Choose Your Words Carefully

Did you know that words have power? Spoken words. Written words. They have real power. Not in a mystical, Harry Potter, kinda way. But there is an energy that flows from your tongue, past your lips, to another's ears. And based on that energy, on the way it is received, on where the receiver is in their own journey of life, you can affect another person. Just with your words.

Last night, I watched the power of words hurt my child. A person, who shall remain nameless, but who is visiting for the holidays, told my daughter to shut up. Yep, she said "Shut Up." And my seven year old recoiled as if she had been hit and visibly bit down on her lips to keep them shut. Now, my "visitor" was in the middle of a game with my other daughter. My eldest girl kept talking and pointing out the error in my visitor's strategy. So the shut up flew of the tip of her tongue in the heat of competition.

But it still hurt.

I was going to respond, whip out my barrage of word counters and strike back on the person who had inadvertently hurt my daughter. But then I remembered. Words have power. And once put out there, you can't take them back. You can't press rewind and delete, can't retract them from the hearers head. It's done, once it leaves your lips. Once its written on paper. Once it has been received, it is forever in the sphere of thought, the realm of interaction. It is a one shot deal.

So I chose silence. I met word garbage with silence. I chose a metered tongue and a measured mind. And I spoke in soft tones to reassure my talkative child, to lightly dismiss the "snafu" and return her to a state of comfort. And I reflected on the power of words.

Don't believe me? Try it out. I tell my daughters they are beautiful everyday. They smile each and every time, as if it is the first time hearing it. We tell them how special they are, how thankful to God we are to have the opportunity to raise them, so on and so forth. I used to do this with my eldest son. And while he claims he doesn't remember it now, I know that those positive words were daily seeds of encouragement, counteracting the doubt and hate imposed by the world. I know that my son knows my love for him, unquestioning, more than anything else. I spent years speaking love to him.

Conversely, I don't have to spank. A disciplined word, a harsh tone, will reduce my children to tears. There is power in communication, power in the spoken word. Similarly the written word can invoke pain. When my son became upset with me he sent a text that he was going to "unfriend" me from facebook. And I responded right back via text with how mean his text was and a few thoughts of my own. And we hurt each other, bruised each other, via the electronic written word.

Think about the words you utter, before they leave your mouth. Think about how often your children hear you gossip, complain, whine, negatively compare, berate, belittle, etc. Understand the power of your tongue, of your word, of your pen and how it affects not only you but your seed and generations to come. It is imperative that you be careful with your words...

Veni, Vidi, Vici - Period!

It's very simple. I want my headstone to read "Veni, Vidi, Vici." And the period is the most vital. In fact, maybe the word should be spelled out. Yes, this is what I think about on Christmas Eve, my death. I am sorry about that, folks, if you need more Christmas reflection, then this ain't the post for you. Christmas normally has a way of seriously depressing me, although, as I write this, I am not depressed in the least. Rather, I am feeling somewhat reflective.

But I digress. Chisel it into stone. "Veni, Vidi, Vici." DO NOT FORGET THE PERIOD. I deserve no less. I Came, I Saw, I Conquered. Period. This life of mine has been a ride like most have never seen. Yet, I am still here. Still in good health, still pushing forward. I birthed four beautiful children, was blessed by God to raise an additional magnificent soul. I have seen the beauty in pureness, the miracle of God's seed. It's a rare blessing, the kind of experience that verifies, if there was any doubt, that He is Omniscient and beyond comprehension. The smile of a baby can warm the coldest soul, melt away the spiritual ice, and make you recall love only dreamt of. And I have felt it. I have lived it. I have had the honor, over and over and over again, to cherish it.

And I have lost. Lost plenty. Loved ones, finances, career dreams, bits and pieces of me. I lost some, others were stolen, a few were robbed of me. Yet, every morning, I find a reason to smile. And pray. And pray. And smile.

I have known loneliness that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I have had it wrap around the very essence of my core, whispering lies to my spirit like bread to an undernourished child. I feasted on self hate, self doubt, self loathing, just me and my loneliness. And it embittered me to the core, until suicidal thoughts danced daily through my mind, convincing me that everyone who had every known me would be better off if I saved them the shame, spared them the embarrassment, and removed myself from this realm.

Yet, I am still here.

I have been poor. Lettuce and tomato sandwiches for dinner for months, kind of poor. Rotating the same three pants and shirts kind of poor. Daddy won't pay a dime of child support while traveling the country and living on yachts kinda poor. Have no idea if we will eat today or tomorrow, and have noone to ask, kind of poor. But, poverty made me stronger. Better. Able to cope. Able to adjust.

Now, I am able to be poor with grace. So poverty no longer holds me hostage. Despite financial gain, I am able to live without expectation, to know that God will handle it, to have already seen His blessing in just my current day living. I have conquered it.

What brought this up? Well, you already know, if you read my posts, that most of my thinking is completely random.

This morning, on my way to work, I was listening to Jasmine Sullivan's "Bust The Windows Out Your Car." To me, she is like Lauryn Hill mixed with my favorite songstress of angst, Alanis Morrisette (although Alanis no longer sings from such a dark space). Alanis Morrisette's album Jagged Little Pill is still, to this day, the purest expression of woman pain I have ever heard. And then I realized, I haven't had to listen to that Alanis' album in some years. I haven't tapped into that space in some time. There are still gaps, memories I wish I could plug, spaces that I would like to fill, but I have already paved and caulked more holes than anyone person should have. And that made me feel good. Empowered.

Leading me to this simple conclusion. When it's all said and done, and my last day has dawned, I'm out. Two fingers, a peace sign and a nod. And I won't be looking back. I have already lived fully, loved hard and completely, and given the best of me, as much as I could. My seed is sprinkled on this earth, and from the roots of this tree, grounded in God, there will be flowering seeds for generations to come. He has promised me this. And while my projects may not be complete, and I am constantly trying new things, my life is complete and I, finally, am complete.

So, that is my last wish. Send me out with a period and no mourning phrases. Don't want no big show, could care less about all the drama. Tag me with three simple words to summarize a life beyond measure - Veni, Vidi, Vici. Period.

A Wonderful Midnight

Upon completion of Sistah Souljah's latest novel, Midnight, I sat back and sighed. It has been a while since it happened, since I was unable to put a book down until it was completed, craving the next step, desiring a positive future of the beloved characters. But I clung to this novel like a newborn to its bottle, unable to release my fascination of the world Sistah Souljah masters, flips upside down, complicates, and then serves back in easy fashion.

Would it be disrepectful to drop a "damn," in at this point? As a writer, a book reviewer and an attorney by trade, I am rarely left with just an expletive to express myself. But my response to the intricate and expert puzzle that Sistah Souljah weaves, a tight knitted pattern of beliefs stretched taut against the conflict and confusion of American society, was one word, breathed out in a long sigh. Damn.

The immediate feedback wasn't as strong as I was hoping for,leading me to delay buying and exploring Midnight. I think we, the readers, were hoping for another flashy Winter Santiago, and at the same time dreading another story about another drug game fiasco.

The literary world has changed since The Coldest Winter Ever. Thousands of lesser copycats mingled with so many poorly constructed street tales has, in some way, dampened us. Made us more skeptical and less willing to believe or even care about the street life. How could Sistah Souljah reenter the quagmire, writing in the same style, from the same point of view, spitting the same ole same?

