Read Smoke!
My latest book, "Smoke: poems of love, longing and ecstasy" is available for purchase on Amazon in e-book and paperback. Click book for link.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Fabulous and Unequally Yoked
I can still remember pacing back and forth across my white living room carpet. It was a Sunday morning and he'd just sent a friendly "What are you up to?" text.
My response. "Just getting in from a lovely walk." And with that, he was off to address his massive workload, satisfied with having paid me the obligatory minim of attention that day.
"Oh dear!" I exasperated to my best friend, The Chocolate Diva, whom I'd dialed in an emergency. "I should have said church. He would expect me to be at church. He doesn't know."
"Just calm down," The Diva insisted.
"I mean, could this be a deal breaker?"
"Honestly, with some men, but not if it's meant to be and he really likes you for you."
"I have to tell him." I decided then.
I was slowly falling for Miles* and I could tell he'd placed me in his high estimation as well. As busy as he was and although we lived a couple hours apart, he was making an effort to demonstrate his affection and to learn more about me. But what he didn't know was that we were unequally yoked.
He was born and raised in the Christian South, and while I knew he didn't go to Church every Sunday, he was raised in a family that did. More importantly, he'd probably want a wife that was too.
I am Muslim. Have been from birth .My faith is as much a part of me as my skin tone and heritage. I grew up in the progressive North, next to a big city where both mosques and churches thrived. I grew up in a place where no one questioned my arabic name or flinched when I mentioned my faith. What's even more interesting is that while my dad is Muslim, started off in the sixties with the Nation and then converted to the more widely-practiced Sunni Islam, my mother is a Penecostal Christian. Hence, while the world still argues and fights over religious difference, I grew up watching two religions love one another, madly. I was blessed to have two parents who were devout in their own right, and who would expose me to both faiths (which aren't so different) and allow me to ultimatley choose how I'd like to get to know God.
Perhaps because of my odd religious upbringing I always made light of the concept of being equally yoked. Sure, there were some difficult times growing up. When I was ten I remember mom having a spontaneous melt-down over the fact that I'd chosen Islam. She felt it was my way of saying I loved my dad more, but that wasn't the case at all. I just felt as if Islam was a perfect fit. And with time, my family made it over that hurdle. I remember learning that Skittles and Starbursts actually contained gelatin, or pork, and having to give up my favorite candies. And as a teen, I can recall my dad expressing his desire to see me marry a Muslim man, and my disgust at his double standard.
We've worked through that hurdle as well.
I was comftorable in my faith. God was always in my heart. With maturity I grew to be more active in my practice, making the salaat, while never five times a day, at least once. And then at 22, I fasted for my first complete Ramadan, meaning that for thirty days, I abstained from food from sunrise to sunset. The more active a believer I became, the more I saw God as a critical part of my ability to survive and thrive in a crazy world. As a baby Islam was chosen for me, at ten I chose it for myself, and in my early twenties I had my own spiritual awakening.
It was faith that launched my career and my subsequent move to Medium-City, South. I was in the masjid on a Friday afternoon when my phone buzzed. I quickly turned it off and waited until the end of juma, or the Friday prayer service, to respond. It was a news director in Medium-City, South offering me my first on-air job right out of college.
Ironically that move would also test my faith more than anything. In Medium-City, Muslim names weren't that common. Neither were masjids. It was town flanked by mega-churches with congregations over five-thousand. Young people went to church. Young people talked openly about God. Young people said grace before dinner. Jesus Christ was a super star.
It was also a place where Islam was a foreign and scary concept to Blacks and Whites alike. So much so, with each news story and interview my station aired that subtly villifed my faith, I found myself for the first time hiding who I was. I was in a military town where most folks believed America was fighting the Muslims, not the terrorists. They felt that the Koran prescribed hate, which it does not, and that people like me, are social pariahs. I feared for my safety if certain extremists should find out I worshipped Allah. And so I continud to make prayer two-three times a day in the confines of my home, and I continued to hide this critical part of me.
After close to a year I revealed my faith to my inner circle and even my boss ( who I believe is still in shock) but I still would shamefully remain quiet when colleauges, even in the morning meeting, made disparaging remarks about Muslims in reaction to a news story they didn't even fully understand.
When I met Miles, I was in that place; a devout Muslim girl, living in the spotlight, afraid to come out about who she was. He would be the one to change that.
