the scarf and lean over her to wipe down the window.

We miss curfew— again, of course— and tell her parents that we gave some drunk girl a ride home and she spilled her cup in the car. They’re not stupid. And the car smelled like champagne for a month.

“Can you call Margaret’s parents?” I ask my Mom, attempting to pass the buck.

“Nope. You’re making that call.”

So I hang up with my Mom, and dial Margaret’s house. I’m praying her older brother, Tommy, answers and can pass the message along to the ‘rents. Tommy is like 25, and in his heyday, was more mischievous than Margaret and I combined. To my knowledge, he was never arrested for anything though.

The phone rings in my ear.

I don’t even know any one who’s been arrested. Pulled over? Sure. But arrested?!

“Hello?” It’s Tommy. He’s groggy, because… it’s 4AM.

“Hey, Tommy, it’s Demetria.” There’s no right way to say, “your sister’s been arrested”, so I just blurt it out. “Margaret is fine. She’s been arrested. Margaret is fine.”

In some business class, we’d talked about how to deliver bad news. Loosely, it’s say something nice, say what you want to say, then say something else nice.

“What?!” That wasn’t Joseph. It’s Margaret’s mother, who also picked up the house phone.

She has the same questions Mum did. “Is she okay? Are you okay?” I fill her in on the important details: We were speeding. We got caught. Margaret’s been arrested. We’re on our way to the police station in Virginia.

“Let me speak to Margaret,” she demands.

Uhh… “Margaret… is….” Oh, Geesus. Her mother is going to freak out. “Margaret is in the police car. I’m following it.”

Silence. I hear a phone hang up (that was Tommy). “You girls…” Margaret’s mother says. “Where are you?”

I fill her on the additional details, including what Mum said about the bail bondsman. She says she’ll call my mother and to keep her posted.

We finally make it to the police station. It’s a small room with a bunch of wood desks.  There’s another officer there, and when they officers fill him in on what we’ve done, he looks at the cop like “these two?”

Margaret—who seems perfectly fine— and I are seated in comfy chairs against a wall, waiting for what’s next. The officer calls “the judge” who can’t be bothered to come in for the obvious reason that it’s 4AM. He does, however give an amount for bail. Margaret will be processed and go to jail until someone posts bond to get her out.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The phone rings at the police station. It’s my Dad who’s claiming responsibility for Margaret and I. The officer tells him Margaret’s going to jail and they will let her out as soon as bail is posted. He asks the officer to put us both in jail.* I know because the officer chuckles and says, “No, sir, we can’t lock her up too.”

The officer shakes his head and hangs up. He looks at Margaret and I with a look that conveys, “I can’t believe ya’ll did this.”

After a moment, he asks, “where were ya’ll going so fast?”

I take the lead as if an excuse will make a difference at this point. “I had to go to the bathroom,” I lie. “We were trying to get to the next exit or find a rest stop.” The truth: it was a game to see how fast we could get home, just sounds incredibly dumb now.

“You do know that there are deer on that highway?” the officer asks.

We did, in fact, not know that deer were on the friggin’ highway. The highways where we are from do not have no damn deer. Why would I even think of deer? On a highway?!

“You’d both be dead if you hit one going that fast.”

I did know that. Where Margaret and I are from, the back roads have deer. If you hit one going more than 40mph, it will total your car/truck. Everyone gets that warning from their parents the first day they get the keys to the car.

We don’t know what to say, so we say nothing.

The officer sighs heavy and stands. “C’mon, honey, I have to take you to the jail.”

I look at Margaret wide-eyed with my mouth hanging open. This is not how our trip was supposed to end. We should be right outside Maryland by now, close enough to home that we don’t have to look at the signs to know where we’re going because we know those highways like the clichéd back of our hands.

I don’t know what to do or say or…anything. If Margaret has a thought, an emotion, a feeling of any sort about any of this, she’s not giving it away. Maybe she’s in shock too.

“Margaret?” I ask. I need her to say something.

She shrugs like, “what can be done?” and follows the officer to the door.

I watch them like I’m watching this and not a part of this. It’s like everything is moving in slow motion. Then my brain kicks in and I follow them out the door.

We have to drive to the jail. Margaret gets in the front seat of the police car as I ease behind the wheel of my car to follow them.

“Fuck Fuck Fuck…. Fuck, FUCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!”  I yell at the windshield as I drive.

In only stop cursing because my phone rings again. It’s Mum. “Your father just talked to the bail bondsman. He will meet you at the jail.”

I feel a small sense of relief. I figure Margaret will only have to go to the jail, but if he’s there when we get there Margaret won’t have to be in the jail.

I tell her that we’re driving to the jail now.

“Deme-tri-a….” I can hear it in the way she says my name that she’s about to unleash a holy wrath the likes of what I’ve never heard before, upon me. I brace myself for it. I have it coming. I asked for this one. I wait for it.

“Take care of Margaret. I want you both home safe," she says.

That’s it? I thought I couldn’t feel more like shit. I wish she had cursed me out instead.