She couldn't. She didn't.

Let's deal with some of the skepticism first. The main complaint that I repeatedly hear is that Midnight's experiences are unbelievable for a 14 year old. Firstly, I have to recall that readers compare the story to their own experiences and I am so glad to know that so many readers cannot relate. I, however, can. At age fourteen, two of my girlfriends had babies, I had already accompanied another one to the abortion clinic. Public transportation wasn't even a question, I moved around to school, after school functions, part time job and life. The boys in our world were already on their hustle, survival was already an issue. At age 14. I lived in upstate (western) New York, in a much smaller city named Rochester. Light years behind the fast paced scramble that is NYC.

But to say that Midnight, who had to operate as the man in his Muslim household isn't believable at 14 identifies the clear separation in class and economics in this country. It also tells how those who have had better fortune can't relate to the maturity others have to reach to survive.

I find Midnight not only credible, but his story endearing and his struggle startlingly real. And his youth is apparent in so much of the book: still hustling ball games with his friends, strategizing to go to the movies with girls, rolling blindly into parties, unable to ask for help to his many questions, taking forever to put two and two together about Bangs, still being open and able to love Akemi. That type of love couldn't and wouldn't be available to him at an older age, when skepticism sets in and makes love a ridiculous thing.

BTW - since when is 14 young in the hood? And since when is 14 young in Brooklyn? I'm just trying to understand.

The next complaint I heard was that the book is offensive to African Americans.The story is told from the point of view of an African immigrant from an influential Sudanese family who finds himself in the Brooklyn hood. His viewpoints and experiences of African Americans are limited to those stuck in the same neighborhood as him, as filtered through his 14 year old mind. And it occurred to me that, on so many levels, I relate to his struggle.

Is it easy to be a devout Christian in inner city America? How diligent must one be, trying to live according to the Bible, when no one else that you know expects or even understands that type of discipline. When your peer group actively ridicules devotion. How much more difficult would it be to live as a devout Muslim here, having come from a society structured around religion. Wouldn't any 14 year old boys statements be general and broad, encompassing the "world" as he sees it. And, despite himself and his moral compass, he still finds himself considering love with Bangs, rescuing Bangs in the only way he knows how. Considering resting his beliefs and marrying her and protecting her anyway, despite her family having so severely tainted her. He still longs for her in a way that he doesn't for any Sudanese woman, although he adores his culture. In the end, his love is for a woman with an artists eye, a woman like his mother, a woman preserved and loved and cherished by her family, despite the difference in culture.

Let me digress here - Do we preserve our baby girls? Are African American young girls affirmed, uplifted, protected - as a general rule? Honestly? Is it automatic that before you step to that her, you better come correct to her father, make sure you make it through her brother and be able to provide for her. If your answer to that is yes, then lets back up for a second - maybe you don't recall R. Kelly. The "pied piper of R&B" - proverbial young girl lover who our community discusses, our comedians joke about, and everyone shrugs and plays his latest joint. Or, how about Cam'Ron, taking his rap dis to the level of threatening to "bust off" in Nas' four year old daughter's face, without outrage from our community. Media images, music, comics, many aspects of our culture boasts of misogynistic intent, disregard and disgust for our young girls.

That is the beauty of literature, reading what is stated and what isn't. Midnight's blanket statements about my people are less offensive to me than the bookstores whose shelves are full of stereotypical nonsense, published by Black people.

Read real literature. Think on it. Compare it. Expand and grow, agree and disagree. That is what good literature is intended to do.

And no matter what you say, you can't deny that Midnight is true literature. It is a wonderful study of inner conflict, love, expectation, loyalty and trying to live devout. It remembers the purity, the unspoken uniqueness, of real love. Midnight is worth the read.

I Am King

As you may have noticed, I enjoy being a fan. Not a groupie, mind you. I find nothing more annoying than someone droning on and on about a perfect stranger and their greatness based on a carefully constructed persona. Groupieism, at its worse, is nothing more than acceptable obsessiveness, i.e., possible stalker.

But, I do enjoy being a fan. I like cheering for folks while watching their careers blossom. I often look at it from a managers perspective - if Gabrielle Union was my client, how much would I actually have been able to get the studios to play her for the role in Daddy's Little Girl. What about Idris? How much did they pay him, and how much more could I have gotten him? Where is Nia Long and why were she and Gabrielle the only leading starlets for so long? These are the types of thoughts I have.

But, then there is Puff. Despite the name changes, P. Diddy I believe being the last one, he will always be Puff to me. And there is something so familiar about his energy that I like to see him succeed, even when I complain about the artist depleting label that is Bad Boy. Puff is an entity unto himself. And, what I think I love most about Puff is that he is a fan of the music. A lover of hip hop. So his exaggerated persona keeps money in his pocket, but, at the end of the day, the man works hard and seems to love hard (his work and life anyway, I have no idea why we keep hearing about all his baby mama drama).

What I have found amazing about him lately is his genuine affection of Barack OBama. While we were all touched, Puffy seemed to take it to heart. He did Bill Maher and radio, and his excitement was undeniable. Here was Puffy, someone who did everything they said a black man could never do, visibly in admiration of Barack. Because, at the end of the day, despite how many gains we made, Barack shattered a glass ceiling that was invisible, but certainly there.

Now Puffy is at it again. A new scent - I Am King. A new advertising promo, of black man greatness, i think? And Puffy is excited, energized, hearing the OBama call and answering it in his unique, open market and raking in the dividends, way. Either way, I enjoyed the clip below, and decided that I would share with you:

Diddy Blog 35: "I Am King" Mini-Movie

No More Sex Tips From Me

So, I am done. Finished. I have decided to end writing erotica for the sake of erotica. It isn't who I am. It isn't what I am about. I wrote my first erotic short story as a dare, kinda a challenge to see if I was really bold enough to do it. Ya'll, the story was outrageous...I will still never fess up to it!!lol. That first time was hard, I swallowed with embarrassment when a publisher called and wanted to do something with it. I wondered how it would effect my life, my children, my reputation. I wondered what spiritual price I would pay for all the young underage girls and boys who had no business reading it, but somehow got their hands on it, and led to experimentation at a young age because of it. I wondered whether I would go to hell. I wondered how much responsibility was mine.

But nothing happened. Well, that's not true, folks wanted more. People requested I submit. While I had been struggling to get anyone to read my well researched, time consuming, mind bending inspirational young adult fantasy fiction, the erotica went to print without a blink of an eye. And the guilt felt less. In fact, I became numb to it. I read established authors sensual scenes and thought, with more arrogance than I'd like to admit, "hell, I could write that with my eyes closed."

And, on so many levels, that's just what I did.

I closed my eyes, shut off the "research and write" journey, and pumped out mindless screwing and relationship drama. Well, that's not actually true. The relationship angst is very real, the inner turmoil and struggle blatantly true. I fleshed out the characters, I loved them. I felt them. I hurt for them. I invested time and energy and emotion. I gave my novels 100% of my pain.

Of pain.

And then, just when I was finished my debut erotic novel, after the 12th sex scene, that every "sexual free" homegirl of mine blushed three shades after reading, something in me stirred. It just didn't feel quite right. Yeah, I can write the hell out of a love scene. But, that's not what I was called to write. And, in the end, after all the sexing and the pain, the resolutions weren't grounded in any type of faith or spiritual belief. Worldly problems, worldly solutions. And for that, I was convicted.