On our first date he bowed his head to say grace and it completely caught me off guard. I let him bless the food and we moved on. As things progressed nicely, I became nervous. This was too good to be true. The man of my dreams had suddenly come along to sweep me off my feet and there was no sign of danger on the horizon. So of course, I started coming up with possibilities of things that could go wrong, and the only thing I could think of was faith. Miles wanted a picture perfect life, and in that world, husband, wife, and baby went to church together every Sunday.
My fears were deepned by a handsome Nigerian man I had once dated. An entrepreneur, he was a great man, but we broke up when I realized he could never marry a woman who was not Nigerian. He was the oldest of four and his mother simply would never accept it. I moved to the South about a month later and he, for the most part, was forgot. Perhaps, my heart wasn't in it after all because when that brief relationship ended, the only thing crushed was my naivete.
It was different with Miles. I really liked him. Miles and I met up a week after my Sunday morning melt-down. It was an awkward date. His plane had just landed in town, and he had just an hour to spare before he was off to meet with a political candidate. It had taken 48 hours of text messaging (during his meetings) to make arrangements at a sushi restaurant conveniently located close to his next appointment. I was having a fat day, a bad hair day, and I couldn't find anything I really wanted to wear. A recipe for disaster. And it was during this date that I decided to drop the bomb. Subtly, during conversation, like "Yea, actually my dad's Muslim".
"Oh, and are you?"
"I am."
I noticed that his eyes lingered on me with vague suprise, and then I watched as he suppressed whatever reaction he was truly having. Instead the conversation carried on to, of all things, church. His mom and my mom were both Penecostal and we reflected on the exuberant services of our childhood.
After that date, I didn't hear from Miles much. It was the ending of our fairy tale courtship as I knew it. I assumed that he was done, completely uninterested in the real me. Perhaps now he saw me in a new light and of course I was devastated. And then a month passed, we ran into each other, and he begged for my forgiveness. He told me he'd made a huge mistake. I was still unlike anyone he'd ever met. And while we tried to assemble the pieces, we really never did get back on track.
I never asked Miles "Why?". Truly, I don't know if he'd ever tell me. I knew that for the perfection seeking over-achiever, I shattered some element of his impression of me as the perfect woman, but I'll never know what. Perhaps it was my faith, and in my absence, he came to realize that he and I could work through that. Perhaps it was something, or someone, else. Miles and I are still friends till this day, though we tread through choppy waters of uncertainty and awkardness. I have accepted that neither he nor I want to completley extricate the other out of our lives, but that at the moment, being apart has been better for me, than being in love could ever have been.
The event allowed me to come to terms with some things that "I know for sure", to borrow Oprah's term. You see, I never once regretted telling Miles who I was, even though my mother said, in retrospect, perhaps I should have waited a few more dates. Being Muslim is who I am and at the end of the day I want a man who can love me in totality. I want a man who can embrace me and my faith, the way mom and dad embraced, and respected one another. I could never abandon God, or the way I practice, for love.
Even as a single Black woman.
CNN (tried it) published another controversial article on the plight of the lonely Black Woman. This one is caled "Does the Black Church Keep Black Women Single?" It profiles a couple of devout Christian Black women who attend church every Sunday, bible study on Wednesday, and even Sunday school... and although they may pray for love, they are conspicuously alone. The article reasons that Black women who will only date Black men who worship on the same level they do are bound to end up sanctified and single. In other words, lots of Black Christian women are dating Jesus Christ.
Does the Black church keep Black women single? Absolutely not. No faith does. But as many of my single and very-Christian friends have learned, 'the one' might not be in Church on Sunday. Most churches are about 75% women anyway, with the bulk of the men in leadership positions (we'll address that another day). Instead he may be the brother who goes to church every once in a while, or the guy who grew up in church, but strayed during adulthood, the spirtual man who needs a little help getting closer to God, or he may even be Muslim. People have different interpretations of what it means to be equally yoked and it's difficult to change someone's 'non-negotiables'. For some, equally yoked means two people of the same religion, maybe even denomination. For others, it is of the same level of religious commitment, and for others, it means two people who are simply God-fearing. Depending on interpretation, a woman certainly either expands or contracts the size of her dating pool.
Regardless, a Black woman would have a difficult time finding her way through the dating maze without the guiding hand of God. I know I would. God gives us dignity, the faith to know he's there, and the patience to wait, and grow personally, until he arrives.
My very Christian friends, and perhaps women who can relate to the CNN story, are learning at thirty what I learned just a couple of weeks before my 24th birthday, with Miles. For a woman to become half of any succesful relationship, she must know who she is as a believer, for sure, and she has to be confident enough to walk as the woman of God she is. There is no compromising faith for romance, but romance often does require accepting and respecting the faith practices of your partner.