The Spring Break That Shouldn't Have Happened, Part 2

The Spring Break That Shouldn't Have Happened, Part 1 is here I’d been thinking of what to do with the money I’d saved that week, since Lonnie’s boyfriend, his roommate and his friends picked up the tab for everything the whole time. The only money I'd spent was splitting the cost of gas with Lonnie on the way down. M.O.B gave us money for gas on the way back, way more than it possibly could have cost, so I was better than good.

I heard the sirens and knew that extra money was going toward the ticket we were about to get in whatever East Neverwhere town we were about to be pulled over in.

Double fuck.

We pulled over, of course, and the police car pulled up behind us. We were too naïve to panic, but smart enough to sit still. Lonnie rolled down the window as the officer approached.

“What in the hell are you thinking?” he asked Margaret in a thick southern dialect. He looks like the fat cop in every movie you’ve ever seen featuring southern officers.

He’d clocked the car going 106 in a 55. He asked Margaret for the license and registration, which she asked to pull from the hand rest. I let her finish, then asked to reach for the registration in the glove department.

The officer asked Margaret to step out of the car. She looked at me, I looked at her. I didn’t know what to do.

“Ma’am?” the officer prodded hurrying us up.

Another officer appeared to take her to the police car. The first officer asked me to take the driver’s seat. If we’d known that in the state of Virginia anything over 100 is automatic jail time, we would have driven 95 just to be on the safe side. But we didn’t know.

The officer’s explaining to me—quite nicely actually—what’s about to happen. Margaret’s being arrested, I will have to pay to get her out of jail and do I have enough money to do that? If not, I can follow the officers to an ATM.

He throws out a number. I can cover it.

Okay, then, well the police station is 10 minutes away. If I’ll just kindly follow the vehicle there…

My panic is starting to set in. This isn’t a routine stop. MARGARET IS BEING ARRESTED. “Okay, I say, I need to call my Dad first.”

Since long before I could drive, I’ve had rules drilled into me about what to do in any sort of police encounter. Answer every question with “yessir, no sir”. Don’t catch an attitude, don’t talk back. More important than anything, no sudden movements. Ask before you reach for your ID, identify where it located, wait for permission and move slooooowwwwwwly when you go for it. This isn’t to get out of a ticket or avoid arrest. It’s to save my life.

Oh, and call Dad. Not Mom. Dad. Whatever it is. However wrong I am doesn’t matter. Don’t argue. Don’t call anyone else. Call Dad.

My Dad has drilled this list of rules into me so hard I can ramble them off with the ease of reciting the alphabet. I get it, and then I don’t. Dad was born and raised in Mississippi in segregation. A police stop held the promise of much more than a ticket.

But it’s 2000 now, not 1941. "We’s free, man" is what I want to say whenever we’re doing these drills as he catches me off guard walking through the living room and he’s sitting in his La-Z-Boy watching The Game. I don’t know that he knows what the Socrates Method is—that dropping questions out of the blue and expecting anyone present to be called on for the answer at anytime—but he loves to practice it on me when it comes to this (and a few other subjects.)

So I call Dad while the officer stands at my window, but it’s Mum who answers the phone groggily.

“Mommy, where’s Daddy?” You can’t call your mother at 3AM, and bypass her with ease, but I tried. She’s immediately awake.

“What happened?”

“Dad! I need Dad!”

“He’s not here! Where are you? Are you okay.” For clarity, my Dad traveled for a living and had taken a red-eye from wherever he was to get home. He’s still in the air somewhere, so his cell is off, but he should land shortly.

Triple fuck.

So now I have to explain this whole thing to my mother. That yes, I sat there singing along to Outkast with no cares in the world while Margaret pushed my car over 100mph  down some country Virginia highway, which I knew she was doing, and didn’t stop her. And now for living what was essentially a YOLO philosophy long before the phrase was coined, my best friend has been arrested. Only as I’m explaining just the facts of this scenario story to a third-party to I realize how incredibly piss poor my judgment is.

I expect her to flip out. She doesn’t really curse in general, especially not at me. But I’m bracing myself for it.

“Are you okay? Where’s Margret?”

“I’m fine. In the police car.”

“Where are they taking you?”

“Police station”

“Where is it?”

I ask the officer at the window and he rattles off an address.

“Virginia.”

“WHERE in Virginia?” Mum asks.

I ask the officer the name of the town.

“Dinwiddie, Virgina.”

“Dumb- what?” she asks.

“He said, Din- wid-eeee,” I repeat.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Is Margaret okay?”

“Yes.”

“Did anything else happen?”

“No.”

“Is your phone charged?”

“Yes.”

“Call me when you get to the police station. I’ll find your father.”

“Okay.”

My mother’s reaction gives away what potentially serious danger I—we—are in. I’ve just told her perhaps the dumbest thing I have ever done, and instead receiving a much due chastising, she only wants to know if I—we—are okay.

