8 Actresses Who Could Play Whitney Houston in Lifetime's Upcoming Biopic

 Angela Bassett rose to fame portraying iconic African-American women like Tina Turner and Betty Shabazz in Blockbuster biopics, so it is only fitting that in her directorial debut, the legendary actress will help bring the life of the late Whitney Houston to the small screen.Lifetime's  telepic Whitney Houston (working title) is slated to premiere in 2015.

 According to Lifetime, the made-for-tv movie will chronicle the tumultuous relationship between Houston and singer-songwriter Bobby Brown — from the time they first met at the very height of their celebrity through their courtship and rocky marriage.

 I don't know about you but when Whitney passed away, I cried for about a week. I cried in car as I listened to WBLS play "The Greatest Love of All".  I cried every time I turned on the tv and saw the young, exuberant Whitney we all fell in love with. In downward facing dog, there were tears falling on my yoga mat as my fellow yogis pretended not to notice the only Black girl in class having a breakdown. And during the televised funeral, at parts, I was straight hysterical.

 Please, don't laugh. I'm from Essex County, New Jersey. We claim Whitney s our own and we are forever proud of her, regardless of how the media has tried to spin her ups and downs. Nobody is perfect. Everyone has demons.

 Having said that, I feel relieved to know that Angela Bassett is at the artistic helm of the inevitable Whitney Houston movie.   Not only am I sure that Yale trained (shameless plug) thespian will make a solid director, I think it's safe to assume that as a master of her craft, and a personal friend of Whitney's, Bassett will coax an incredibly nuanced performance from the movie's lead actress.

 Which of course begs the question, who will play Whitney Houston? The actress will have to possess some physical likeness (don't pull a Nina Simone) and a deep emotional range in order to avoid playing Whitney as a one-dimensional erratic diva, the way the media often portrayed her in the years leading up to her death. Many names are being tossed around (including Willow Smith. #HaveASeat) but here are a few actresses that I personally think would do the role justice.  


Former soap star Renee Goldsberry is a triple threat. She can act, dance, and yes, she can saaang. She'd easily be able to put herself in Whitney's shoes and even recreate some of her earlier videos. Watch this clip of her singing on One Life to Live and you too will be convinced.  

Sharon Leal doesn't have the same name recognition of some of the other actresses on this list but in Tyler Perry's Why Did I Get Married she proved that she had chops, and in Dreamgirls we learned that she could work a stage.

If Lauryn Hill is cast as Whitney Houston it will be OVAH! I mean, that would literally make my 2015. Lauryn is strikingly beautiful, she and Whitney share the same New Jersey roots, she's a great actress (remember Sister Act) and at home on a stage. Even more, I think Lauryn would be able to draw upon her own experience of  battling demons while under the glare of public scrutiny. More than any other actress, if properly coached,  Lauryn could deliver the most authentic performance. It would also be amazing for her career.

Tika Sumpter played Whitney Houston's daughter in the movie  Sparkle and I think she resembles a young Whitney Houston with her striking features, chocolate skin and statuesque body. Though she'd able to draw on her own experience with Houston, the role would likely be a stretch. Appearance wise, however, she'd be a great fit.

   

Yaya Dacosta is another actress who would probably have to step up to the plate skill-wise, but in terms of looks, DaCosta could be a dead ringer for a young Whitney Houston. There's also something about her presence, a certain je ne sai quoi, that makes her a very convincing super star.

Taraji P. Henson is the most skilled technician on the list and the Oscar nominated Baby Boy actress seems the most capable of expressing the seemingly contradictory aspects of Whitney's personality.  Whitney was at times a walking anomaly, one part world-class diva and one-part round-the-way. The thing about Whitney is, though  was heralded as one of the greatest singers of our time and by all means was a super star, she never stopped being Whitney from East Orange, New Jersey. People were shocked when she told Wendy Williams "If this were back in the day in Newark, I'd meet you outside," but that's who she was. That's why she loved Bobby. Not because he was so different from her, but because she could be herself around him. For this reason's, I think Taraji's own lack of affectation, her candor, would lend itself nicely to the role.

Joy Bryant is a strong actress (and Yalie) who's yet to get her big break. This movie could be her Introducing Dorothy Dandridge moment.

And finally, Meagan Good is my wild card. As an actress, it may be a stretch. We've never seen her in a nuanced role since Eves Bayou, and even then, her character was somewhat one-dimensional. Still, the real-life preacher's wife has gone on record to say she wants nothing more than to play the woman who once starred in The Preacher's Wife. Without a doubt, she will campaign for the role and likely be a front runner.

Stream of Conscious Holiday Manifesto… Reflections on A Quarter Century

* A writing ritual I do at each year's end. Personal, cathartic-- and for some reason I feature it on my blog. Feel free to skip. Or better yet, try it yourself.

 It is the final day of my twenty-fifth year and what a fleeting year this has been been. Twenty-Five passed in such a flurry, I want to do it again. So I will. Tomorrow, on my birthday, I will be celebrating 25. Again. After all, they always say you’re only 25 once... and I never do what they always say.