So, in the end, I don't even think it was the sex, per se, that was a problem. Well, that's not true either. My sex scenes go aaall the way there in a very intimate way. But I think the problem that I had was that I found myself jumping hurtles to avoid writing in spiritual matters - i didn't have my characters pray. I didn't demonstrate how faith changes things. I didn't write healing in marriage or relationship. In my work, the pain led to relationship death. And in my own life, God has shown me the opposite. There is forgiveness. There is renewal. There is replenishment. And I didn't put that in my novels.

I am taking a new approach. First, I am resuming my young adult fiction, both traditional and inspirational. I have hired an illustrator to finish the development of my childrens and middle reader chapter series. Those are priority. They were written years ago and ignored. Second, my adult fiction will be infused with my spiritual beliefs, rather than the obvious resolutions. While sex may be apart, it will not be blatant, can't let your momma read it, erotica. It will be relevant to the character's development - mistake - recovery.

It's a disservice to readers to not provide multidimensional reality. God changes things,even for"worldly" characters and situations. Karma is always there, the basics of the universe always apply. I literally rewrote scenes to take out blatant prayer and belief - why? Because I wanted to insure mainstream publishing. An easy way to jump on the main platform? And I could have continued. But three different events happened within 3days. God sent 3 clear messages. And I won't dare ignore Him.

What I didn't expect was the backlash. Fellow authors feel offended, they believe that I am judging them because I am changing my path. This, I simply don't understand. Also, I am being told that I can write it all, I just have to be true to me. But the truth is, most folks would be less likely to by a picture book for their daughter by the same person who is a nationally recognized erotica writer, just on G.P. alone. Don't agree? How well did Madonna's children's book do? huh? Yep, that's what i thought. Pen name, you suggest? Yeah, I had a pen name, but at the end of the day, I don't want to hide. I will use a pen name for "separation" of works, because readers expect a certain type of work from certain authors. But a pen because I am cloak and dagger sex writing is disingenuous...lawyer for the federal government, mommy, wifey and parent by day, luscious sex writer by night. I just don't want to do it that way.

And, at the end of the day, this is my journey. My struggle. My fight. My decision. I am not judging others and I still very much like writing scenes that are good (scenes that just won't see the light of day, lol). But I have to reconcile my writing with the life I want to lead and the seeds I want to plant. When my 16 year old son tells me all about the erotica stories the young girls at his high school read aloud during lunch, and how they were practicing giving head or taking it from the rear based on some character they read about, I want to be pretty confident that they aren't taking sex tips from me(pen name or not)....

So, for me, and me alone, this is the write, oops, right, decision.

24 Hour Reject

Today was a first. I received an agent rejection letter in less than 24 hours. Really, it was actually stunning. My luck with agents is nil, which is why I am putting an end to the search, but normally there is a request for more information, some sort of positive feedback. Or, if not, I will get a nice note - kind of a "not right now, but keep in touch" type of thing.

I got neither of those today.

I submitted a query to an agent who is up and coming. I researched her, read all the background articles on her accomplishments in the industry. She was apparently looking for the same genre as my manuscript. Anther good sign. I sealed up the query and sent it, figuring I wouldn't hear anything for a month or so. Enough time to steel my heart against the rejection and maybe have something else in the works.

But 24 hours?

There, in my inbox, was her response. And it was an automated, thanks but no thanks. I felt confused , somehow, stunned. Did rejection have to be so sudden and blunt. Geesh, its a pretty good manu, if I have to say so myself. And yes, I know rejection is part of the process, that's not my real gripe here. My gripe is that she read and responded within minutes. My work so resoundingly struck against anything she remotely wanted that she hit the "reject" response without even blinking. (No, I don't know any of this for a fact, but what else could it mean.)

Okay, so I am over analytical. My friend calls me hypersensitive. I call myself smartly cynical. Either way, all three of my anal tendencies slammed to an abrupt stop at the less than 24 hours response. What do you think, is it better for rejection to take a little time?

Obama's Paid the Price

There is a price to be payed for greatness, a tremendous cost for change. Obama's courage and fortitude demonstrated strength under fire and challenged the masses to believe in chance. We heard him, were touched, moved, believed. Amazingly, the Unthinkable happened - and he is the President Elect. That accomplishment inspired the world, changed a nation and sealed our souls. What is the price to be paid and who carries the spiritual burden of such a tremendous inspiration? Unfortunately, the burden of greatness is high, the cost of having a calling can be painful. And it is a price Barack and Michelle have decided to carry on behalf of us all.

What makes Obama magnetic? The obvious humility. The pure belief in bettering the people, in healing a nation. A person who possesses that type of desire for the common good is NOT the same personality type who fancies himself president. The ambition and drive to become President is better suited for an arrogant type, for a person who has been groomed for the title, for the status of American royalty. Barack was not groomed by the establishment.

Additionally, it is obvious that the Obamas love each other, enjoy each other, are invested in the idea of family and unity. Running for this office put Barack on the road for close to two years. That is month after month after month of traveling the country, touching base with his family only by phone, seeing his wife intermittently. That means trying to keep a family together despite never ending criticism, never ending scrutiny, never ending ridicule and never ending hate. This was exactly opposite of where he and Michelle would ideally want to be. Now, as the President, their remnant of privacy will disappear, the safety of their precious family is more at stack.

And being President is less financially rewarding than the life he and Michelle could have led without this Presidential "stuff." Between the book deals, being Senator, and Michelle's "Claire Huxtableness," the Obama's were alright. They could have been comfortable millionaires, sending their kids to private school, living the privileged life, cutting a check at Thanksgiving and Christmas, paying face time to community service. It was theirs to claim. And they put it all aside in an effort to make a change.

They believed in change.

And their belief changed a group, which changed a town, which changed a city, which changed a state, which changed a country, which changed the world.

They changed the world.

And they made the sacrifice. They gave it all up to do what was right, step into the calling that was supernaturally prepared for them. They sacrificed. They paid the price. And they will continue to pay the price, as the stress of the office presses upon them and their family.

We have to remember, in all of our celebrating, to hold them up in prayer, to offer up our support, to contribute in any. We owe it to them to meet their challenge, to think a little less about self and a little more about uplifting the community. We owe it to them, for the joy they gave us, for the spiritual salve they placed over our generational wounds, for the future light they sparked in our children, to help in anyway possible.
We owe it to them to make their sacrifice worth it.

Change Has Come

Last week my son called me at work. It was a 1pm call - either he needed something, or something was seriously wrong. I picked up the phone on the second ring.

"Hey, baby. You okay?" I held my breath, waiting for the reassurance he has given me time and time again.
"Hey Mom. I'm good," he chuckled, his new man voice surprising me, yet again.
I sighed in relief and tucked the receiver against my neck. "Good. Wassup?"
"I just wanted to tell you, " he paused, and I could hear people all around him. "I voted today."

And my heart stopped. And my eyes watered. And my baby boy made me proud.

He has listened to countless lessons about the path to vote, the deaths and pain and lynchings and catastrophes, the dehumanizing conditions to deny the vote. I dragged him to the polls with me as soon as he was able to comprehend. But you never know if it sticks, if the lessons you spent hours sharing actually matter. Now he is at Ohio U, living the football player's dream. It was possible that home and our values could fade into the back drop.

But they didn't. He voted. And his first phone call was to me. And you know what else he said?