Flyness and faith,
My response. "Just getting in from a lovely walk." And with that, he was off to address his massive workload, satisfied with having paid me the obligatory minim of attention that day.
"Oh dear!" I exasperated to my best friend, The Chocolate Diva, whom I'd dialed in an emergency. "I should have said church. He would expect me to be at church. He doesn't know."
"Just calm down," The Diva insisted.
"I mean, could this be a deal breaker?"
"Honestly, with some men, but not if it's meant to be and he really likes you for you."
"I have to tell him." I decided then.
I was slowly falling for Miles* and I could tell he'd placed me in his high estimation as well. As busy as he was and although we lived a couple hours apart, he was making an effort to demonstrate his affection and to learn more about me. But what he didn't know was that we were unequally yoked.
He was born and raised in the Christian South, and while I knew he didn't go to Church every Sunday, he was raised in a family that did. More importantly, he'd probably want a wife that was too.
I am Muslim. Have been from birth .My faith is as much a part of me as my skin tone and heritage. I grew up in the progressive North, next to a big city where both mosques and churches thrived. I grew up in a place where no one questioned my arabic name or flinched when I mentioned my faith. What's even more interesting is that while my dad is Muslim, started off in the sixties with the Nation and then converted to the more widely-practiced Sunni Islam, my mother is a Penecostal Christian. Hence, while the world still argues and fights over religious difference, I grew up watching two religions love one another, madly. I was blessed to have two parents who were devout in their own right, and who would expose me to both faiths (which aren't so different) and allow me to ultimatley choose how I'd like to get to know God.
Perhaps because of my odd religious upbringing I always made light of the concept of being equally yoked. Sure, there were some difficult times growing up. When I was ten I remember mom having a spontaneous melt-down over the fact that I'd chosen Islam. She felt it was my way of saying I loved my dad more, but that wasn't the case at all. I just felt as if Islam was a perfect fit. And with time, my family made it over that hurdle. I remember learning that Skittles and Starbursts actually contained gelatin, or pork, and having to give up my favorite candies. And as a teen, I can recall my dad expressing his desire to see me marry a Muslim man, and my disgust at his double standard.
We've worked through that hurdle as well.
I was comftorable in my faith. God was always in my heart. With maturity I grew to be more active in my practice, making the salaat, while never five times a day, at least once. And then at 22, I fasted for my first complete Ramadan, meaning that for thirty days, I abstained from food from sunrise to sunset. The more active a believer I became, the more I saw God as a critical part of my ability to survive and thrive in a crazy world. As a baby Islam was chosen for me, at ten I chose it for myself, and in my early twenties I had my own spiritual awakening.
It was faith that launched my career and my subsequent move to Medium-City, South. I was in the masjid on a Friday afternoon when my phone buzzed. I quickly turned it off and waited until the end of juma, or the Friday prayer service, to respond. It was a news director in Medium-City, South offering me my first on-air job right out of college.
Ironically that move would also test my faith more than anything. In Medium-City, Muslim names weren't that common. Neither were masjids. It was town flanked by mega-churches with congregations over five-thousand. Young people went to church. Young people talked openly about God. Young people said grace before dinner. Jesus Christ was a super star.
It was also a place where Islam was a foreign and scary concept to Blacks and Whites alike. So much so, with each news story and interview my station aired that subtly villifed my faith, I found myself for the first time hiding who I was. I was in a military town where most folks believed America was fighting the Muslims, not the terrorists. They felt that the Koran prescribed hate, which it does not, and that people like me, are social pariahs. I feared for my safety if certain extremists should find out I worshipped Allah. And so I continud to make prayer two-three times a day in the confines of my home, and I continued to hide this critical part of me.
After close to a year I revealed my faith to my inner circle and even my boss ( who I believe is still in shock) but I still would shamefully remain quiet when colleauges, even in the morning meeting, made disparaging remarks about Muslims in reaction to a news story they didn't even fully understand.
When I met Miles, I was in that place; a devout Muslim girl, living in the spotlight, afraid to come out about who she was. He would be the one to change that.
On our first date he bowed his head to say grace and it completely caught me off guard. I let him bless the food and we moved on. As things progressed nicely, I became nervous. This was too good to be true. The man of my dreams had suddenly come along to sweep me off my feet and there was no sign of danger on the horizon. So of course, I started coming up with possibilities of things that could go wrong, and the only thing I could think of was faith. Miles wanted a picture perfect life, and in that world, husband, wife, and baby went to church together every Sunday.