This year has felt like a turbulent flight and right now I’m idle on the runway trying to figure out where to take off to next. I tried new things like belly dancing and ballroom. I got serious about my book. I believe it is my big idea--- you know, the aha-moment of a lifetime. I moved on from heartbreak and began reaping the benefits of being a Siren (in the making). With a quater-century down, and a powerful loss in the recent path, I began to see how important it is to live like there's no tomorrow.



I began 2011 in Jacksonville, Florida where I was in the third year of a contract with a television news station. What can I say about my experience as a local news reporter except I learned a lot about TV, about myself, and you couldn’t pay me enough money to move down there and do it again. When the opportunity arose for me to re-sign a new contract for another three years as an over-worked, under-paid (and appreciated) TV journalist I said, “No, thank you.”. It’s funny how I was so certain about what I didn’t want even though I had no idea what I did want. The truth is I had no back-up plan and that was on purpose. I have wanted to be a media personality since I was 14 years old. It never dawned on me that I’d despise my first television gig.
But maybe that was paying dues…
It has been a month since I’ve moved back home and I can honestly say I have no regrets. I do not miss working in Florida one bit. I’ve been waiting for the morning when I’d rise and feel like heading to the studio at the butt-crack of dawn, but… that hasn’t happened yet. I’m proud of myself for going after my dream, landing an on-air position right out of school, and moving to a new state where I didn’t know a soul. That gave me some chops. But your twenties are about figuring out what you do want out of life just as much as they are about figuring out what you don’t want. What I didn’t want was to be far away from my family. What I didn’t want was to continue turning mindless stories whose sole purpose was to take up two minutes of air space.
I do want to matter.
I’ve always wanted to matter and in fact, now that I am back at home, getting reacquainted with New Jersey winter, I know that the next move I make has to put me some place where I am making a difference in someone’s life and using my brain. Perhaps I was making a difference as a Black woman on TV in Medium-City, South. My fans often referred to me as a positive role model, but after three years, that wasn’t enough. I'm using this time to re-evaluate.
In your twenties (and twenty-five just happens to be the ultimate metanym for "your twenties") the greatest obstacle isn’t figuring out what you want to do with your life, but overcoming your innate fear of being your best self. I've come to learn that the hardest part isn’t completing the journey. Sometimes it's taking the first step. As I see it, most humans have a deep-rooted fear of inadequacy. I realize that now as my big idea--- the book serves as a gross reminder of the thin line between the life of your dreams and what could have been.



It’s several days after Christmas but it really didn’t feel much like Christmas at all. Still, my soul is merry. I am at home, finally, surrounded by people I love. What my 25-year old person will know this time around is that it is okay to re-prioritize your life. Right now, I love how simple life is, even if this state is only temporary. I love being with my family, hugging my parents each day, and lying in my bed until the sun wakes me up. The daily glamour is gone. I am sans weave and a full face of make-up. In fact, I spend most days in jeans . And yet, in my natural state, I merely feel as if I am back stage, preparing, for the performance of my life.

Life is like a Jigsaw Puzzle

"Life is like a jigsaw puzzle without the picture on the box." -Anonymous

I’m vacationing in Martha’s Vineyard with mom and dad. At the same time I’m reflecting on a major turning point of my life. I have decided to not resign my current television contract which means I’ve got about 3 months to secure a second television job, preferably in Big City, North versus Medium City, South. That task alone comes with serious trepidation, but I’ve also been trying to make sense of where I am headed, and where I want to go. I wish I was published by now, but I am not. I’m questioning if television journalism is really the career for me. I don't want to punk out and duck out early. And then there’s the possibility of law school looming over my head as it is the logical finale many BAP educations. Anyway, suddenly I’m adult, and time is ticking, and I have these humungous dreams and the SHIT IS SCARY.
It started to rain on Monday. The cable is crap so I found this jig saw puzzle in the closet. It was Monet’s Summer broken up into 500 little pieces. If you are familiar with that painting you’re aware that it is like 95 percent blue and white, so putting it together was a mother. Speaking of moms, after the first day she saw that I didn’t have much finished so she lent a hand. It took the both of us four days but we did it and in the end… I realized completing the puzzle was a valuable lesson for me.
Life is a lot like a (difficult) jigsaw puzzle. It comes together piece by piece.
You have to start with the edges. These are the only pieces you know for sure. Your character, your values, your knowledge, and your passions in life. The edge pieces are the framework you need in order to complete the puzzle.
Sometimes you’ll find the next piece by searching for it by color or by shape.
But even then, you may over look it. So when you get stuck, you move on. Try something new. You start working on another section of the puzzle.
Sometimes you get lucky and you stumble upon pieces. That helps you out a lot. But luck only takes you so far.
Jig saw puzzles take patience. Sometimes you’ll feel as if you’ve reached a dead end but you can’t give up. You just keep trying different pieces until something works. Sometimes it helps to take a break, come back and look at the puzzle through fresh eyes.
In jigsaw puzzles you can’t connect one piece, without the other. So even though by luck or technique you may move quickly through a puzzle, there truly are no short cuts.
Jig saw puzzles are far easier when you have someone (like mom) or a group of people to help you. They’ll help you find the pieces you may have over looked on your own.
Jig saw puzzles are hard. But with patience, diligence, and determination they are possible.
And finally, you can’t enjoy the picture until you’ve completed it--- so you might as well have fun working on it along the way.