"Ma, just think about it. The first time I ever get to vote for a president and its for a black man."

Imagine that. Can you believe that? What world do we live in where something so impossible has now become the spine of my belief, the one resounding hope that America is still the country that I love, that MY family has defended and built over the past 400 years? A black man is running for president.

But, here is the beauty. He ain't just a black man. Would I feel this way if Jesse had stopped his grumbling and pouting and joined the fray? What about Michael Eric Dyson, or someone equally credible. Would my heart stop every time they spoke, would I pray as diligently for their family. Would they have so completely captured me?

That is the beauty of Barack Hussein Obama. He possesses a magnetic poise, a strong internal calm, that makes him more than an intelligent black man running for president. It makes him a leader of leaders. It makes his calling undeniable, his uniqueness magnified. Obama inspires me to be better. Do you know how rare that is, to hear a stranger speak and want to meet his expectations, rise to his level of dignity and poise? That is what he does for me.

Michael Baisden made a dynamic point a few days back, after watching the DL Hughley first show catastrophe on CNN. Michael decided he wasn't going to blow the brother up or attempt to harm his credibility or his platform. Michael said that watching Obama taught him how to administer his opinion without trying to destroy the man's opportunity, to challenge D.L. to be better without ruining the wonderful having a CNN platform. And I understood him.

Obama makes me want to be better. He makes me want to focus on changing the here and now, on working toward a real future. He challenges the masses to be intelligent, to be respected, to expect to be treated equal, to expect to be heard.

I understand why Michelle seemed so hesitant in the beginning. Would you want to risk that wonderful gem of a man to the world? Would you want to open your arms and allow the vileness that we are now watching spew forth from the Republican party taint the beautiful creature that is your husband and your children's father. Undoubtedly, she knew what we are now learning, that Barack is special, and she knows how much is at stake, is at risk.

Please, people, understand that they didn't have to do this. They didn't have to risk this. They didn't have to look at the fate of the Shabazz family and the King legacy and take the chance of walking in those footsteps. They could have silently affected change, living the privileged dream. But they stepped forward and put a face to change, a face to belief.

DO you understand that there will be no defeat tomorrow? I want him to win, I desperately hope he wins, but if not, do you know how many dreams were born, how many seeds were planted, how many minds were changed because Michelle and Barack trusted in God and stepped forward by faith? Can you fathom the interracial child of the next generation who no longer feels out of pocket, the brown black girl who sees Michelle's unequivocal beauty being appraised by an adoring husband, the white little boy who realizes that African Americans are more than a hip hop video. Barack and Michelle have put a face on an idea that no one could really grasp before. What a remarkable thing.

AND, although McCain's camp has been acting fool, please let me repeat a point Michael Basiden made today. White America stepped forward and supported a black man for president. Think what you want, but with only 13% of the population, black folks did not get Obama this far. No matter how you try to fool yourself, it wasn't all us. Not even close.

Tell the truth - did you ever think he would get this far? Were you like me, who thought he was cute, ambitious, and just throwing a lil kink in Hillary's game, because the race was hers to lose? Then, Iowa happened. He actually won. And I thought - a state of white folks voted for him? Who is this brother? I know I wasn't the only one. Tell the truth.

Then, regardless of liking Obama or not, Hillary started acting a fool. Actually, her tactics were worse than the crap the "Mavericks" are pulling now. In fact, the McCain party is running her rhetoric as I type this, on "robocalls" to the public, because her hateful speech was so poisonous. I was so disheartened, in fact I was downright hurt, I believed in the Clinton's in an unprecedented way. But, Obama never blinked an eye, never lost his composure, never tripped over himself. And, against her hateful fire, he began to gleam - the leader in him strongly emerging.

But please just think about this point - whether he wins or loses, America has changed. White America, in the millions, looked past color and saw him as a leader. And voted for him. Think about that. Black folks, who were the least likely to support him in light of their everlasting love of Bill, dropped the heavy banner of self doubt and stepped forward into the light. Barack and Michelle have affected change, more than most of use can say in a life time. And that change has finally come...

Another Halloween

This was one long day. First of all, my children's school was canceled - who knows what for. So my older two joined me in a Halloween parade with my youngest two. God bless preschool teachers - the young women work SO HARD. They dress the kids in their costumes, organized them, and away we went...but one thing. I sent my son in a Transformer costume. He turned up at the parade in a ninja outfit. As long as he wasn't crying and fussin, I could care less. But my older two, who had picked out the costume for him, were fit to be tied. I guess the Transformer costume is higher up on the food chain.

After work I went to the grocery store for candy. Yes, I am last minute like that. Anyhoo, this poor women was in line with a screaming baby, while I was still shopping. 20 minutes later, when I joined the line, she and the screaming, screeching newbie were still there. The baby sounded colichy (sp?) and the mommy didn't have his head covered. Also, I bet she was new at breastfeeding and hadn't pumped any milk to tide him over. These are the tricks to a quiet child that a seasoned momma knows. I sympathized with her. She had a months worth of food in the cart and was stuck, without help. But the old folks around me pissed me off. Shaking their heads, peering at her with disdain, mumbling that if she would just feed the child their precious ears wouldn't have to be assaulted. It was ridiculous. And you know who talked the most trash - the workers. How about doing your job so poor new mommy doesn't get stuck in line for 30 minutes, instead of rolling your eyes and sucking your teeth. I was too through. Been there done that, but I stand up for my mommies in training. It ain't easy and you can't knock it till you've done it. So I told the clerk - who was childless - that people like her make it difficult for young mothers. Yes - she and I had words. What has happened to our society where mommies and children are held in contempt? Pure foolishness.

I digress....

My evening was made 100% better by the Trunk or Treat event held at Riverdale Baptist School, Upper Marlboro, Md. An event for the family - the children's ministry and volunteers back the cars in a neat row which creates a "main street effect and "tailgate" with Halloween candy. and the volunteers went all out - putting up Halloween decorations in the trunks with baskets and gadgets and lights and pumpkins and distributing candy trunk by trunk. The event was free - though it would be nice to contribute a donation. It completely eliminates the door to door stranger thing, without removing the fun, outside, walking with costumes and interacting with people, "neighborhood" feel. It was an absolute joy and blessing. We had such a god time, and it was such a parental relief, that I think I am going to send them a thank you card with Another donation.

We survived another Halloween - with minimal aggravation and actually had a great time.

Tibits - Blogging Return

Please forgive me, fellow bloggers, for the inexplicable delay. My senses are bombarded with Obama and McCain, the Wall Street crash and now Jennifer Hudson's family pain. The outer world is invading my inner world and I think I am experiencing sensory overload.

First things first. Has D.L. Hughley lost his damn mind? Now, I have been a fan and I assumed from the McClellan endorsement clip that D.L. was going to present a Bill Maher/Chris Rock platform of witty and clever commentary. And what did he do? Took the phenomenal opportunity of having a CNN platform and gave us lewd, crass, unfunny jokes playing off stereotypical humor. On his first show on CNN. 9 days before the most important election of our time, when we need to have on our "meet the new folks" face, he presents Black ridiculousness on an international scale. Thanks D.L., so happy you took one for the team.