It will only dawn on me years later that through a series of incredibly bad decisions, I’ve created every Black parent’s worst nightmare. You give your kid some freedom to have fun, and they end up in a police encounter in the middle of the night. It doesn’t matter that we’re girls, that just makes rape a more plausible threat in addition to being harassed, beaten or killed. That we’re 2 hours from home in a deep South town no one’s ever heard is just fuel for a burning fire. Anything could happen and it could all be very very very bad.

Part 3: tomorrow.

The Spring Break That Shouldn't Have Happened

More than a decade ago, my father made an unusual decision. I’d asked to drive to Atlanta (10 hour drive) with my best friend for Spring Break my senior year of college. I usually skipped SB all together. The drinking age, obviously, was 21, and I was 20 when I graduated in college, so in my estimation, there wasn’t much fun to be had. Anyone whose chosen to remain sober when surrounded by drunk people will tell you the same. But it was the final semester, and I’d spent the fall in London and missed my last homecoming as a student. Maybe he took pity on me. Maybe he was delusional. Miraculously, Dad, who I full well expected to say “no”, said “okay.”

Huh?

His parting words as I backed “my” (his) car down the driveway were “ Demetria…. Be safe.” I didn’t think much of it because that’s what he said everytime I left the house. The old man was always expecting the worst to happen anytime I tried to have fun.

He was too close for me to roll my eyes and not get caught, and I was too excited about the trip. So I said, “Okay, Dad” and went to pick up Margaret at Howard without any further interruptions.

In adult retrospect, it was a 7-day journey that I, nor my bestie, had any business on. The plan was to meet up with Margaret’s best friend, Lonnie, and her underage niece whose name I can’t remember, who were staying at Lonnie’s boyfriend's place in Atlanta. He had a roommate Lonnie described as “fine”. This had all the potential for a memorable week.

I made a series of bad (but fun) decisions and spent the week with some people who though nice enough, I’d never want my kid around (that doesn’t include Lonnie or her cousin). The highlights:

*watching porn projected onto a blank wall while eating a gourmet breakfast (it was the homeowner’s idea)

*meeting a charming man (friend of the homeowner) who had M.O.B. ("money over bitches") tatted on his arm above a portrait of his deceased grandmother. While visiting his apartment, he decided he wanted to smoke. He removed a lid from a standard-size barrel—which I thought was for decorative purposes—at which point I discovered was filled with weed, not for personal use. He spooned out, well, a spoon-full, and dumped it on a magazine cover to start chopping it up. He paused mid-chop and like a host who had forgotten to offer his guests something to drink, he goes, “oh, my bad, did ya’ll want…” and swiftly got up to serve us. (We declined. I don’t smoke, and the general smoker’s rule is you don’t smoke from strangers.)

*the time the homeowner, my friend’s then-boyfriend, confessed to having sex with more than 100 women… at the tender age of 23

*the nicest (and finest) roommate in the world, who threw down in the kitchen one night in a way I’ve never had a man do before and after. The day after we left, the ATF raided the apartment to arrest him. Apparently, he was a notorious gun-runner.

Like I said, we had no business there.

But it’s what happened on the way back, that defines the story of the weekend.

On our last day, we BS’d on leaving. We were having too much fun to be, you know, responsible. I don’t even remember what we did all day, but some time around six, we decided that it was finally time to head back. Neither of us really wanted to drive, so we’d make a game out of seeing how fast we could get back to Maryland.

As we were packing our stuff, M.OB. stopped by to say goodbye and offered to take everyone to dinner as a parting gift. Margaret and I changed our plans again in order to have a fancy Italian dinner in ATL.

Our luggage was in the car, so after dinner, we hopped in the ride, glanced at the scribbled directions Lonnie’s boyfriend had given us (pre-GPS days) and headed out on the road. Margaret and I took turns driving and somewhere just outside Virginia, Margaret realized if we kept the same pace, we could make it home in just under 8 hours.

Nice... or it could have been.

Margaret was driving with both hands gripping the steering wheel, as we hurdled the car down the highway so fast that the wheel shook. And suddenly, what really should have been expectedly, we heard sirens.

Fuck.

To be continued... 

Long Live the Idols, May They Never Be Your Rivals

I have a writer idol, actually several, but one in particular has always stood out as the be all and end all of how I’ve wanted my skillls as a writer to be perceived. She’s got this unique and amazing way of stating things simply, but capturing the complexities of whatever she’s writing about. And she can flip a metaphor—a woefully lost art I “met” her once. I was an intern at a publication she used to write for back in the day and she dropped by the office to pitch a story idea to the EIC. I knew who she was as soon as she walked in, but I just pretended she wasn’t there and I wasn’t either. I buried my head in the laptop and eavesdropped on the conversation. Like what do you say to someone you hold responsible for reshaping the course of your life, from lawyer to writer?

A decade later, the Idol and I would come to have friends in common. I would ask through the writer grapevine for The Idol to do me a solid and she agreed. I was humbled and beyond honored, which I said to her.

I was “supposed” to meet her another time too. I say “supposed” because there was no formal arrangement or anything. The Idol was in town speaking on a panel and I planned to go and introduce myself, thank her in person for looking out on that thing. But I didn’t make it.