Black Girl Beautiful

Satoshi Kanazawa is not the first person to disguise racism as science nor is he the first (or last) man to degrade African beauty. In spite of these givens, the Psychology Today article that asserts Black women are inherently less attractive than women of other races has lit the Black E-World on fire. So much so, several hours after it was published, Psychology Today removed the article from their site.

If you'd like to read this mess article click here.

Really Kanazawa's theory comes as no surprise. I don't know about you, but I live in a society that endorses a eurocentric beauty ideal. I live in a society where Marilyn Monroe is the ultimate male fantasy and Sarah Baartman is the ultimate fetish. Every day my senses are overloaded with images of 'beautiful' women whose features are the opposite of my own. If beauty is fair skinned, tall and lithe, with straightish hair and a keen nose, then beauty-- I am not. And that a so-called psychologist would take this observation one step further and attempt to back it up with a half-assed case study .... I'm just not surprised.

What I am shocked by is the subsequent outrage within the Black (on-line) community. Why does it take an Asian man articulating a Black woman's inherent ghastliness to make us react so passionately? Is this not the same euro-centric beauty propaganda that we spread throughout our own communities in subtle and not-so-subtle ways? Do Black women as a collective not have an inferiority complex? An outsider looking in would be justified in assuming so.

Madame CJ Walker, the first Black millionaire, made her fortune selling chemical hair straighteners and bleaching creams to Black women and today Black women still spend billions of dollars on creamy crack and other people's straight hair.

I'd like to think we are a generation beyond the brown paper bag test, but still, most of our leading ladies are women of color with Anglo features. As those in the model world like to call it, white women dipped in chocolate.

Even though it's okay to rock locks, and sista locks, twists and fros---we still praise our wavy headed sisters and brothers for having good-hair, and Black moms still slap "Just for Me" all over their toddler's virgin hair.

Guess what? African women throughout the diaspora bleach their skin. Some even bleach their children's skin. If no body was bleaching, you wouldn't be able to find Fair And White at just about every beauty supply store in the United States of America.


Statistics show that more and more Black women are reconciling their ethnic reality with their anglo aspirations by turning to rhinoplasty and other procedures that may tame exotic features.

Pretty Black girls are still told, "you're pretty, for a dark skinned girl". And no kidding, a male friend and fellow Ivy-Leaguer once told me that as a successful Black man, he can only date "light-skinned" women. He was dead serious.


Black is beautiful....
But is it?

Kanazawa seems to emphasize that Black men and Black women are not aesthetic equals. In fact, he writes that Black men are superior in looks to other men due to their "high levels of testosterone". So I'm thinking....

If Black men are the most attractive of all men, and Black women are the least attractive of all women, then perhaps Black women are not good enough for Black men after all. Kanazawa has finally supplied millions of Black women with an explanation for why they are single and why Black marriage rates are stark and why Kobe didn't marry a sista.

Are you upset yet?

It baffles me that we would decry an outsiders opinion of our beauty when as a culture, we have allowed others to define "our beauty" and politicize "our beauty" for centuries.

Beauty is an opinion. It's just that. It's fluid. It's changes over time and across cultures. That's something I learned during a recent trip to Dominican Republic. From the time I arrived at the airport I was swarmed with male attention. Fair-skinned, darker-skinned Dominican men, it didn't matter. I received marriage proposals, invitations to dinner, astounding service. "My, you are two beautiful Black woman" one man shouted as he watched my mom and I walk along beach.

It was an all-inclusive resort I stayed in, so after 5 days of big meals, daiquiris, and constant flattery--- I went home with a fatter booty, belly and ego.

"I'm moving to the Dominican Republic," I told Miles* at an outdoor concert.

"Why?"

"Because I've never had my beauty celebrated like that before. I want to feel like that every day."

"Please, men flirt with you all the time," he smiled. And they do. But not like that.

You see, standards of beauty shift depending on where you are in the globe. There are some aspects of a woman's beauty that are universal. Harmonious features, smooth skin, a nice waist-to hip ratio. But after that, beauty is pretty much socialized. Beauty ideals are a function of cultural hegemony. Conforming to a certain standard of beauty is an excercise in power or lack there of. It is the reason why a woman who decides to undergo the "big chop" and swap her perm for a fro is seen as making a "political" statement. Beauty is so much more than looks.

Some people think I'm self-absorbed. A narcissist.

I am.

I think I'm beautiful and I have my parents to thank for that. My mom looks like the bust of Nefertiti. I think she is the most gorgeous woman in the world. She has chocolate skin and beautiful cheek bones. Her hair is natural, coiled in sister locks. She is my beauty ideal and she raised me that way. Literally there were dozens of paintings of beautiful Black women all over my home growing up including a gorgeous one of mom right when you first walk in. My dolls looked like me. The characters in my story books and fairy tales looked like me. I realize now my parents went to incredible lengths to raise a Black child who didn't have a color complex. That's not easy.