My fears were deepned by a handsome Nigerian man I had once dated. An entrepreneur, he was a great man, but we broke up when I realized he could never marry a woman who was not Nigerian. He was the oldest of four and his mother simply would never accept it. I moved to the South about a month later and he, for the most part, was forgot. Perhaps, my heart wasn't in it after all because when that brief relationship ended, the only thing crushed was my naivete.
It was different with Miles. I really liked him. Miles and I met up a week after my Sunday morning melt-down. It was an awkward date. His plane had just landed in town, and he had just an hour to spare before he was off to meet with a political candidate. It had taken 48 hours of text messaging (during his meetings) to make arrangements at a sushi restaurant conveniently located close to his next appointment. I was having a fat day, a bad hair day, and I couldn't find anything I really wanted to wear. A recipe for disaster. And it was during this date that I decided to drop the bomb. Subtly, during conversation, like "Yea, actually my dad's Muslim".
"Oh, and are you?"
"I am."
I noticed that his eyes lingered on me with vague suprise, and then I watched as he suppressed whatever reaction he was truly having. Instead the conversation carried on to, of all things, church. His mom and my mom were both Penecostal and we reflected on the exuberant services of our childhood.
After that date, I didn't hear from Miles much. It was the ending of our fairy tale courtship as I knew it. I assumed that he was done, completely uninterested in the real me. Perhaps now he saw me in a new light and of course I was devastated. And then a month passed, we ran into each other, and he begged for my forgiveness. He told me he'd made a huge mistake. I was still unlike anyone he'd ever met. And while we tried to assemble the pieces, we really never did get back on track.
I never asked Miles "Why?". Truly, I don't know if he'd ever tell me. I knew that for the perfection seeking over-achiever, I shattered some element of his impression of me as the perfect woman, but I'll never know what. Perhaps it was my faith, and in my absence, he came to realize that he and I could work through that. Perhaps it was something, or someone, else. Miles and I are still friends till this day, though we tread through choppy waters of uncertainty and awkardness. I have accepted that neither he nor I want to completley extricate the other out of our lives, but that at the moment, being apart has been better for me, than being in love could ever have been.
The event allowed me to come to terms with some things that "I know for sure", to borrow Oprah's term. You see, I never once regretted telling Miles who I was, even though my mother said, in retrospect, perhaps I should have waited a few more dates. Being Muslim is who I am and at the end of the day I want a man who can love me in totality. I want a man who can embrace me and my faith, the way mom and dad embraced, and respected one another. I could never abandon God, or the way I practice, for love.
Even as a single Black woman.
CNN (tried it) published another controversial article on the plight of the lonely Black Woman. This one is caled "Does the Black Church Keep Black Women Single?" It profiles a couple of devout Christian Black women who attend church every Sunday, bible study on Wednesday, and even Sunday school... and although they may pray for love, they are conspicuously alone. The article reasons that Black women who will only date Black men who worship on the same level they do are bound to end up sanctified and single. In other words, lots of Black Christian women are dating Jesus Christ.
"Awww man!" she wants to date Jesus Christ this guy laughed, after his
companion asked if I had high standards. "Of course" I had replied.
Does the Black church keep Black women single? Absolutely not. No faith does. But as many of my single and very-Christian friends have learned, 'the one' might not be in Church on Sunday. Most churches are about 75% women anyway, with the bulk of the men in leadership positions (we'll address that another day). Instead he may be the brother who goes to church every once in a while, or the guy who grew up in church, but strayed during adulthood, the spirtual man who needs a little help getting closer to God, or he may even be Muslim. People have different interpretations of what it means to be equally yoked and it's difficult to change someone's 'non-negotiables'. For some, equally yoked means two people of the same religion, maybe even denomination. For others, it is of the same level of religious commitment, and for others, it means two people who are simply God-fearing. Depending on interpretation, a woman certainly either expands or contracts the size of her dating pool.
Regardless, a Black woman would have a difficult time finding her way through the dating maze without the guiding hand of God. I know I would. God gives us dignity, the faith to know he's there, and the patience to wait, and grow personally, until he arrives.
My very Christian friends, and perhaps women who can relate to the CNN story, are learning at thirty what I learned just a couple of weeks before my 24th birthday, with Miles. For a woman to become half of any succesful relationship, she must know who she is as a believer, for sure, and she has to be confident enough to walk as the woman of God she is. There is no compromising faith for romance, but romance often does require accepting and respecting the faith practices of your partner.