Around that time, I’d started rolling in a different circle and was impressed by the doors that were swiftly opening. I’d been invited to a fancy banquet where I’d rub elbows with a different set of boldface names—names I knew, who suddenly wanted to know my mine. So I skipped the writer event in Harlem and headed to Midtown.

For the hour-long ride, I kept trying to talk myself into taking the train up to the Schomburg, knowing I wasn’t going to, but I wanted to pretend that there was a chunk of the “old” me left if only because it made me feel more like I was growing, and less like I was losing myself.

There was a time when I wouldn’t have missed that event for anything, but a fork in the road had emerged, and I was going the way I once said I would not. The right way? Unsure. But still, I had no real desire to change course, figuratively or literally, or else I would have gone to Harlem, even in my ball gown.

Anyway, a couple months after that night, Chris Brown had one of his infamous Twitter meltdowns. In this one, he was goaded by a comedian, took the bait, and went nuclear on her. She cried victim—despite antagonizing him for a year prior--  and the media was ripping him like she he started it. My take?

“He’s not the bad guy here. Or better: He’s not the only bad “guy… there are no victims here. I only see two people, neither of whom are funny, who talk too much $hit, don’t know when to stop and long ago should have blocked each other’s tweets.”

“In Defense of Chris Brown” happened to be one of my more popular stories. The Idol caught wind of it and promptly ripped my piece—publicly.

Everybody’s not going to like what I write and that’s par for the course given my occupation. Vibe Vixen once headlined a story something like “Demetria L. Lucas Singlehandedly Resurrects Colorism” (lol) after I wrote “In Defense of Light Skinned Women" for Clutch. My homie’s site, “Single Black Male” chin-checked me after I wrote  “A Call To Action: Help Single Black Men Keep A Woman” (they missed the satire of the piece). Curly Nikki got at me for writing in Essence about a WaPo feature about what Black women are spending to maintain their natural hair and accused me of trying to convince women to stay permed like I was at the time. (Not at all the case.)

What’s said in comments’ section of my articles, or articles/posts about my articles and/or what’s asked on my former Formspring page? Let’s just say everybody is entitled to an opinion. I charge all that to the game.

The Idol isn’t everybody though. She is to me what Nas is to J. Cole, and while she never appointed me “The One” or anything remotely similar, it hurt just as bad when I got from her the equivalent of J. Cole hearing, “Nas heard your single and he hate that shit.”

I’m paraphrasing here, but in general, The Idol didn’t get why, whether Brown was right or wrong in this instance, a Black women’s site would publish a story defending him when he had beaten a Black woman, not bothered to give more than a half-assed apology, and still carried on with the immature antics showing that he hadn’t learned his lesson. And on top of that, in this instance, his responses were incredibly demeaning to women.

Admittedly, it’s a fair argument. But just how Jay-Z would have appreciated a phone call from Harry Belafonte instead of a public spanking on his lack of public service, I would have preferred a DM, an e-mail, a phone call, some sort of head’s up. I’d have taken anything over signing into TweetDeck, scrolling through my responses and seeing a host of strangers asking me, “did you see what [The Idol] said about you?”

F-u-u-u-ck. 

Too boot—  or to credit, depending on which way you look at it—  she added that the critique was nothing personal, although (and this is what really… hurt) she said I’d subliminally come for her one time.

I didn’t and wouldn’t. She did me a solid, and I told her when she did I considered it a great honor. Why would I do something sideways to her? And better, why would she accuse me of it publicly?

I did what Jay Z should have done in response to Belafonte: I shut the f*** up (but understand why Hov didn’t). A public spat with The Idol, someone who has publicly and personally looked out for me, and paved the way for me, wouldn’t have been a good look. She was allowed not to like my work—or me. It wasn’t worth it. I respected  her even while she was publicly dissing me.  The latter didn’t cancel out the former.

An too, I knew nothing I said was going to come out or across right. I’d seem ungrateful and petty. Or, ugh, sensitive. I wanted to say something though, a lot. I was defensive and pissed.

I chalked the whole exchange up to “life happens” and dropped it… for a few days. And then I picked it back up, tracked down her personal email and wrote her a long letter… that I never sent.

Like what was I supposed to say? “Hey, you think I said some wild ish about you, but I didn’t.” It sounded like I cared too much, which I did, but I didn’t want her to know that.

Or better: “I saw that you blasted me and it hurt my feelings… ” I just didn’t want to be that vulnerable, especially not to someone who whether intentionally or not had already shown they gave zero fucks.

I’ve gone for one colleague openly and publicly, a blogger who I’d looked out for once—and kept my mouth shut about when she went entirely left-- who publicly announced I quit my last job before I did. (Can you say livid?) A few months prior to that, she’d launched a social media campaign that I didn’t participate in because I didn’t agree with it. She called me out publicly for not supporting her. I thought I’d done her favor by keeping my mouth shut when I had nothing nice to say. Then months after that, she co-opted a story I’d written as evidence that I supported a project she was working on—the one that I’d privately told her I wasn’t on board with AFTER she publicly commented on my lack of participation.