In spite of their best efforts, I had some hiccups. I was the only brown skinned frizzy haired girl with a big butt dancing ballet with other young ladies who looked nothing like me. I questioned my beauty then. And of course I went through an awkward adolescent stage where I thought no boys liked me. I questioned my beauty then too.

But somehow, as an adult, I've come love what I see when I look in the mirror, pug nose and all. A woman can not be beautiful to anyone else unless she recognizes her own beauty. It is something that has to be embraced and celebrated.

It's sad because there is a generation out there waiting to be validated. A generation of Black women with broken self-esteem... who feel broken because of who they are. And it's not right.... because they are beautiful.

I'll leave you with this memory. It was the first time I covered a parade. It must have been the MLK parade because there were mostly Black people. Anyway, there was a group of two-dozen or little brown girls dancing down the street in this parade. I looked at them and smiled because they were so adorable. Then, I caught their eyes. Every little girl made a bee-line, ran off the parade route, and into my arms. Each one of them hugged me.

The memory makes me teary eyed.

I realized then, as a 23 year old budding tv- journalist, exactly what I was to those girls. I was them.

Finally they could turn on the tv and see themselves. A brown skin girl, with a pug nose, full lips, high cheek bones, and booty. And I was still on tv. And I was smiling. And I was ... beautiful. And I was them. There's a generation of girls out there who just want to be appreciated for who they are.

At then end of the day Kanazawa is doing what all scientists do--- they try to make sense out of everyday phenomena. If our society places the least value on Black beauty, why is that? Of course he can't see the foolishness in his attempt to apply biological reasoning to a sociological concept. Touche. But this entire ordeal begs the question of who we let define our beauty.

I hope that after the outrage over this silly man's article we hold a mirror up before ourselves. I hope we notice our own faults and propensity to judge each other based on Anglo ideals. And more importantly, I hope Black girls everywhere take a good look in that mirror and see that yes, they are too, beautiful.

What's your price? On Sex, Economics, and Market Crash

A woman's most valuable asset is her vagina.

Oh... you think I'm tripping? You don't think your vagina has a price? My mom looked at me pretty funny too until I explained to her my logic.

Let's look at some the basic differences between male and female sexuality.

-In all cultures men are expected to give resources in exchange for access to female sex. These resources may be in the form of dinners, money, gifts, time, attention, compliments, exclusivity or even marriage. But something of value is given in exchange for the possibility of sex. With few rare exceptions, women do not give anything in exchange for sex.

-Sex is costlier for women. Intercourse could result in pregnancy, child birth, and the responsibility of motherhood. Men only lose semen, and they practically have an endless supply of that.

-In all cultures, female virginity, or brand new vagina, is a prized possession. Male virginity, however, is stigmatized.

-Women may enjoy sex, but men need it. When push comes to shove, men are far more inclined to relax their standards or even resort to using porn and/or prostitutes for sexual gratification.

-In all cultures female infidelity carries greater weight than male infidelity. When a man cheats, it is viewed as a broken promise. When a woman cheats, it is as if she gave something of the man's away. In most cases, her infidelity is unforgiveable.

-And finally, when a man boasts about a successful seduction he might say he "scored" , "hit it", or "got the panties". The woman on the other hand "put out" or "gave it up".

Sex between a man and a woman is not an equal exchange. When men and women have sex, physically they are doing similar things. Socially they are doing very different things. A man is receiving something of value that the woman is giving. Her vagina.

Since the beginning of time women have used their sexuality as a powerful negotiating tool for resources and protection. Let's not forget that it wasn't until very recently, less than 100 years, that women were allowed to really work and take care of themselves. For the greater part of human history a woman's sexuality and ability to bear children was her most significant asset. Her survival and her childrens survival depended on how well she leveraged her sexuality. Hence our foremothers had to be incredibly selective about whom they granted access to their vaginas.

When we consider sex as an exchange of resources, our perception of romance is bound to change. In economic terms, the world is a market place. Courtship is a negotiation to determine what a man is willing to give in exchange for access to a particular vagina. And marriage is a contract. But perhaps this less-than-romantic concept of romance could do womankind some good.

It goes without saying that all vagina is not created equal.

There are certain qualities that may increase the value of an individual vagina, and they of course pertain to the woman attached to it. Beauty, youth, class, intelligence, virtue, and a lack of prior sexual partners all raise value.

And then of course some qualities lower it. A used vagina is worth less than new vagina that's still in its original packaging. A widely-distributed vagina is worth less than an exclusive vagina. As with any commodity.

Then there are factors that influence the overall market, largely supply and demand. Think of it as the US Vagina Exchange. The price of American vagina has been plummeting since the early sixties, around the time the birth control pill was introduced. When women stopped having to worry about getting pregnant, they were free to enjoy sex just like men.

In actuality, women's liberation merely freed women to frolic in a man's sexual paradise. As women indulged in pleasures of the flesh, the market became flooded with cheap vagina. As time passed, premarital sex became the norm. More babies were born out of wedlock. Sex without strings and cohabitation without commitment became the norm. Vaginas could be had for less than ever before. One dinner. Maybe two. A week of phone calls. A drink. A compliment. The slightest sign of interest.