I have reflected on my last real date with Miles ad infinitum and I have stored a mental list of all the things I would change, including canceling the hurried date altogether. What I would never change is divulging my faith. For me, I am Muslim, and to love me is to love that part of me. It's funny, but I think I'd feel more comftorable with most men I've dated seeing me naked, than watching me bow down in prayer. My faith is deeply personal and deeply me. In the aftermath, I know that while I could date a Christian or Muslim man of God, just as long as he is of God, the ultimate stipulation is that he respects the way I serve. I would do the same, including going to church on Sunday, and celebrating both holidays on my end. With maturity has also come to the understanding that not everyone will be able to embrace me and my faith. For some, I will be a fabulous Muslim girl and woman of God. For some, I will be a fabulous girl, but a Muslim.
Flyness and faith,
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Wedding Dress of the Week: Pnina Tornai 3180008
Happy Saturday Divas!
It is with great pleasure that I feature this opulent mermaid sheath by Pnina Tornai. The satin gown is strapless with a flattering rouched bodice, and dropped waiste that extends into tiers of extravagant ruffles. The creation is richly adorned with bows made of swaroski crystal along the decotallage and the top of the skirt. That detail is this dress' wow factor!
It is with great pleasure that I feature this opulent mermaid sheath by Pnina Tornai. The satin gown is strapless with a flattering rouched bodice, and dropped waiste that extends into tiers of extravagant ruffles. The creation is richly adorned with bows made of swaroski crystal along the decotallage and the top of the skirt. That detail is this dress' wow factor!
Friday, August 13, 2010
Thursday's Thought: On Bridges
On Bridges: This past week I covered a couple that married on top of a bridge. They were childhood sweethearts who reunited, on Facebook, twenty-five years later. For me, their story gives new meaning to the phrase "bridge over troubled water". The bride said in her interview, "I was in love but he didn't know what love was back then." She of course during their time apart married, had children, and later divorced. The groom didn't do any of those things, but he matured, and came to realize the one that got away was in fact the love of his life. He moved across the country to be with her just ten days after they reconnected on Facebook. Indeed love can act as a bridge between; forging a bond that withstands struggle, distance, and most impressively time. On the contrary, we have to consider the consequences of burning a bridge, for what happens when you attempt to cross a burned bridge? You drown.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
'Blondie' Meet 'Bourgie': Race on DC Housewives
Last Thursday,The Real Housewives of DC debuted to an audience of 1.6 million, far ahead of any other show in that time slot. The show's initial success should come as little surprise. The latest edition of the popular reality franchise arrived on the tails of Party-Gate, a national scandal that, ethics aside, was one hell of a PR move. For Housewives fans, the district is a welcome change of scenery and a fresh set of socialites to rival only New York in their authenticity. And then there's the more subtle tease; Bravo's peculiar casting.
When news first broke of a DC edition in the making, many assumed it would be the second mocha cast. They don't call DC "Chocolate City" for nothing. The nation's capital is also the capital of Black elitism. If Atlanta is where Black money goes to luxuriate, then DC is where Black money goes to discriminate.
But instead Bravo only casted one sista, which surely raised some eyebrows. Stacie Scott Turner is a high-end real estate agent, wife, mother, and a credentialed somebody. Stacie can float seamlessly between white and black elite circles, which is pretty much the prerequisite to being Black and bourgeois. She is a Delta, a Jack and Jiller, and just so happens to have graduated from Harvard Business school. And for those of us who identify with First Lady Michelle more so than former First Lady Lisa Raye, Staci Scott is a welcome addition; a departure from the conspicuously flashy Housewives of the south.
Bravo billed their new show as sort of a 'sex meets power' in DC; hyper-fabulous fame-seeking doyennes demonstrating their place among the power elite. But the first episode quickly alluded to other intentions. Rather than 'Sex meets power' , it was clearly 'Black meets White', or better stated, 'preppy meets bourgie' in Washington D.C., the seat of national government and heart of America's current preoccupation with race.
"Welcome to the District" was the perfect blend of vanilla and chocolate, certainly titillating enough to keep viewers wanting more. We meet Lynda Erkiletian and her big Black stud-like boyfriend Ebong. Then we watch witty exchanges between two of the White housewives and their very Dwighterrific Black gay confidantes. A smashing birthday celebration is temporarily interrupted by cast mate Mary Schmidt Amons who gives her tipsy speech about how Black and White hair salons ought to integrated. "Yes we can!" she throws in for good measure. And then there's the highlight of the episode; an evenly mixed fette for four where cast mate Cat Ommanney, a recent transplant from London, has the nerve to dis Tyra Banks and President Obama in Sista Staci's house.