I’d lost all respect for her, hence why I didn’t bother calling around for personal email address, just kept it public and one hundred when she pissed me off a third time.

Had the story I’d written about Breezy, or whatever The Idol thought I said about her been that bad enough for her to lose all respect for me too?

Maybe. Which begged the question, if I hit her up to discuss it, would she be reasonable? Understanding? Screen shot whatever I wrote and blast me again? Ignore me? I didn’t know, so I didn’t take the chance.

I swallowed it, but never digested it. A month later, I was sitting on a stranger’s  sofa on another continent after too many glasses of red wine, wondering and whining  to a mutual friend of The Idol and I at 3 AM, “like what the f*** did I ever do to her?” If he had any profound insight, he didn’t offer it. (Or maybe I was drunk and don’t remember.)

Months after that, The Idol, who I still followed on Twitter, tweeted a story about meeting one of her own idols, and how she wished she hadn’t. On the night The Idol encountered her own idol, the author was surly and rude. I RT’d it with “<<< !!!!!”, half because I was glad I hadn’t skipped the Plaza event to meet The Idol, half because I wanted to be the passive aggressive asshole she’d already accused me of being.

I wasn’t over it. I clearly wasn’t going to really get over it anytime soon, and I wasn’t willing to do anything to resolve it. The best I could do was not make the situation any worse. The next day, I unfollowed her for my own sanity.

I have no idea if she noticed, or if she cared. And obviously, there’s still a part of me that wishes she did both.

“Long live the idols/ may they never be your rivals”— J. Cole, “I Let Nas Down”

Fin.

The Grio: In Defense of Rachel Jeantel

“Who is Rachel Jeantel?”  I was clueless about this name that suddenly took over my social media timelines on Wednesday. I would have known immediately, if I hadn’t stopped following the Trayvon Martin case. It’s been over a year since Trayvon died, and in that time I feel that the character of that 17-year-old has been mercilessly dragged in the dirt. I’d had enough.   Now George Zimmerman is on trial for second degree murder for killing the Florida teen. Zimmerman has pled not guilty, saying he was attacked and was defending himself from Martin.   A quick Internet search revealed that many outlets were referring to Rachel Jeantel as the prosecution’s “star witness” in the trial, a teen who was on the phone with her friend, Trayvon Martin, shortly before he was shot and killed by Zimmerman in February 2012.

On the witness stand she detailed, in a manner that was dissatisfying for some, how Martin said he was being followed by Zimmerman and tried to elude him. Some found her testimony to be a startling blow to the defense’s argument, which seeks to portray Martin as the aggressor.

Others fairly questioned Jeantel’s credibility based on her omissions and untruths. In a cross-examination, the defense pointed out that Jeantel had omitted uglier parts of her conversation with Martin in which he referred to Zimmerman using racial slurs.

“Some creepy-ass cracker is following me,” Martin is alleged to have said, according to Jeantel.

Jeantel said she changed aspects of her story initially to spare Martin’s family from additional anguish. These were not the only lies she told.

She’d previously lied about her age, claiming she was a minor, to protect herself from involvement in the media storm of Martin’s case.

Jeantel also lied about her whereabouts during Martin’s funeral, when she said through tears that she felt guilty for not attending, but explained, “I didn’t want to see the body.”

The online backlash against her

Jeantel shouldn’t have lied, but she did. Her excuses for doing so were understandable, but it’s also understandable why many now question her credibility as a witness based on her revised stories. Some hope, despite presenting herself perhaps too strongly and having been untruthful, that she has not undermined the case of the prosecution.

Sure, these are all negative things. But, after doing my research on Jeantel, what I don’t understand is the venom directed toward her personally online.

Read more: here

The Truth About Chasing Your Dreams

Last week, I got a call from a producer at Life + Times aka Jay-Z’s website. It was an invite to sit on a panel with two industry vets—Datwon Thomas and Shaheem Reid. (If you don’t know who they are, Google, especially if you’re an aspiring writer.) I would have said “yes!” no matter who was on the panel, but this invite meant a little something extra.  Let me explain.   I started my writing career as a Vibe intern back in 2000. Just before my arrival, Shaheem Reid, a legend of sorts among Vibe interns, had made a recent departure. He was a former intern who was hired to work for the magazine, and three months (!) after landing his first full-time writing gig, he was promoted to the prestigious position of Vibe’s music editor—a very big deal, especially back then. He also was the youngest Vibe editor ever, a record he may still hold to this day (13 years later.)

Shaheem did Vibe for awhile, then went to MTV—ie. mainstream— where he churned out story after story and became a writer-hyphenate-brand before everyone and their mother (like now) even thought of it. And this (the short version) was before social media, which makes it 100x as impressive.