By the eighties it was considerably more difficult for women with high quality vagina to command the same high prices as women decades prior. Men weren't as willing to lavish them dinners, gifts, attention, and commitment. It was too easy to find cheaper vagina elsewhere.

And in the year 2000, in a market inundated with cheap vagina and internet porn, the price of american vagina hit rock bottom.

The vagina market crashed.

So where do women go from here? There are two options. Usually when supply exceeds demands, companies work together to reduce the amount of product on the market and raise the market value. So, theoretically modern women en mass could stop giving of the vagina so freely.

Then of course there are steps individual women can take to command a high price. And that's pretty simple. Make your vagina exclusive. Why be a KIA when you can be a Porsche? Why be a double-wide when you can be a mansion? I believe that a woman's vagina is her greatest asset. It is sacred. It is her crown jewel. But it is only worth as much as the woman it is attached to.

The best thing that we can do to survive this sexonomic recession is to be the best women we can, and to make peace with extended periods of abstinence. We have to put our vaginas away and save it for men (or the man) who truly deserve it. We must be wonderfully aware of our worth and only willing to share ourselves with men who demonstrate that they are as well.

While many men will settle for what comes easy, the best men will work for does not. A man may cross the street for a cheap thrill, but he'll jump through flames for a woman that only few have had.

And you know what?

I don't think he'll mind the challenge, the adventure, or the possibility of being with the best this world has to offer.

Cheers,

PS: Never did like economics in college.

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.

"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.

They say the family that prays together stays together. They also say love conquers all. I believe both these to be true. When a relationship is God-ordained, filled with respect, love and admiration, He makes a way for believers to be believers. Perhaps two become one in their faith, or they remain seperate in faith but closer in understanding. It's not always easy, but it is possible.



Flyness and faith,

'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.

"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),

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.

Aaron McGruder Lampoons Tyler Perry on the Boondocks

Aaron McGruder uses his satirical genius to put all of Black America on blast, excusing no one. Not even...


TYLER PERRY!!!


Madea cracks me up, especially when she does her Patti Labelle impression, but at the same time, my soul is weeping.

Tyler Perry is an impressive American success story, much like his friend Oprah Winfrey. But unlike Oprah, Perry's media empire is cancer for Black artistic production. Cancer spreads if unchecked right? Tyler Perry has managed to spread his predictable metastatic story line and stereotypes from stage, to movies, to television.

The typical Winston Jerome story starts with a beautiful educated professional Black woman trapped in a troubled marriage with a brown skinned Black dude.

In what I consider to be one of McGruder's finest moments, he does check the mogul. Chin checks him. "Pause", the eighth episode in season 3, is a diatribe against Tyler Perry smothered in classic McGruder humor, such is the inclusion of "Pause, no homo".

In the episode granddad lands a starring role in a stage play by 'Jerome Winston'. Jerome is a cross-dressing, White Jesus professing, sexually ambiguous director that looks, sounds and acts an awful lot like Tyler Perry. The episode is a not-so-subtle commentary on Perry's mega-presence in Black Hollywood. McGruder even goes so far as to point out the irony of Perry's Christian themes juxtaposed with the homo-erotic undertones of his cross-dressing Madea character, and his own sexually ambiguous reputation.

But Jesus wants us to be actors first, heterosexuals second.

And then McGruder takes more subtle jabs at elements of Perry's work that we may overlook while laughing our behinds off. His heavy handed used of negative stereotypes and the narrow perspective on African-American life he presents to the world. These are the artistic shortcomings for which Perry has already come under fire from critics like fellow-film maker, Spike Lee.

I personally can not name one stage play, movie, or sitcom that does not feature one or some combination of the mammy, the crack addicted Jezebel, tragic mullato, and/or coon. My biggest gripe with his work is that Perry has recycled and reused the single Black woman narrative ad nauseum, promoting the idea that if you are a virtuous Black woman you must either marry 'beneath you' or remain woefully single. I mean really, our indulgence in this tragic tale of the single Black female has become a self-fulfilling prophecy that we really need to abandon. But we won't, because Tyler Perry won't let us.

How could you do this to me?
Get out! I'm going to marry this white huzzy! You are too virtuous and strong. You might make me a better man.

You may disagree, but I believe that given the fragile nature of the Black community and the state of our Black children, people invested with the power of image ought to be responsible.

-Ike

Whether you agree or disagree with McGruder's commentary, this episode is indisputably hilarious.

I'm a WEAK Black Woman

"I am a weak Black Woman!" I joked in the parking lot. I had just performed my dramatic interpretation of the Tyler Perry tragic heroine; scorned, mad and consequently strong. Actually, I'll be glad when someone breaks the monopoly that Tyler Perry has on Black culture. Spike Lee? John Singleton? Can another director please stand up.

Mr. Right Now laughed at me.

"No really" I said positioning myself to slide into his car. "I'm going to start telling people I'm weak before they assume that I'm strong and therefore a bitch."