And, I didn't want to get political, which seems impossible now a days. But, please folks, don't believe the hype. The "assassination" plot was two Neo Nazi fools, whose plan was ridiculous. This is the same tactic Hillary used several months ago, alluding to assassination to deter votes for OBama. Same as the Arkansas chick who carved B into her face and claimed she was assaulted. This is a wonderful time and a horrible time, because poor white america is losing its mind. Ya almost got to feel sorry for them. They are the ones being hit hardest by the economy, loss of jobs and opportunities, foreclosure, etc...but they just can't get past race. The one glint of hope of superiority. They would rather lose it all than recognize that BOTH CANDIDATES HAVE WHITE MOTHERS. OBama is not simply a black man, he represents us all. It's pathetic and disappointing.

Jennifer Hudson's loss devastated me today and last week. There are simply no words, no expression, nothing that can be said....

On my ride to school this morning I discovered my 3 year old daughter has the same taste in music as me. Which is bad, because she shouldn't even be listening to the same station. But I get tired of kiddy music sometime. Her favorite jam - Rihanna and T.I. get your paper. Seriously. She has Rihanna's part down. And I think its hilarious, but I know she is going to bust out singing it in church or somewhere equally inappropriate and I am going to die of embarrassment.

It feels good to blog again. I have other thoughts, many actually, that will probably begin to leak from me again. In the meantime I am gearing up for election day - getting ready to celebrate (God willing)

Capital Book Festival

I had the time of my life this Saturday.

As some of you know, I contributed a letter to the Capital Book Festival's annual anthology - this year entitled How We Love: Letters. I read my letter in Borders at 12:35 pm before a sizable audience and for the first time felt like...an author.

The Capital Book Festival was well done, just a phenomenal experience, actually. Nikki Giovanni spoke. Tananarive Due participated on a panel and signed, along with numerous well respected authors. Donna Hill was there, Wendy Coakley Thompson, Collette Haywood, Breena Clark, Tina McElroy Ansa etc... I got a chance to meet and talk to so many authors whose work I have admired for so long.

The book festival is organized by Kwame Alexander, a respected poet who has the captivating Zhupendra line consisting of breathtaking pieces. While I listened to Tananarive Due and Christopher Chambers speak, my daughter was volunteering in a bubble blowing contest with Author Uncle E, author of the Diggle, Boogie and Lolo kids series. And although I missed her reading (because mine was at the same time) my fellow Hamptonite Sahar Simmons read her wonderful children's story "Briana's Neighborhood" at the Kids Zone.

What I learned:

1. There are some BEAUTIFUL BLACK FOLKS in PG COUNTY. I still love it here.

2. Grace: When I rushed to meet Tananarive Due she did not hide from me, like someone fleeing a pathetic fan, instead she greeted me with a pleasant smile and an open spirit. Such a wonderful experience. Please know that I will purchase everyone of her books from now until...Also, and more importantly, she didn't even flinch when I erroneously stated the title of her compilation with Blair Underwood - Its "In the Night of the Heat" and, of course, I stupidly said, "In the Heat of the Night." An error that I realized later. But she never even blinked. So much grace.

3. Professionalism: Folks were on their A-game. Authors, self published or not, presented professional, eye catching, engaging product. The children's authors came "for real." Sahar, Uncle E, Charisse Carney Nunes - they were engaging and fun and exciting. I had to DRAG my daughter from the Kids Zone to hear me speak, she had no intention on missing Ms. Nunes set (we own her "Hair" book). Under the tent, folks were networking and selling and promoting and giving advice like you wouldn't believe. Just a very positive vibe.

4. Making it work: The festival slated Donna Hill, Wendy Coakley Thompson and Collette Haywood opposite Nikki Giovanni. Those ladies just rolled with the punches, continuing the panel, recognizing that a small audience is still a purchasing audience who wants to hear what they have to say. Similarly, some people went over time while others didn't show, but the programs ran smoothly. Omarosa debuted her upcoming book and she brought folks in with her charm and personality, starting with a small audience to a packed tent. Making it work. It was an honor to watch.

5. Next year, I want to be in the mix with my product in hand.

The Journey

The problem is in the journey. That is my opinion anyway. You start out with the idea of being an author. For some reason you believe that it is glorified, glamorous. You will write a great story, with the cleverest catch or subplot. Everyone will love it and read it, right. Wrong. Most of your friends will nod politely, but they will never crack the covers. Then you believe you will easily land an agent and get that wonderful deal, with upfront cash that lets you right for a living. Ha. That is the few and far between. Instead, agents reject every version of the manuscript you can think of, and getting through the three rounds of committee makes publishing unforgivably impossible.

The journey. The honing your craft, while other writers that don't seem to even know the English language, journey. The submitting and publishing to every imaginable anthology but unable to land a major deal, journey. And one day, it clicks. Out of desperation you write a story on a whim that is not in your genre, not something you are even proud of, and guess what. It's a hit. Folks want more. And you have sold your soul for the game.

Well not quite that dramatic, but your lofty ideas about edifying the common good and glorifying literature at its best, take second place to finally tearing through the bureaucratic malaise and getting a book deal. Which is how I found myself writing erotica.

As Blair Underwood writes in Casanegra's Acknowledgements, "Often, the journey is not as politically correct as some would like and sometimes the journey is sordid, dark, and even erotic. Nonetheless, the odyssey must be embarked upon for one to discover and embrace the peace that lies within each of us."

The journey. The journey. The journey. I shake my head and sigh. I am miles away from the inspirational fantasy fiction I first drafted and rewrote and tried to shop, to no avail. I wrote it free- without thought of selling confines. It is unrestricted and unbound. Now I write with the publisher in mind, scripting fully aware that the product has to be sold and following the script for that sale to happen. In the beginning, I simply placed pen to pad and let the story unfold, without regard to publisher's desires or potential earnings.

The journey. I am coming full circle. I am remembering how to listen to my heart and write what I love. I am learning to love my works enough to carefully shop them. I have stopped giving away work for free in a desperate attempt for validation. I now know that my writing, all of my writing, has worth and value and I treat it as such. I have matured. I have transformed, through this twisted journey.

Loved Me Most of All

Loved Me Most Of All

My family is a talented one. Or was. Depending on how you look at it. September is a rough month for me - my birthday is shared with the most tragic event in US history. A day I really thought I was going to die - my job having been only two blocks from the White House as the plane missed it and plowed into the Pentagon instead. And the two most important people in my existence were born in Septemeber, my grandmother and grandfather, birthdays 9/9 and 9/4, respectively. And they are both passed on.

So the month of September finds me alone, remorseful, longing and missing. This Sunday it was magnified. As I drove home from church, the old gospel song "Tomorrow" filtered through radio waves. My Uncle Joe, the youngest of my grandparents 9 kids, and undoubtedly the favorite, used to sing that song like an angel. The culmination of a multitalented family, he attended college on a music scholarship. His pure falsetto could make a grown man cry like a baby, his rich alto made women act a fool. And he sang Tomorrow at my cousin Teddy's funeral. When Cousin Teddy was mysteriously killed in a car accident in his 30's. Another unthinkable devastation.

The song came on the radio, my mind flipped back to Uncle Joe, to the patient love and creative influence he had on my life. On how I adored him. He played the guitar, I listened, hummed along learned music. Later I picked up the piano. Wanting to compliment his instrumentation. I thought of his melodic voice. And my heart split in half, remembering, with a start, that he dropped dead two years ago, walking into church. Inexplicably. Something I often fool myself into forgetting.

