A-HA MOMENT #2
(OR WHAT’S YOUR IMPRESSION?)

So it is 3 a.m. on New Year’s Eve. What in the hell am I doing up? One of my bad habits, I suppose. Fell asleep on the couch around 11 and now I cannot get back to sleep. Also had a bad case of writer’s block for the past two days; but now I’ve, “got something to talk about,” so I’m up.

About 6 hours ago, I got two pieces of sad news. First, a fellow college alum lost his Dad; it was the end of a second battle with cancer. Ironically, his father passed away at the very moment I was at the cemetery visiting my Father. I went by to check on Dad’s shiny new headstone which reads: loving grandfather, father & husband. There is a little bus chiseled in at the top emphasizing his love of travel and that he had his own bus company for 16 years.

Right before I heard of my friend’s father’s passing—perhaps 30 minutes, I was scanning Yahoo! and noticed a story with the headline, “Sad news for ex-player” (Or Heartbreaking News for ex-NFL Player). At first I start to pass the story up. To me, every other story about an athlete or former athlete is some over the top outrageous incident that usually (but not always) started with voluntary reckless behavior.

This story, however, was different. I say again—this story was different.

You see, former Atlanta Falcon Chris Draft loved (La)Keasha Rutledge; and she, he. So on November 27, 2011, they married. She died of breast cancer one month later. At her wedding, she was on oxygen and frequently needed a wheel chair. This was indeed a remarkable couple—extraordinary together and as individuals.

Chris has a charity, Team Draft, dedicated to encouraging families to build a healthy lifestyle. And in 2002, homeboy pulled a man from a burning car on a busy interstate in Atlanta. Mrs. Draft was a native of South Carolina, had an Engineering degree from Clemson, and was a member of the Charlotte Hornet’s dance team. She had the courage to press on with her wedding despite being gravely ill; that speaks volumes right there. Most women, wanting everything to be perfect on their wedding day, might not have done the same. I can’t say that I could be bold enough to do the same thing, even for true love. Moreover, the thing I read repeatedly was how beautiful Keasha was inside as well as outside and that her smile was infectious.

Then I went back to what my friend Malcolm said about his Dad on Facebook:

"…I know he left the world knowing that I loved him. I know he had a wonderful life. It’s just so hard to say goodbye to a man who molded me into the father, husband and fraternity brother that I became. Most of all he made me a good man."

After watching Chris and Keasha’s beautiful, yet waterworks producing wedding video for the fourth time, I got to thinking about my Dad’s headstone. A cousin who saw it asked why and how my siblings chose the words that we did. My response was simply, “Because that is who he was.”

I have advised my children to cremate me and spread my ashes by the Brooklyn Bridge. Still, I wonder if I had had a headstone, what it would say. Up until tonight, I honestly, did not give two snots; my only worry about my obituary is that my name is spelled correctly. Say anything you want— just don’t misspell my name.

Now, I am not suddenly concerned with what people think about me after I am gone. I just wonder if the real me ever comes across. Like the fact that I love to write, but often I simply cannot transform my thoughts into words. Or that I can operate almost any vehicle up to a tractor trailer, yet I dislike driving. Additionally, that I don’t condone road rage, but in the words of Chris Rock, "I understand…" And while I may be tough on the outside (most of the times anyway) and love to laugh a lot, I cry like a baby during the last Vietnam scene in Forrest Gump and at the end of Dead Presidents.

Again, I thought about Dad’s headstone. I know that when people think of Dad they say, “Yeah, the dude who had the buses; standup guy and man, he loved them grandkids!” My goal? To be remembered as the chick who, “passed away with a pen in one hand (working on the next screenplay) and the strongest alcoholic beverage on Earth in the other.” Well, maybe I’ll tweak that a little.

What impression will you leave…?


Dedicated to Keasha Draft and the Father of Malcolm Aaron.

Ashay.