Mr. Right Now smiled at my sarcasm before closing the door. We were wrapping an enjoyable evening at a popular new restaurant on the Southside of Medium-City, South. He and I have been innocently dating for several months now and I'm rather enjoying the ambiguity of our romantic aims.

On this night, we fell on the subject of how men date. My ears perked up.

"Basically there are three types of men in your dating pool. There's that cool guy with like a professional job and he's most likely dating multiple girls at once."

I nod, chewing my salmon.

"Then there's like the awkward guy, and he probably doesn't mess with Black women because they never paid him any attention. He's the type of guy you'd find in a place like this," he said referring to our waspy environment, "at the bar trying to pick up girl."

Another nod.

"And then there are gay guys."

I drink my 'diva martini', creating a noticeable pause in our dinner conversation. I am letting the shock settle.

"What?!" he says laughing.

I set my drink down and look him in the eyes. "So there's men who don't want anything serious, geeks and gays."

"Basically."

"So no eligible Black men want to date for real?"

"No."

I giggled realizing his analysis probably wasn't that far off at face value. It certainly suited his situation. "I got you." My 'diva martini' tasted so good.

That was the pleasure of Mr. Right Now. I enjoy having him around, but he is pretty much free to leave. Mr. Right Now meets all of my Betty qualifications. He has learned how to court me and over the past few months my feelings for him have grown. But at the end of the day, my socks (and panties) are still on. I believe his greatest asset is his timing. He came around a few weeks after Miles.

"So what about the woman you do consider getting serious about? You know, if there's multiple women in your life, how do you determine where they stand?"

I know that men, just like many women, have levels of endearment.

"You talking about the type of girl I'd make my old lady?"

"Something like that."

And he had a laundry list, including nice teeth and a woman that "wouldn't embarrass him in front of his co-workers".

Then he added this. "And a woman has to let a man be a man."

It wasn't the first time I'd heard a successful Black man way this. Ironically, Miles had made the same observation... on our last date.

I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
that only glows every one hundred years falls
into the center giving divine perfect light
I am bad....*

Now I'm as feminine as they come. I cross my legs when I sit. I cook dinner on Sundays. And I never leave the house without perfume. But even I, in my two years of post-collegiate dating, have had to learn how be a lady-- all over again.

I have learned to let the man signal the waiter for me and lead us in grace. I've learned to give him a chance to talk about him self and to pepper conversations with questions that require his expertise. I've learned to compliment him on the restaurant choice (if it is indeed a good choice). I've realized that every polemical statement does not require a rebuttal and that sometimes it is wiser to speak with my eyes rather than my lips.

I've discovered the old saying is true. You catch more flies with honey.

And unfortunately I did not learn these things from my mother.

My son noah built new/ark and I stood proudly at the helm as we sailed on a soft summer day
I turned myself into myself and was
jesus.
Men intone my loving name
All praises
All praises
I am the one who would save*

My mother is a wonderfully supportive wife. In fact I believe my parents are very much soul mates, still happy after 25 years. But mommy is an alpha female. She runs a huge medical practice and she pretty much runs the household as well. Growing up, it was dad who chauffeured me to dance class and to the beauty parlor for my Saturday morning press-and-curls. He made sure I'd eaten dinner and helped me with my homework. He took me to school in the morning and picked me up if it was raining. His law office was conveniently a mile away from home. Mommy worked. A lot.

Dad provided and kept us safe by any means necessary, but in many ways my mother was the de facto leader. That situation works for my parents but I have feeling it would not work for most of the accomplished men I date. While they admire my intelligence and independence, they are looking for a queen, not a co-ruler.

I caught a cold and blew
My nose giving oil to the arab world
I am so hip even my errors are correct*

A lot of Black women grew up surrounded by 'strong' matriarchs . Our culture celebrates them. She is the woman who if need be, could do it all on her own. She is provider, chef, lover, accountant, therapist, counsel, handy-(wo)man--- willing to play any role at any given time. Her instinct is not to defer to a man, though she may appreciate and respect the one that is there. She is strong.

My mother was an excellent mother and she raised me in the image of her. She raised me to be God-fearing, independent, and emotionally resilient. She wanted me to treat my body like a temple and to be a lady-- and yet, I feel her lessons were incomplete.

In truth, I am not a weak woman. I am quite strong. Really, there is no way I could not be strong. I live thousands of miles away from my family. I work in an industry where my Ivy-League degree does not protect me from racism. And every time my heart is broken, I have to present a stiff upper lip to the world. For me, and women like me, being vulnerable is really not an option. It's just a selective tool.



The modern woman on the quest for the pervasive 'all' faces a mighty dilemma. In our post-liberation world we have earned the right to eat, drink, and work like any man. We fight wars with men. Many of us even date like men. But we want to have our careers and marry well too. Herein lies the problem. Some men find us too independent, too fast, and too liberated for our own good.

And what about Black women? Let's face it, from slavery onward, many of foremothers were placed in situations where they had to be 'strong'. They didn't have the luxury of succumbing to emotion. They had to keep it together for the family. Us modern women, even if we did grow up as princesses, are descendants of that legacy. And how do we survive dating the rounds of men who will break our hearts, and not develop a thick skin in the process?