Those who loved me most of all are all dead.

And I am left here to grapple with life, trying to cocoon myself in their memory, in their abounding love, to face each day, each moment, despite not having them. And sometimes, it really hurts.

{Posted at www.myspace.com/discoverkai}

Alicia Keys

Alicia Keys is making me proud and she is doing us good. It is sad that her movement is slightly overlooked. Movement? Yes, movement. A movement of Black female empowerment. Black female respect. A belief in black love.

You disagree? Think I am overstating? Figure she is a simply a singer and performer, nothing more?

Answer this: Ever notice that every video features black men and women of full Black beauty. Ever notice the subtle references and innuendo's to our culture, past and present. Ever notice how every brother, street or not, represents the belief of black men, of their innate beauty and power. She makes it a point to capture those images, to radiate them.

Consider this: Ever seen her naked? Ever seen her expose herself, despite the talent (ala every other artist in the industry)? Ever seen her background dancers or singers half ass naked. No, instead her characterizations are of that faithful girlfriend, loving woman, supportive and special, believing in him more than he believes in himself?

It's purposeful.

Alicia is taking the road less traveled. Now, I luv me some Beyonce, so please don't start the comparison. Beyonce brought Black women affirmation and "luvin being a lady" back in a way that no other artist has since, maybe, Pam Grier. But Alicia has tapped into more of an idea of community, a belief and displaying of black love and romance, a ground belief, in powerful black women and men. She radiates that message carefully, without preaching, with every single release and video.

Unbreakable. Fallin. Women's Worth. Teenage Love Affair (delightful play on Spike Lee's School Daze - and she must have used him to direct, because they do that annoying sitting still/walking camera trick that he insists on using in all his works) and, now, Superwoman.

Superwoman has a Chaka Khan/Whitney "I am Every Woman" vibe, over a much more mellow piano riff. But the video goes a little deeper. Alicia portrays different facets of Black woman - the welfare mom in college, the African sister trying to get an education, the working mother and an astronaut. She acts out the skits with segments of her playing the piano interspersed. But then an amazing thing happens. The faces of the actual women who Alicia is enacting merge over her image. Jada Pinkett Smith (who, looks surprisingly similar to Alicia) and Joan Higginbotham, are among the four.

Joan Higginbotham is a NASA astronaut, I see her picture 100 times a day at work. (i work for NASA). She has spoken on Center and participated in a number of goodwill projects. She is beautiful and intelligent and...well... an astronaut. And Alicia provided her an international forum of recognition. The video is seamless and flawless...and I am so very proud. Of both Alicia and the ladies she recognizes.

Pay careful attention to Alicia...she is a movement in her own right.

Casanegra - Perfected Fiction

I am finally reading Casanegra.

Sad, I know. But I originally bought it because it had Blair Underwood on the cover, front and back. And that was reason enough. Didn't matter what was between the covers, actually. If Blair is affiliated, I am supporting.

Let me back up. My Blair love runs deep. LA Law deep. Just like authors, actors can change reality, spin fiction into real life clarity. And Blair's character on LA Law made me believe I could litigate, could be the sole black attorney in a see of white. Didn't he make it look good. Between him and Claire Huxtable, I would not be denied.

And who can deny his acting prowess. Wasn't Just Cause stunning. Scary actually. I was so into the "poor impoverished black man" theme, I didn't see the sick twist coming. And who else could play the love interest of Miranda and not make me jealous or with the interracial angle. Only Blair. Why? Because what women could blame ANY women who got her hands on him?

So, I purchased Casanegra and shelved it. Didn't really want to crack its covers and be disappointed. As you know, i don't trust many reviews, so I was skeptical. Tonight, while I tried to capture the different story lines floating around my head, I retrieved it. Figured a good read would free my mind. And I must say, I am delighted.

Clever delivery and manifested suspense with the careful crafting of each line, Mr. Underwood, Ms. Tananarive Dur and Steven Barnes put together a wonderful piece of work. The writing is superb, the type that makes the writer in me aspire to create snazzier (word?) metaphors and simple but complicated undercurrents. The first 30 pages have been literary heaven for me. I am on roll this summer. First Octavia Butler's genius, now this. I'm thrilled, refreshed actually, and I haven't even gotten to the meat of the story.

So far, Casanegra is proof that there is a benefit gained by perfecting one's writing. How careful use of one adjective can change the entire intent of the sentence, of the character, of the flow. How character description extends beyond clothing to understanding how the characters think and interact. I believe I am, once again, falling in literary love. (I will update you when i complete the book.)

Confident Sexy

I was at Target tonight. Standard run. Toilet paper, body soap, mouthwash. And I am so tired, staying up nights writing, thinking, remembering, recording.

So, suffice it to say, I am not looking my best. Lack of sleep hit me today like a ton of bricks. And I think I only ran a comb through my hair once today, when I first left the house.

Why is it that on days like today, when I am literally hiding from every attractive man I see, men won't leave me alone?

It's odd and annoying. But I think I have figured it out. They are attracted to the confidence thing.

See, on any giving day, when confidence is low because I have convinced myself I am: ugly, fat, uninteresting, boring, fat, fat, fat, big nosed, big lipped, fat, fat, fat; I don't tend to make eye contact. In fact, I often glance right past Mr. Attractive, hoping that he doesn't notice me and certainly won't record my image to memory.

But, on days like today, when my spirit is alive and my energy is humming, I could care less how I look and who sees me. A smile on my face plastered by deliriously naughty thoughts, I strolled through Target without a care in the world. Not a thought to my "haven't been combed since this morning" bob, or the slight bags under my eyes. And the response to my grin and my swagger? a couple of offers to help with my bag - a "like your smile sister" and a stare down. Despite my self absorbed state, even I had to pay attention. At one point I started to wonder, what do men look at?


They certainly don't judge us the way we do. That is evident by all those couples you see that make you wonder - how? Men must be pulled in by something all together different. I don't know what, exactly, but for now I am placing my vote on that confident sexy thing. That swagger. If that is the case, I have to work on showing mine a little more often!!

Streamlined Black Bookstore

APOOO recently posted an email to our Yahoo Group - how many Black Bookstores have fallen in the past year, and how many rose in their stead. It was depressing! I thought Karibu was the only chain to collapse...and let me tell you when Karibu went down the DMV (affectionate term for DC/MD/VA) was devastated. And, as many of you know, they did NOT fall apart for lack of support or business. Nope, many of us were making it our business to visit them on a regular basis, despite the major bookstores. Remember - this is the DMV and I live in Prince Georges County, where the wealthiest enclave of African American's in the country live. And there were at least three stores in PG that I can think of off the top of my head - Bowie, Forestville and PG Plaza. And the PG Plaza stores was expanding to contain a coffee shop and lounge area. Karibu had black support, their demise was internal.

So Chocolate City - the real one, by definition - has been left black storeless (correct me if I am wrong, cuz I would love to find a new black store home) until recently. Asante Books opened in Forestville Mall, Forestville, MD, which I try to visit a couple of times a month. And, in my desperate need to touch base with some semblance of what Karibu used to be, I visited Baltimore this weekend to tap into Urban Knowledge bookstores up there. It is rumored that they may be expanding to the DMV.