My “obsession” with Datwon Thomas, who I recently learned also started his writing career as a Vibe intern, was slightly different. When we crossed paths,  I was a freelance writer who had been hired to host a roundtable of upcoming rap artists to get them to talk about R&B for XXL’s (short-lived) spin-off Hip Hop Soul.  I showed up on the set as the only woman in the room* and nervous about getting a group of hardcore guys to reveal their softer side. It was a difficult task made even moreso because Datwon (and Bonsu Thompson, then a XXL editor, who actually hired me for the project) were both present and watching over the discussion.  I was still a hip-hop head then and I didn’t just want to work for Datwon (and Bonsu) full-time, my career goal then was to be either one of them.

So the invite was a very full-circle moment, and of course, I jumped at the opportunity.  Even if after 13 years as a writer—a vet in my own right—and becoming an author, it was still a privilege to be invited to hold my own with guys who had such an influence on my career. I’m not a newbie anymore. Today, I felt like one anyway.

But that’s not the point of this. The point is actually a discussion I had with the producer after I accepted her invitation. She gave me a rundown of how the discussion—not a panel—would go and a list of things we would discuss. The overarching question we were charged to answer was, “What does it take to be successful as a entertainment journalist?”

I laughed.

My uncensored answer: “Uh, don’t sleep, sacrifice your entire life, including people that are important to you. Miss their birthday celebrations and your own, your own anniversaries if you can make it that long in a relationship, alienate your family and friends, lose out on your first real love, work like a slave long past your competitors with sense have said “eff it!” and dropped out, nurse your stress with alcohol or your ‘upper’ drug of choice so you can sleep/ stay awake respectively, and maybe, finally, if you’ve avoided burning out or an addiction and luck and karma and God are somehow still on your side, you’ll get to be one of the people you admired when you were young.”

She, at the top of her game, laughed with me. It was an awkward laugh, the type you make to keep from crying or going crazy or thinking too hard about the uncomfortable truth of that statement. “That’s about right,” she said, “But say that and the webcast is officially over.”

So I held my tongue when we were taping. When the question, “how do I get to where you are?” inevitably came up, Shaheem joked about the loves he lost—“and they were fine too”, he said—as he chased his dream. Datwon talked about the interns he had watched pass on offers from friends to go have fun, however it’s defined, as they toiled away working. He talked about how he admired their dedication and it showed something exemplary in them. The implication was “it’s all worth it in the end.”

I skipped on telling my truth because… well, because if someone had told me what it really takes and I had the presence of mind to believe them, I wouldn’t be sitting on the panel, being featured as some sort of writer ideal. And not saying that truth is bugging me.

I wanted to encourage young writers, or anyone aspiring to be anything—which hopefully happened— but I feel I’ve done a disservice by not saying all that I said to the producer, and I should have added this:

Be mindful of what and whom you’re giving up as you climb that ladder, one that seems to grow taller which each rung you conquer. From the outside looking in, it can seem as the people you think you want to be are living “the life”, whatever that means to you. If you have the endurance (talent counts, but actually comes second), eventually you will have admirers and people who will  say, “I want to be you”, which is very flattering.

But somedays, you won’t really know who you are anymore. You will do unforgivable things and good people with sense will bail on you as they should because they know they deserve more. There will great moments where you can’t believe the life you’re living is really your life. But there will also be moments when you look in the mirror and don’t know you who you have become or even like that person. You will hear a nagging voice (I call it “God”) telling you that you’re straying too far, and you will have to ignore it against your better judgment to get the job done, then pray later that you didn’t just damn yourself by doing so.

Unbridled ambition, an approach which means taking “by any means necessary”—ironically, the slogan on today’s off-camera t-shirt—is oft-admired, a sign of sorts that you have what it takes to achieve. But are you really ready to pay that cost?

The “supposed” answer is yes. But folks need to know too that there’s no shame in saying, “the price is too high”, bailing for tamer waters and working a 9 to 5 that doesn’t define your life or you. It might not be your original intent, but there’s nothing wrong with changing your mind and cashing out while you’re still ahead.

Be determined. Fight for what you want. But please set limits for how far you are willing to go and how much you are willing to sacrifice. To thine own self be true. Doing that by any means necessary is the sign of a true success story.

Fin.

*Bonsu insists that I was not the only woman in the room as I Erica Z. also got a byline for that article.

The Grio: Street Harrassment: No, It's Not Flattering

Last week, I was contacted on Twitter by a man who recently stumbled across an article I’d once written about street harassment, the bane of existence for every black woman walking, well, the street. My piece mused on the best way to engage the sorts of men who yell at women to “smile,” tell them how “sexy” they are (all while eye-humping them), or yell out of cars to tell women just how much they would enjoy a romp. Classy, right?  The man in question wanted me to know this: “you should be thankful (ESP. black women) that n****s is [sic] giving you the time of day. Stop taking street harassment for granted.”   Sigh.

Usually, I would ignore a comment like this, but the man’s inarticulate perspective is one I’ve heard before — actually anytime I’ve read the male comments on a post on street harassment. Many men, I’m afraid, just don’t get how awful, demeaning, violating (and common) this practice is no matter how often and long women complain about it. Some say that women are blowing it out of proportion, that men hollering in the street isn’t harassing, but flattering.

Street harassment: It’s not flattering

“How can women complain that they are single and there are no men, when they ignore the men that show interest?” they ask. “Isn’t that like shooting yourself in the foot?”