And then what about our culture which has made the term 'strong' synonymous with a slew of negative words--- mad, angry, bitter, un-nurturing, loud, quarrelsome, un-supportive, combative, picky, feisty, scorned.... bitch.

I don't know. Clair Huxtable made having it all look so easy.

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended except by my permission

In this day and age, a man appreciates a woman who does her own thing and has her own interests. Accordingly a fly woman should want to be appreciated, and respected, for who she is. I sure do. But as I grow up, I am also learning to straddle that murky line between old-fashioned and liberated. Vulnerable and strong.

Perhaps like all things in love, it really comes down to compromise. I've come to realize men don't only need sex. They need attention, loyalty and subtle strokes to the ego too. And while our needs as women have evolved since liberation, for the most part, there's have not.

We moved our discussion from Tyler Perry to locating my car as Mr. Right Now drove around the crowded parking lot. I had a good idea where it was, but I thanked him for finding it. How could I have forgotten? I smiled sweetly and bid him good night.

Tyler Perry, what do you say to that?

Flyness and funk,

Ike




*Nicki Giovanni's 'Ego Tripping'. A poem written in honor of the strong Black woman.

Smoking With Cigarettes, A Fine Boondocks Parody

"Then I stole it and had my friend come in and he smokes with cigawettes."

So... I didn't know who 7 year old Latarian Milton was until I watched Sunday's episode of the Boondocks 'Smoking With Cigarettes' (Season 3, Episode 6) . In 2008 Latarian Milton stole his grandmothers car and took it for a joy-ride, damaging four other cars and nearly killing several innocent people. Then a few months later, he struck again, hitting his grandmother in a Wal-Mart during a temper-tantrum he was having over some fried chicken.

Here are the news stories from the two events... and yes they tried it assigning this story to their resident Black male reporter!

"... But did you know you could perhaps have killed somebody?....Yes. But I wanted to do hoodrat stuff with my friends."

In the Boondocks episode 8 year LaMilton Taeshawn picks up Riley in his grandmothers car and they go on a joy ride. The episode takes on a sociopathic turn when LaMilton forces Riley to accompany him on his violent rampages at gun-point. "It's fun to do bad things," he says to the Black reporter. All through out his grandmother apologizes for his violent behavior, blaming it on society and the fact that LaMilton "really likes chicken wings".

I think McGruder's parody is also a biting commentary on raising Black boys , and the propensity for many Black single mothers and grandmothers to spoil their sons. What do you think? Feel free to respond in the comments section.

After watching this cartoon, when I discovered the real news story about Latarian I fell out laughing. But trust-- my soul was weeping at the same time.

Here's the link to the Boondocks episode Smoking With Cigarettes on youtube.

-Flyness and funk(y but whoopins)
Ike

Haiti: The Big Payback???

Disaster always seems to bring out the best in people. It also has an odd way of exposing society's ills. Americans know this all too well. We've already seen what happens when disaster strikes in the absence of preparation.That was Hurricane Katrina. And while the disaster did illicit an outpouring of money and rescue efforts (eventually), the governments delayed response, and the fact that the victims were mostly Black was appalling. The issue of race in America burst forth with the same intensity as the levees. And like Katrina, I'd argue that the Earthquake in Haiti has again put the pathology of race front and center.

To say that a 7.0 earthquake causes devastation is a gross understatement. Haiti is a nation living pay check to pay check with absolutely no money to spare for a rainy day. Haiti is devastated on any given day. It is hell on earth in the wake of a 7.0 earthquake. And as we watch endless b-roll of a ravaged Haiti, a horrific mix of death and debris, at some point we have to start asking difficult questions. Really, why is Haiti this poor? Why is there no infrastructure? And why is Haiti at the complete mercy of foreign assistance?

Some say it's payback.

These folks, many of them Haitian themselves, would argue that Haiti has been paying the price for its independence since 1804, by being blacklisted (pun sort of intended) from the global economy. When the French left, so did the rest.Today Haiti depends on international assistance, welfare checks, for bit of economic viability it has. The country suffers from a severe trade deficit, an absence of foreign investment, and vast unemployment. To make matters worse, it suffers stigma that has prevented the growth of it's tourism industry even though tourism flourishes in contiguous Dominican Republic.

Over the last two centuries, the country's once proud political heritage has eroded into a litany of corruption, coup and the conspicuous absence of progress. Limited resources in any nation gives rise political instability. Survival instincts kick in, much like they are on the streets of Haiti now.

But maybe there's a silver lining in all of this.

Finally, the world is paying attention to Haiti. Haiti needs help and I do believe that First World nations will rise to the occasion. Already, the World Bank has pledged 150 million dollars of assistance, though that will without a doubt come with stipulations. Establishing order in chaos, clearing the rubble, burying the dead, bringing sustenance to the victims... Recovery will be a long, winding road but it will happen. Maybe not at the pace that some of us would like, but the First World, particularly America, will step up to the plate. We shine in moments of global disaster.