ONCE UPON A TIME WHEN WE WERE SLAVES

For the second time in my life, I went to sacred ground today: the First African-Baptist Church located on Franklin Square in Savannah, GA—which by the way, is where wrongly executed Troy Davis is from. This is the oldest continuous African-American congregation in America. Stress on continuous because a couple of other congregations take great exception to the title, “oldest African-American church.” FAB was established December 1788, but has moved four times and had a major split in 1802. And of course, it was a stop on the Underground Railroad for six years.




The tour guide, director of tours and recent Savannah State University grad, Johnny McDonald was articulate, insightful, and gave me cause to pause. A couple of things he mentioned I have never heard before:
• Church members gave up money they would have used to buy their family’s freedom to build the current church.
• It was the women who actually made the now infamous and valuable Savannah Grey Bricks, down by the river. They carried them up to Franklin Square by tying their aprons together.
• The crawl space where slaves hid during the Underground Railroad is only 4 feet high.
• Recently the Georgia Historical Society visited the church for a formal appraisal. Some items are so old, so authentic in nature that a value could not be put on them.

I know I am missing a few other, “Wow Factors,” but alas this writer went to the tour without a pen (say what?!?!?!). Furthermore, being as I am as old as, “Sesame Street,” my memory is shot.

Still, some things are etched in memory forever. For instance, it blows my mind that the pastor was able to convince the congregants to put the building of the church before the freedom of themselves or even their family. Mixed feelings, I have, about this, as this type of thing continues today—people putting the church ahead of their mortgage, car payment, etc. I don’t dig that at all, but that’s just me. Still, the way Johnny describes it, the pastor explained that even if they did not have freedom, they had Jesus; hmm… They also sacrificed their free time to build FAB. They only had permission to build at night, when they were done working in the fields. So instead of spending time with family, the FAB members fellowshipped with each other while building the church—that’s truly a beautiful thing.

Moreover, I was impressed with their organization. The women made bricks while the men laid them. According to Johnnie the man who laid the first brick also laid the last one. No one talked about the beautifully built and sound crawl-space below the church. Nobody. And even during the years immediately following the civil war, it was not discussed outside the black community for fear of retaliation from angry, bitter former slave owners. The church could’ve in fact, been burned to the ground.

What moves my spirit the most was the workings of the Underground Railroad. Runaways knew which buildings were stops based on the pattern in the ceiling resembling a quilt that had a hidden message only known by slaves. So although illiterate, we knew and comprehended the meaning behind the quilts—hot damn!

And, if anybody asked what the air holes in the floor were, the same response was given by all: African Tribal prayer markings. Slaves understood that while slave masters were cruel and just all shades of wrong, they would never say, “No” to, or question God. Why wasn’t religion the main justification for enslaving the savage Africans? But I digress…

And trust—this space does in fact exist. Workers doing maintenance below Savannah’s streets about five years ago had to dig a hole in the basement floor. Johnnie says he was not allowed into the crawl space because of insurance liabilities. Nevertheless, he laid on the basement floor and looked down into the hole while it was all lit up. I can only imagine what he must have thought looking down into a space where 150 years ago, our ancestors squatted, crouched and lived—stress on the “lived” part, for days at a time until it was safe for them to move further north.

So as I see it, when in bondage physically, we do more. We stretch beyond our imagination and do the impossible. It is a pretty common thing that when incarcerated, people “find religion” or get an education. A shining example of that statement is Malcolm X, who converted to Islam and immersed himself in education—reading the entire dictionary word for word while locked up.

Once upon a time when we were slaves, we would create. We’d let our minds soar. Once upon a time when we were slaves, we worked together. We got shit done! Once upon time when we were slaves, women supported the men—even if it meant working with women we could not stand! Once upon a time when we were slaves, we worked from sunrise ‘til sunset—and then worked some more! Once upon a time when we were slaves, we lived in small crawl spaces for days at time because it meant the chance for freedom. We didn’t worry about keeping up with the Joneses—so why can’t we cut up the credit cards, drive a hoopty for a few years and in general, live a little more meagerly in order to gain financial freedom?