First of all, the "new black bookstore" doesn't really have a heritage/deep/blackness vibe. Nope - now its hardwood floors, highly polished shelves in new cherry wood. And that's it. Four walls, many shelves. In and out. It's more cost efficient, I am sure. It requires you change your expectation of the store and what purpose it serves. Karibu was a culture submersion for my children - (as if they need more blackness living in Mitchellville) but still, the books were a rich reflection of the cross section of a peoples. The clerk read books to the children on Saturday mornings - mine and several other sitting around listening. Want to find that rare chronicle of African American farmers, go to Karibu. Want the newest in erotica - from a self pub - go to Karibu. Want some romance or street lit from a small up and coming pub - go to Karibu.

That's not what the stores are now. And the dominating wall in Urban Knowledge is street lit. From the beginning of the store to the end. Think of a narrow square store - something like a Subway but not as deep or wide. So you can see the entire store at a glance. The far wall is jammed pack with every street lit cover imaginable. So much so that its hard to tell them apart. After a while all the titles just began to blend into each...one fly sister in fur, next to another naked, next to some sisters standing together looking seductive. Over and over again, ya'll. Over and over again. Other titles are in there too , some romance and regular fiction sprinkled through...but you have to search to find them around the glossier "bling" covers.

My husband said, "since when did the bookstore turn into a collection of club promos? This is ridiculous." I chuckled at first. Then, it didn't seem so funny. But they have to stock what will sell, right?

Urban has other books - a very small nonfiction/historical section on another wall, erotica hidden in the middle floating shelves - to their benefit they are very careful about keeping the erotica separate - and the teen/children's shelves by the register. And when I did a book signing there last month, the clerk kept the teens away from both the erotic and street lit titles that they had no business touching. She pointed them to the teen section - pointing out that there is teen street lit. Who knew? And I have to say that Urban has the best black teen selection I have ever seen in any bookstore (including the chains) - HANDS DOWN.

The children's fiction was disappointing, the offering was sparse. Did that stop my little Miss Queen 1 and 2 from scooping the few books and setting themselves right up at the only table in the store - which I know for a fact is for author signings - and begin reading? Nope. And the clerk didn't mind, but then again, he didn't even bother to look up when we entered. And the store was empty. On a Saturday at 2pm. In the mall.

I set about looking for Mocha Chocolate - trying to ensure good product placement, or get to moving books to better visibility, since the clerk wasn't paying enough attention to care. It took me a moment to find, most of the erotica is buried on the floating shelves in the middle. He eventually pointed them out to me - but then I was irritated because I had broken him out of his trance and couldn't move the books at my leisure.

What's the point of this post? Black literature has changed. Black clientele has changed. The economy sucks. Buyers are hitting Amazon with new fervor. Desire of Black buyers is streamlined with the majority calling for one genre. While I was there folks weren't looking for a black mecca of culture, they simply wanted Dutch 3, by Dutch or Terri Woods, depending on where that mess stands; In My Hood II, by Endy; Girls from Da Hood 2,3,4,5,6, etc.; Still Wifey, by Kiki Swinson. Wahida Clark. J. Tremble. Over and over and over again I listened to the BMore audience ask for the same books, wanting to discuss the same plots. (I am sure different regions have different demands-in DC Mocha Chocolate flew off the shelves like free candy)

But Black bookstores are in the awful position of trying to maintain some integrity and sell books. Trying to keep overhead low, while having to sell books at a higher price. And a compromise is being made for survival - can you blame them - leading to a new, streamlined store - that feels less and less like Black literary home.

An Author?

I've been languishing. Oscillating between that space of elation and utter disgust. Its kind of an internal pout, a silent temper tantrum. I just don't understand this author thing. Well, I do understand it, but that is exactly what is making me swing the emotional pendulum between satisfied and disgruntled.

Let me back up, I guess. I always wanted to be an author. I am sure that is not news to you. Everyone always says, I used to write when I as a child, I live to write, I made up imaginary stories, etc. Well, let me tell you I had a brand new typewriter (no word processors yet) and I would sit at that thing and bang out STORIES. Serious stories. Just like my seven year old is doing now (although she is putting pen to pad). And just like her, I had already read Chronicles of Narnia and was starting on, but not completely understanding, the Hobbit. When I finished my book I made cardboard covers onto which I pasted my construction paper designs.

I was going to be an author.

Nobody told me that the author game is a hustle, dependent on your grind more than your ability to write. No one said that all those years I spent honing my craft were irrelevant, when the buying public has taken a "rap" approach to literature- the more ignorant and gully, the more likely to be bought. Nobody told me that being an author was no longer a special title bestowed upon those who transcended the literary "good" and wrote engaging "bests," rather something anyone with an idea could pay for and create.

I am disillusioned.

Was I searching for exclusivity? No. Well maybe. I guess the answer is yes. Not directly so, but I thought that being an author would consist of receiving a 100,000. check from a publisher who allowed me to dream of distant lands and places, research and create wonderfully thick works of fiction. I would tour the world and drink fine wine - experience life, write literature. How very foolish of me. That is the reality for some. But the layers of writers and hustlers between that level and myself is SOOO thick, how can I pluck through the cardboard ceiling?

The writing game is just like the music industry. Maybe worse. And who cares if its good, interesting or stimulating - the honor is that you sat down and wrote it, its real quality is insignificant.

SO I felt discourage for most of the day. Wondered, like all self absorbed indulgent writers, whether I should just tuck away my pen and put an end to writing. What is the point?

But then, at 2 in the morning, and idea hit me. And, as usual, I couldn't fight it, couldn't tuck it away to get a good nights sleep. Instead, I sit here now, typing away, writing out my angst and releasing "author" frustration. I guess there is no real answer to my dilemma, but one. Despite my cynical take and the low possibility of success, I have to write. It is buried deep within my DNA. So a writer I am. An author...well, we'll see.

Beat It!

I discovered today why childcare is worth 450.00 a week. Yes, I pay $450.00 a week. Which is why I am the only non Benz driving sista in my neighborhood. That and the other expenses surrounding 5 kids. But I digress.

Where was I? Ah yes, I discovered today why childcare is worth $450.00 a week. I should say that my kids are getting the best preHarvard care imaginable and will be on their way straight to ivy league - that is if they don't get burned out and began to hate school. But that's not it. I purposely didn't put them somewhere overly academic at too a young age - been there, done that. When my eldest daughter was bringing home an hours worth of worksheets a night, not including the weekly scriptures that needed memorizing, and she was in Pre K, I decided to never go for the - "we teach Spanish and French and cursive and long division before they can spell their names" programs again.

SO now my kids are in a learning-play environment. They're talking better, motor skills are phenomenal, counting and learning and identifying some words. Potty training has finally been accomplished (they are very late): my only feasible excuse is that as twins, they just didn't seem to be in a rush to do anything that didn't suit the two of them. Making speaking to other people (because they seem to know what they are saying) and potty training and all those socially relevant things low on the priority totem pole, because all they care about is each other.

I normally pay an extra $200.00 a month for them to participate in Music learning - singing and instruments and dancing and rhythm. It seems that my extra money is either well spent, or completely unnecessary. Today I was riding home listening to Michael Baisden talk about getting his book hustle on. And I was lamenting how I am published in over 10 works at this point, but am still, in my own mind and against my own standard - which is always nearly impossible to reach, stagnant and failing.