There’s a disconnect. So instead of getting frustrated or angry, let me attempt to build a bridge so that there’s more understanding.

The average, socially-adjusted woman is not offended by a man who says “Excuse me, miss,” or approaches her to say “Good morning,” “You look nice today,” or some such. That’s not harassment, that’s a compliment. And if it’s been a light day for street harassment, most straight women will welcome a kind word from a stranger.

However, if it’s been a heavy street harassment day, she’s probably not trying to hear it. By “heavy,” I mean any sunny day, especially if it’s a warm one and she’s not covered in a burka (and I’m sure a Muslim woman on U.S. soil has a story about being harassed in a burka). And by the time you — because of course you are a nice man, because in the history of reading and writing about street harassment, I’ve never seen a male commenter confess to it despite the overwhelming presence of men who actually do it — encounter her, she’s been through hell.

Read more: here

My Mother Is Adopted...And Other Assorted Stories

It all started-- for me-- when my father won a family trip to Senegal when I was around 10. I’d been out the country before, of course. But I was little so I didn’t need a passport. This time, I would.  So one day my mother picks me up from school and we go to the passport office. We stand in line, and I’m bored out of my mind as we wait. At the window, my mother slides an envelope of papers, my birth certificate and social security card and whatever else is necessary to prove I am who she claims I am, through the opening underneath the partition. Then, she slides a folder full of different documents for herself.   The person is sorting through them, punching the information into his computer as slow as humanly possible. I zone out thinking about whatever tweens think about. I hear him (or her?) ask a question, but I don’t remember what it was. My mother’s response is all that really matters anyway.   “I’m adopted,” she responds.

WHAT?!

I know what that means, that Grandma and Grandpa who I’ve spent every summer with in the Midwest as long as I can remember are not my Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma taught me how to iron and to make cinnamon rolls. I follow my Grandpa around like a puppy does its owner because I adore him as much as he adores me. They aren’t my grandparents?! Huh?

I jerk my head up to look at my Mom, who is steadily looking at the person behind the glass and ignoring me. I pull at her sleeve. “Mom. Mom! Mom!!!” She continues to ignore me until I give up.

I’m worried that I’ll never see my grandparents again. Because, you know, they’re not actually my grandparents. Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!

The adults have my rapt attention now. But no one’s talking. The person behind the window is typing and my Mom is just standing there looking, waiting, not answering questions. Finally, the teller slides two blue passports under the counter. My mom says “thank you” and walks off. I follow, not like I'm a puppy, but because I don't want to get left.

When we get in the car, Mum explains half the story. The short (and heavily edited) version: my Mom’s mom got pregnant as a teenager in the 50s. My grandparents adopted my mother when she was 3. She’s never technically met her biological mother, although when she was a kid a woman she thinks was her mother showed up at her parents' house once. All she knows is her bio-Mom’s name. Anita*. She knows who her bio-Dad is. And there’s way more to the story than that, but that’s where I’ll stop.

Yes, I’ll see my grandparents again, Mum promises. Nothing will change. Grandma and Grandpa are still my grandparents. They always will be. That’s all I care about. End of story… or so I think.

We never make it to Senegal. (Another long story that’s a story within itself.) I do make it to the Midwest that summer to see my grandparents, as promised.  They don’t know that I know that my mother’s adopted, and I don’t see a need to tell them.

But it’s weird. I’m with my grandfather at his church, and another minister drops by. My grandfather calls me to the office to introduce me, and the Reverend smiles and tells Grandpa, “she looks a lot like you. She has your smile.” I think, “What an idiot” because how can I have the smile of someone I’m not biologically related to?

My grandmother takes me to visit her Mom, sisters and brother and the rest of the big family in a town a couple hours away. Everyone treats me nice, the same as they always have, but it’s different now. I’m not close to any of my cousins there, mostly because I only see them for one day, once a year. But I feel extra weird now knowing that I’m not related, and it occurs to me that everyone else has always known this and no one said anything. I feel betrayed.

I spend most of my free time that summer hanging out in a guest bedroom at my grandparents’ house. In there is a chest of drawers loaded with pictures from the 1920s up until the 1980s, or so. They’re photos of my grandparents, mother and various other family members when they were young. I’m looking for a picture of my Mother’s mother.

I don’t remember how long it took me to find it, but I did. It was an 8X10 high school photo of a woman who looks exactly like my Mom. She has Mum’s eyes and her smile. I think it’s her, then I flip the picture over. “Anita, 1953” is written in my grandmother’s pen on the back. It’s definitely Mom’s mom.

I take the picture and put it on the table outside my grandmother’s bedroom. I’m hoping one of my grandparents will see it and tell me who she is and how they got my Mom. It sits there all summer. I know they both saw it. No one touches it. And no one says a word about it—at least when they know I’m listening.

My grandparents’ house doesn’t have air conditioning and one week there's a heatwave. My grandmother has a ceiling fan and a huge fan in her bedroom so I sleep with her until it cools down. One morning, I wake up to my grandparents talking.