It almost looks like Michaele Salahi is doing a Black fist pump here. Almost.
When news first broke of a DC edition in the making, many assumed it would be the second mocha cast. They don't call DC "Chocolate City" for nothing. The nation's capital is also the capital of Black elitism. If Atlanta is where Black money goes to luxuriate, then DC is where Black money goes to discriminate.
But instead Bravo only casted one sista, which surely raised some eyebrows. Stacie Scott Turner is a high-end real estate agent, wife, mother, and a credentialed somebody. Stacie can float seamlessly between white and black elite circles, which is pretty much the prerequisite to being Black and bourgeois. She is a Delta, a Jack and Jiller, and just so happens to have graduated from Harvard Business school. And for those of us who identify with First Lady Michelle more so than former First Lady Lisa Raye, Staci Scott is a welcome addition; a departure from the conspicuously flashy Housewives of the south.
Bravo billed their new show as sort of a 'sex meets power' in DC; hyper-fabulous fame-seeking doyennes demonstrating their place among the power elite. But the first episode quickly alluded to other intentions. Rather than 'Sex meets power' , it was clearly 'Black meets White', or better stated, 'preppy meets bourgie' in Washington D.C., the seat of national government and heart of America's current preoccupation with race.
"Welcome to the District" was the perfect blend of vanilla and chocolate, certainly titillating enough to keep viewers wanting more. We meet Lynda Erkiletian and her big Black stud-like boyfriend Ebong. Then we watch witty exchanges between two of the White housewives and their very Dwighterrific Black gay confidantes. A smashing birthday celebration is temporarily interrupted by cast mate Mary Schmidt Amons who gives her tipsy speech about how Black and White hair salons ought to integrated. "Yes we can!" she throws in for good measure. And then there's the highlight of the episode; an evenly mixed fette for four where cast mate Cat Ommanney, a recent transplant from London, has the nerve to dis Tyra Banks and President Obama in Sista Staci's house.
"I damn near choked on my food," Staci says in the interview after wards.
*If this isn't a side-eye glance, I don't know what is.
And that's not including the racially tinged events that lead up to the series debut. When Michaele Salahi and her husband infamously crashed at White House party, it prompted Desiree Roger's resignation from her position as the first Black White House social secretary. Following the security breach, her admirers were quick to become her detractors, hitting the cable-network circuit denigrating her as a self-absorbed outsider, in over her head. As if that wasn't enough, when Salahi appeared on the View just days before the premiere she managed to besmirch yet another public figure of color. She accused Whoopi Goldberg of 'hitting' her during a heated interview about whether or not she was really invited to the White House. No doubt, Salahi was border-line verbally attacked on The View, but definitely not physically. Watch the video. Her accusations are straight erroneous, but just enough to rock the race waters.
It almost looks like Michaele Salahi is doing a Black fist pump here. Almost.I have to say "Brava" to Bravo for perfect timing. Many Americans are being exposed to the Black professional class for the first time by political characters on the national stage. Barack, Michelle, Desiree, and attorney general Eric Holder are all vast departure from the fictional Blacks inHollywood. My--- a Black woman having tea with the queen... who would have thunk it? Hence it is timely for Bravo to integrate an all-white cast with one Black woman, who happens to be a lot like Michelle. The show, much like America, is progressively mixed on the surface, but upon closer inspection, split with hair line cracks of racial tension.
I liken the fifth edition of the Housewives to the fourth season of Dynasty. Enter Diahann Carroll in a fierce creme suit, fur stole, and loads of expensive luggage. "I do not sleep in nor do I sleep with my clothes. I require a separate room for my wardrobe," she demands in her light minx voice. A striking Carroll was the "New Lady in Town", and while she's widely known as prime time's first Black Bitch, she was really prime time's introduction to Black affluence Of course there was the Jefferson's, but that was a Black sitcom for a mostly Black audience. And let's face it, Wheezy was no Dominique Devereaux. Just four months before The Cosby Show and the subsequent proliferation of positive Black sitcoms, Diahann Carroll's character tested America's readiness to watch the Black elite mingle with the White elite. It was a bold casting call that paid off in ratings... and television legend.