But the real recovery would happen after the aftermath. It will be interesting to see whether global powers remain and help Haiti establish a viable private sector. Will they open doors of trade and diplomacy? Will they give the impoverished island a chance to survive and thrive in the aftermath of chaos? Or will they pack their heavy artillery and trot home, content to add new tales of heroism to the history books, and once again sustain the legacy of neglect.

That will be the ultimate test of humanitarianism.

Ciara Poses Nude for Vibe...At what cost?

Ciara poses in the buff for the latest issue of Vibe Magazine. My thoughts: a gimmick to promote her latest project. Let's call a spade a spade. I hate to dismiss a public figure for posing in the nude, but I do question it.

One of the primary challenges that young Black women face is body consciousness, that is the manner in which we, as Black American women, conceptualize our bodies while growing up in a society that has historically sexualized us. When media images implicitly places value on the Black woman's sexuality, sensuality... her "vixenhood"... how do we develop a sense of respect for the divine gift that God gave us? When a notable star, an icon for young Black women, takes it all off for the sake promotion, it adds to this conflict.

Do some research on HIV/AIDS statistics. Black women between the ages of 15-24, the age group most influenced by media outlets like Vibe and the likes of Ciara, are contracting the disease at the fastest rate in this country, and primarily as a result of unprotected heterosexual intercourse. This means that there is a grave number of Black young women who don't feel strongly enough about their bodies to negotiate condom use and to not give themselves liberally to men who probably do not deserve them. We can not isolate the prevalence of promiscuity and unprotected sexual activity amongst young Black women from the culture. I'm not being holier than though, or puritanical, but seriously ladies... let's look at the picture. It's bleak.

Black women of all socioeconomic echelons are waging a battle for their sexual health and losing. We can no longer afford to be irresponsible about the mass messages that we dissiminate . Ciara's display treats the nude black body as a commodity. And let's face it, she is doing this to sell albums, sell magazines, and increase her star power. Her body, in this sense, is a commodity. Look at the second spread... it's not even 'artistic'. It's blatant, parted-lips, XXL, King-Style, sexual nudity intended to tittilate and suggest. When someone of her star power conducts herself in this manner, it says to her vulnerable fans that the exhibition of the body at whim is normal. It is okay. It is cool. It implies the sexuality is a viable path to notoriety and success. And as young women yearn to be popular and feel good about themselves, and many will model themselves after their cultural icons in doing so, it is no wonder that you can go to a Myspace or a Facebook page and see a half dressed young woman screaming for attention. It is no wonder that for many young ladies of color, their greatest aspiration is to dance half naked in a rap video for a paltry sum. And it is now wonder that there are countless Black women who would give of themselves and not even think twice about protection.

Please, let us as Black women and especially Black women in the public eye be sensitive to the plight of our young females for self-respect and sexual health. Let's be responsible. We owe at least that much to ourselves.

-Ike

Condi gets Fly in the Final Hour

Perhaps it is because she is on a European tour extending an olive branch that dried up several years ago and the camera's are rolling. Perhaps it is because as secretary of defense she was part responsible for what many regard as one of the biggest international military blunders in modern history and she'd like to redeem herself on some level. Or that her term is almost up. Or maybe, just maybe, it is because beneath that hardened exterior is...'a woman'.

Whatever the reason, Condi has been looking, dare I say it, fly over the past few weeks. Has anyone else noticed? I was watching the news coverage of her Warsaw visit where she traveled to sign a deal on the deployment of elements of a U.S. missile shield in Poland. I mean, I gagged. Her trademark darth vader meets Mary Tyler Moore flip was replaced with a soft bob. At last, she replaced that harsh, cherry lipstick that Lancome or whoever makes it did not create with her in mind with a more Black people friendly raspberry. Absent were the chocolate chip cookie moles (kudos to her derm) and the cream suit with chic upturned collar and exposed darting was remarkable.

No stranger to St. John's Knits, Condi has always been well suited, but stuffy, in an "I live in Connecticut" sort of way. Not fly. However lately, she's giving me Clair Huxtable rather than neurotic Black Stepford 'Wife' (umm, she did call Mr. President her husband). And this softer look is smart considering that she isn't getting any younger.... And that she lied in front of the international community... But who's counting past transgressions.

I think that real reason that she has decided to "floss" and "shine" a bit before her White House Departure is because she's solidyfing her legacy. Say what you want about her, she is one of the most powerful women in the world and not just according to Forbes. And from the African-American perspective she has reached a level in D.C. unsurpassed by any other. Three biographies about her were released in 2007 alone; “The Confidante: Condoleezza Rice and the Creation of the Bush Legacy,” by The Washington Post’s Glenn Kessler, “Condoleezza Rice: An American Life,” by The New York Times’s Elisabeth Bumiller and “Twice as Good: Condoleezza Rice and Her Path to Power,” by Marcus Mabry, now an editor at The Times. Her foot print has been made in history but at a high price. Unfortunately there are many Americans and human beings that await her departure from office like a toddler awaiting an ice cream cone. Many regard her with vitriol, and well, many do not. But nevertheless, I think she's well aware of her precarious position of deep power and shallow esteem. And I think she is trying to project a confident, polished image in her final hour. And you know what? I ain't mad at her. Do it girl. (oooh, awkward)

-Ike