Once upon a time when we were slaves, we risked our lives for each other and stood together—united in what we could do and also in our hopes, dreams and thoughts of a day when freedom would finally come.

So, did freedom divide us and make us lazy…?

Ashay.

Vanilla Is The New Black
(or Le Boom)

This is not the, “Why I Have Jungle Fever” remix or “I Hate Brothers” kick a lot of sisters ride every so often. This right here is, my true shit. Henceforth and forevermore, I am dating white men exclusively. Not my first choice by any stretch of the imagination—for real, but white men want me. And they have told me so repeatedly.

Not an easy decision and I’ve been on the fence about this for over a year now. Since early 2010, there’ve been articles in the Wall Street Journal, blogs, etc., advising black women to, “give it up, turn it loose” and start looking to white men because black men ain’t got what it takes and it appears they never will.

Shit, even one of my sheroes, actress Regina King declared recently that black women need to expand and diversify our choices in men. Damn. Now, I took grand offense at Regina’s statements because, well, she got a man. A brother: Malcolm Jamal Warner—you know, Theodore Aloysius Huxtable. So, she advises other sisters to date white men while she has one of the finest brothers on the planet? Um, ‘cuse me, while I remove my earrings because Ms. Thang just slapped me in the face. Feels like she is saying, “I got a good brother and you’ll never have what I have, so, you need to look elsewhere…” But what it boils down to, is she is probably tired of weak and lonely sisters gawking, hawking and stalking her man—all while disrespecting her. Plus, she might feel that while she is checking us lonely bitches, mine as well try to help us out. I can dig it.

Still, I was not convinced I should give up on Black men. For about 11 years now, I have been waiting for them to stop living with their mothers, get a car (any car), get & keep a damn drivers’ license, “get their paper right,” learn to trust me, stop using their kids as an excuse, quit being assholes or simply cease breaking my heart. I’m tired; completely worn the hell out. And as I catch my breath, I realize that in that time, I have had almost twice as many white men approach me as black men. Here of late, quite a few have made serious effort to get to know me and I have met those offers with straight up racism—why on earth would I want to date the descendent of the men who brutalized, raped, traumatized and oh, yes, enslaved my maternal ancestors? Besides, we all know when it comes to the bedroom white men have the minimal required equipment…

But wait, not having a man—black or white, that means I am dealing with no equipment at all… Hmmm…

Here is what I know: Black men struggle and are met with unfair challenges that no one on this planet could ever understand unless you walk a mile in their shoes. And that truly breaks my heart. But guess what? Black women fight the good fight, too. We are stereotyped as well, and in some instances even worse than our counterparts (white women or black men, depending on the situation). I will not wait for a black man to decide he is ready to deem me his queen, especially since most just don’t seem to give a shit right now about black women. For example, they continuously allow and produce videos that demean sisters (when’s the last time you saw a half-naked woman in an Eminem, Garth Brooks or Green Day video?).

My final decision on this was yesterday. For the fourth day in a row, I was approached by a white man—just general conversation, but it was the way he spoke to me; he was interested. It was at the gym and he made more than an effort to talk to me about, “nothing.” I had been at the gym for over an hour. I came in close contact with several black men. None of them said as much as boo. ‘Nuff said.

And just a public service announcement for potential vanilla beaus—don’t get it twisted. Black women are not going to alter the rules because we change the color of our dance partner. We are still going to be quite outspoken, looking for a little bling (I, myself, require one trinket a year), expect that a man does NOT live with his mother, grandmother, etc., require that you open doors & pull out chairs, ask that you pay for dinner at least 3 out of the 4 times we go out without commanding or petitioning for sex afterwards, insist that while you may not have a new car, it has to be clean inside & out, stipulate that if you have any children, you are a good father to them and demand that you do not, I repeat, do not talk shit about your children’s mother.

Black women are revising their players and the music, and choosing vanilla cones instead of chocolate, as it were, but the standards are still the same…

Currently Listening To: Le Boom Suite by Jill Scott