I'd say Bravo is taking the same gamble. With the new set of divas, Bravo is capitalizing on the nation's anxious racial climate. With every tea party rally and party-debate, America's race pathology comes further to a head. DC Housewives will surely explore the boundaries of political correctness in a "post-racial" post-Obama America. There will be the same cat fights and snobbery that compels millions of women to tune into the lives of formerly-obscure rich women every week. But the cherry on top will be the insertion of race, awkward moments that break out as randomly as teenage acne. People will laugh and people will talk, and I think this is the light-hearted "reality" check America could use right now.
Flyness and Funk(y housewives),
Monday, August 9, 2010
Timbuctoo: A Freed Slave Community in NJ
Archaeologists have discovered the remains of a freed slave community in New Jersey, thought to have existed some 45 years prior to emancipation. What interests me most is that the community shares the same name of the ancient intellectual metropolis, Timbuktu in Mali. It's a demonstration that significant African ties survived even the blade of slavery. Check out the article in www.theroot.com.
Spotlight: John B, They Don't Know
Before there was Robin Thick... there was John B! I heard this song on the radio the other day and it took me to a good place. So plug in your work ear phones (do you have those? I do) and enjoy!
Happy Monday!
-Ike
Happy Monday!
-Ike
Friday, August 6, 2010
Becoming Jacqueline Broyer
Next to my impeccable mother, the woman who has had the second most influence on my life is a fictional character. While many girls were groomed to idolize Jackie O, I grew up idolizing Jacqui B. Jacqueline Broyer; the fierce femme fatale played to the hilt by actress Robin Givens in the 1992 movie Boomerang.
I was just a little girl. Skinny legs, a press and curl. My mother always
thought I'd be a star. -Lauryn Hill
I was just a little girl, still at Marie Wildey's dancing school in cornrows and pink tights, when I was first laid eyes on Jacqueline Broyer. This was long before all the ballet performances, pageants and maternal influence transformed me into the prima-donna I (sort of) am today. I was too young to fully comprehend the story-line, yet utterly fascinated every time Jacquelyn appeared on screen. She mesmerized me, regaled in all the gold, glitz, and glamour that epitomized 1992. Here was this intelligent, successful Black woman who was also every bit of a raging siren. It's an archetype that Hollywood has since abandoned but fortunately, no amount of Nicki Minaj's could ever undo the effect of a single Jacqueline Broyer on a girl like me.
In childhood, I would watch the movie Boomerang dozens of times, paying attention to every fine detail of her captivating presence. I studied her power dress. I noticed the bespoke-like tailoring of her suits and how she never appeared unadorned, without an ensemble of bold jewelry. Jacquelyn wore hair extensions and so do I. It became important to wear a lush, flowing hairstyle, reminiscent of Jacqueline when she walks away from Marcus, her mane billowing behind her. I studied the meticulous aspects of her beauty; the fierce grooming of her brows, and the way her nails and lips were oft the same tempting shade of red. And whether it was by chance or subconscious-repetition, over time I did learn to channel her, at times, quite well.
*on-air, bringing a bit of Jacqui B...
In the movie Boomerang, marketing exec Marcus Graham is the poster child of what every Black woman is waiting for. Hence for him, dating is target practice and variety is very much the spice of his life. All is well in his love-em-and-leave-em universe until he meets his match, Jacqueline Broyer, the 'executress' who becomes his boss after a company take over.
"She's smart. She's beautiful. She's bad. She could be Misses Graham. I'm telling you. She's that bad."Jacqueline is the first woman Marcus encounters who is seemingly immune to his magic. By the movie’s climax, Marcus finds himself in the same vulnerable position to which he's reduced countless women, and like a classic Samson and Delilah tale, the ensuing chase leads Marcus to his (temporary) ruin.
The movie leaves most of Jacqueline's life to the imagination. You know next to nothing about her past, where she lives or even why she's fluent in French. You don't know if she's a divorcee or if maybe she'd spent years of her early twenties getting over her own Marcus Graham or two, much like I and other fly girls have. You don't know from where her extraordinary presence comes, but you are aware that at some point Ms. Broyer must have conquered her own hiccups, hang-ups, maybe even break ups and still she managed to become one hell of a self-fulfilled woman.
When I seduce you, if I decide to seduce you, don't worry... You'll know.