“She’s looking for information on her mother,” my grandmother is saying. “She doesn’t know her mother has an impeccable past.”

My grandfather doesn’t say anything.

Impeccable?

When I call my mother that night, I ask her what “impeccable” means.

“Perfect…. Why?”

I tell her what my grandmother said.

“About me?” Mom sounds shocked. She laughs.

I don’t get it.

Sometime during my college years, my mother decides she wants to find her mother. (She’d tried several times before. This is just the first time she tells me.) This time, the search is brought on by Mum’s health scare, and she wants to know her medical history.

Mum starts by asking her parents. My grandfather says, “You’re here, that’s all that matters”, i.e, he’s not giving up anything. My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. She can’t remember what happened two minutes ago, but can recall what happened anytime before 1980 down to the day of the week, the weather and what outfit she, and anyone else present, was wearing. She gives up some back story, most of which, again, I don’t have permission to retell. None of it gives any clues to where Anita is now.

I know Mum's looking, but she doesn’t really talk about the search. Every once in awhile she’ll make a joke about how I should be careful who I date because it might be a cousin or something. It’s not funny to me… it’s odd.

I find myself looking for my mother’s face in other women around her age.  Junior year, there’s this professor for my African-American Lit class who looks exactly like my mother. Same nose, same smile, and a similar haircut. I sit in the front for most of my classes, but I always sit in the back for hers. I find myself studying my professor's face, more than listening to her lecture. I wonder if she’s my Aunt, but never get the nerve to ask her. (I’m not sure if it’s coincidence or not that this is the professor in whose class I had the “eureka!” moment that made me decide to be a writer.)

My mother hires a private investigator in the Midwest. All she has is a first and last name, and an approximate year Anita was born. After several months, she finds nothing. Mum gets frustrated and gives up.

Years later, my grandfather dies. And two years after that, my grandmother does too. Around 2006, Mum starts searching for her bio-Mom again. No luck. On and off over the years, she’ll start looking, hit another series of dead ends, and give up again.

For years, she never really talks about her bio-Mom, but I know it bothers her that there’s this lady somewhere out there in the world who is her mother and she doesn’t know who she is. If I didn’t know who Mum was, it would bother me.

Earlier this year, I decide maybe there’s another way to find her. I’ve got a built-in readership of thousands of people worldwide. And I’ve got a project coming up that will expand the reach further. Maybe I can put this new platform to better use. I tell Mum this, and add, “This is the year we find your Mom!”

She goes, “really?” and she sounds like a kid whose Dad has just promised to take them for ice cream. Immediately, I wish I hadn’t said anything because now I’ve got her hopes up again, and I don’t know if this will work. I don’t want her to be disappointed. Again.

So I put a picture of Mum on all on my social media accounts. It’s the picture where she looks most like her bio-Mom. I tell everyone that she’s adopted and looking for her mother. I’m hoping someone who’s seen Anita’s picture will say, “hey, she looks like the picture of my grandmother on my family's mantel.”

Leads pour in, along with stories from all over the world from people who are looking for their parents or have found them. I get generous offers from people who are willing to help anyway they can and want to hold my hand through this process. I keep a list of all the ways, and comb thru all the sites they suggest. My goal is to find Anita by Mother’s Day. I don’t tell my mother any of this.

On Thursday night, I get a text just after midnight from my mother. It reads, “I found my Mom!”

WHAT?!!!

The night before, she was tinkering around on Ancestry.com till 3 AM. She found a family tree with her Mother’s name, a year of birth that was off by a year from her mother, and the woman was from my mother’s hometown.

The woman with my mother’s mother’s name died in the 1970s, the year my mother graduated from college. She was 38 years old.

“I feel like I’ve been orphaned a third time,” Mum says as if that’s a normal thing for someone to say. “My mother gave me away, then both my parents died, and now I find out I’ve been looking for a mother who’s been dead 30 years.”

Jesus. What do you say to that?

My mother tells this story sometimes about how when I was a kid, maybe three or so, I walked into the room and found her sitting on the floor crying (it’s not a devastating as it sounds. She always sits on the floor. It’s her thing.) Without missing a beat, I walked up to Mum, hugged her, and said, “it’s okay, Mommy,” and began patting her back. I have no recollection of this, but it’s what she did to me when I cried.

So she says what she says about her Mom, and I think of that story, and say, “It’s okay, Mommy” though I haven’t called Mum, “Mommy” in over a decade.

There’s a contact listed with the name, so Mum sends a letter off into the Interwebs, explaining who she is and who she is looking for. If nothing else, maybe she could find some information about her mother, if indeed the woman with her Mother’s name is actually her bio-Mom. She would find out who she was, what she liked, what she didn’t, etc. Anything was better than nothing.

A person wrote back that morning, confirming the Anita in question was deceased... and if Mum's adopted parents were the minister and his wife, then yes, she’s found her bio-mother. Oh, and by the way, did Mum know she has a sister and brother who live in the Midwest?

Ho-leee shit!!!

Part 2: Coming Soon