Seductive women like Jacqui B aren't born. They are made. The seductress has an uncanny will to exude control over herself and those around her through appearance and force of personality. As such, she also has the patience and discipline it takes to get there. Behind the glamour, Jacqueline ultimate seductive trait is indeed her wholeness. Even a man with the most well-rehearsed game will fumble when confronted by a Jacqueline Broyer. She is a male fantasy come to life; supremely confident, brilliant and wonderfully sexual. No easy prize, there is a torch lit path to her affections and during the course of the journey; a man just might be made better. My...You'd have to fathom that Jacqui B even spent ample time becoming Jacqui B.
In spite of her fascinating joi de vivre, in the movie Jacqueline Broyer is vilified, much like Robin Givens was at the time. Her fabulously complex character is relegated to being a flat antagonist; merely a device around which Marcus' redemption revolves. Still, while most female viewers identify with a sweet-and-vulnerable Angela, who does ultimately win 'the prize', they'd also love to wield Jacquelyn's seductive power.... But let's remember, Boomerang is a love story told by a man. Director Reggie Hudlin already broke the rules of the playbook by revealing the type of woman that could render a man weak. Hence, the movie ending is a shameless cover-up, written to throw women off.
Too bad.
Adulthood for me has largely been a process of fulfilling my childhood fantasy of becoming Jacqueline Broyer. I've always felt that if I were more like her I'd be immune to the kind of heartbreak that has riddled my life since freshman year undergrad. When Miles *exited stage left, my Jacqui ambitions went into over drive. I lost the ten pounds I picked up in college, I lightened my hair two shades, changed my nail polish color, and indulged in so much retail therapy I had to juggle a bill... or several. And while I may turn a few more heads now (including his), I am no Jacquelyn Broyer. I am still in that crucial process of becoming the woman of my dreams. Reaching that supreme level of confidence in which perhaps I am not immune, but hopefully impenetrable to unrequited love.
I told a male confidant today that I was pulling myself out of the game for an undetermined period of time. He said it was the pain talking.
"Despite how tired you may be of what some of us are offering," he said, "you're not as cynical as you may portray to some in the coming weeks, months or however long. Tired, likely. But still wanting and willing."
Yes, man-friend has a point. But really, I need to take a minute to be wrapped up in myself. Every woman needs different things. The truth is, I take rejection very personally. Rather than rationalize heartbreak with inauspicious timing or the classic 'he's not the one', I'd rather tell myself, I am not fly enough. For me, fabulous is and has always been a form of control.
My idolization of Jacqui B began as fascination with all that glitters, but over the years it has morphed into a desire to rise above romantic vulnerability. You don't know what Jacquelyn did after the scene where Marcus finally chooses Angela over her, but you can't picture her somewhere wasting Kleenex on tears. If we are to get real about Hudlin's machismo romantic comedy, Jacquelyn doesn't end up with Marcus, but she absolutely wins the game. Don't get it twisted, she conquered and reformed a true player, and if she really wanted Marcus, she could have had him.
How wonderful would it be to have power in the boardroom and in the bedroom?
It's a feeling most women will never know, but for me, a worthwhile pursuit. Sure there will still be suitors that come and go, but when it comes to the high stakes romances, I'd prefer the romance on my terms. I'd like to initiate the chase; compel a man to sacrifice, put his heart on the line, endure pleasure and pain, anxiety and ease, break down and ultimately build himself back up-- a better man, all in order to win my heart. And truth be told, I wouldn't mind bringing a skilled, debonair player to his knees all in the pursuit of love. It could after all end in love, or at the very least, give him a taste of his own medicine. As they say.... Karma is a bitch. A fierce bitch.
Flyness and funk,Ike
PS: Jacqueline vs. Angela? Who do you favor?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
THURSDAY THOUGHT: ON 'DESERTED ISLANDS'
On 'Deserted Islands': Recently I broke bread with a very wealthy car-dealership owner with some very pointed views about the 'haves' and the 'have-nots'. He himself was a self-made millionaire. He said, " You will always have rich and poor. Give five rich people and five poor people a million dollars, and leave them on a deserted island. Within a year, the poor people will have given all their money to the rich." That stuck with me. Most of us spend our lives working to build wealth for a group of shareholders, our own worth determined by some arbitrary person. And then, we spend our money, once again, creating wealth for others. How many of us create wealth for ourselves? By saving, investing, or even becoming entrepreneurs? Perhaps if we all focused on ways we do that, we'd lead richer lives, both figuratively and literally.
-Ike
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
She Said What: Omarosa
"I came in on a white horse, and rode out on a stallion!"
-Omarosa Manigault Stallworth on "The Ultimate Merger" after a kinky night in the desert
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)