In the midst of "everything is everything" I heard...."Beat It, Beat It . no wub gedo bedat Beat It. No dem bowdy boty, no its jut rit. It dudn't mabber who wrong or rite, just Beat It, jus tBeat it."
While my daughter sang my son bopped along, eyes closed like his sister was spittin fire - Gladys Knight/Alvin and the Chipmunks saanging.

Ya'll, I hollered laughing. There is no better moment in life than when your 3 year olds discover Michael Jackson (music only) and sings his classic like their life depends on it. It was one of the moments that I knew in an instant I would remember for the rest of my life. One of those pure indescribable joys that reminds me of how wonderful God is to send such delightful and unpredictable presents as children. Michael Jackson's Beat It? Are you kidding me? I loved it!!

And my 2 grand a month total - well, for just that experience it is worth it. But one of the teachers at their school is SOOOO busted for listening to the radio while on the job!

The First 50 Years (Bernie Mac)

50 years. What if that's all we get. 50 years. sigh...

Bernie Mac died today. My husband told me as I was sitting at the laptop, throwing down a Chick-Fil- A salad and trying to type out the rest of this Urban Fiction tale that has overtaken my mind. He kind of said it "at" me - the way he often deals with death, just flinging the information out there. And I was startled, then saddened. Overwhelmed. Isn't it amazing how someone who never met me could have a profound affect on me.

Which got me to thinking. Should I be sad? Or should I really observe Bernie Mac's life as a testament of what a person can do in a mere 50 years" He first broke into my consciousness when he took over Def Jam. I will never forget it - he walked out with his graffitti'd sweatshirt and jeans and told the audience "I ain't scared of you muthf..." Which was saying something. The Def Jam crowd was rambunctious and raw, and could be cruel. After he took over the stage he did a skit that sexing was nothing more than 50 pumps and incorporated DJ Capris into his skit. The most magnetic performance of that night. and with that a star was made.

It reminds me of Eminem's "Lose Yourself" song. That was his moment. If he flopped, it was all over. But he not only ruled the moment, he seemed to be ready for it. Bernie Mac had a "it's about time for ya'll to see me" energy that invaded the air. And that spring boarded into an unbelievable amount of successful ventures. Kings of Comedy, The Bernie Mac Show, innumerable movies, including Mr. 3000 (which I loved), Guess Who (with Ashton Kutcher) and, of course, Oceans 11, 12 and 13. His filmography lists incredible upcoming movies- 2009 was going to be a successful year for him. There is Madagascar 2, Soul Men, Pride, The Robin Harris Story, etc... He accomplished SO MUCH in 50 years - and only an estimated 15 years in the industry.

Can any of us say the same?

If God has limited me to 50 years, what can I list? My five children, my marriage, Georgetown Law Degree, NASA employee. That's the sum of me? That's what I took the first 34 years of life to do? What about the piano, the ability to write, the seeds that God planted in me. How many of them did I nurture and grow into something that would affect lives, change lives, make a difference. Who else have I touched, have I inspired anybody?

Now I am not saying that Bernie Mac was a saint or didn't make mistakes. He just flubbed a performance at a benefit for Obama a few months ago, in which he made some "stereotypical" statement that Obama separated himself from. And some people find his comedy crass. But Bernie Mac made people laugh. After a long day, a hard day, his show could lighten your mood, his movies could draw you in, his comedy could make you forget your troubles. Even if it was for a brief moment.

And that's what I admire. Have I pushed to reach my dream, to provide someone with reliable product that allows them to lose themselves in another world, another reality, and expands their horizons? When I die will people across the world know that I existed, will they look at my life and, though sad for my departure, be amazed at what I accomplished in my first 50 years?

That is the mark of a blessed life, I think. One that leaves people stunned by positivity achieved in such a brief time period. And I am saddened that I will not be able to enjoy future Bernie Mac, hurt that he had so much more to give us and it has been cut short. But I also believe that he made his mark in a unique way, transforming the Black comedic landscape in a way never quite accomplished before. Bernie Mac worked his first 50 years, like he worked that Def Jam stage. Unafraid, energetic, ready to jump into the moment and make it count.

Can the same be said of any of us when we reach the 50 year mark? God, I hope so...

Reviews, again

When posting book reviews, can they all be a 4 or 5? I mean really. Lets think about this. Is EVERY author that honed in their craft and experienced with the subject matter to churn out perfect or near perfect books. It just seems impossible to me.

You have heard my rants on this topic before. I gave someone a 3.5 and they were upset. I thought it was a good review. On the other hand, I have purchased book rated 4 and 5 only to sit there in utter boredom, pushing through the dense read, adamant that I am going to complete it, if only to get my money's worth.

What is the standard. Is the English proper? Was there a plot at all? What about character development, plot consistency, writing credibility, use of creativity, etc...

To add insult to injury, how can the reviewer rate a book a 5 when her review is filled with typos, grammatically incorrect references and poor language. Similarly, what about the book reviewer who reveals the entire plot of the book, eliminating the need for the reader to buy it. If this reviewer grants it a 5, I tend to be a little bit suspect.

I have a poor review that I am drafting for a new writer. And I feel bad about it. Not the review, because I think I am being as fair as possible. But bad because she is going to be upset about a less than 5 rating, even though it is a less than 5 book. And its unfair to her because her reviewer (me) actually CARES about literature and maintaining some basic standards in written work and will not award a 5 because I have been paid to review the book or am a home girl. So, while her book is probably equivalent to some other currently rated 4 or 5, I am giving it a 3 or 3.5, because, in good conscious, I can't give it any higher. I wouldn't want the reader to spend their money without knowing the truth. That the action was predictable, the sex boring and more dry, the plot meaningless. Murder without remorse, sex without consequence, drugs without a price, partying without a burnout, a book with no layers, levels or emotions. Isn't that what separates a "person who just wrote a book," from an author. And shouldn't the author be given a fair opportunity to identify the short comings in her efforts before devoting resources promoting the book?

Either way, I am fighting the give it a 4 or 5 and one paragraph saying nothing review. I read one today that said "after getting through the beginning of this book, it was a great read." Huh? If you had to "get through" it, like it was a densely populated forest, then the book couldn't have been a 5 (which is what it was rated). I am just tired of it. Thinking of instituting a rating system so reviews can have a valid meaning and actually serve as a guide, instead of a way for authors and soon to be authors to pat each other on the back and build support for their own upcoming releases.

Social Services

Today I went to the DC Department of Health to procure birth certificates for my twins. Although the rest of the modern world knows better than to step foot in a government agency and orders these simple documents online, I thought I would spare myself the additional time and make the visit.

So, as in all things social service related, the lines were crazy. And nonsensical, stretching across the office as people tried to fill out their forms and hold on to their young ones. Then, a woman next to me, undoubtedly my age or older, whipped out her cellphone (ignoring the signs stating all phones were banned). After a few seconds she spoke loud enough for us all to hear her, because she obviously didn't have any tact.

"Ma, was you married to my father when you had me? Oh, so you never did get married. Not to Naya's dad either. I am trying to get my birth certificate. Here, in DC. Oh, I wasn't born in DC? Where I got to go then...?"

I am not making this up. It actually made me sad, she didn't even know that she should have known. And she didn't even know to lower her voice.

Once she walked past an African woman who had been filling out the form for the longest tapped me on the shoulder. "I was in line in front of you," she challenged. I grinned a little, thankful for my early thirties calm, a few years ago she and I would have had it out. But I graciously stepped back and let her lying self cut the line. 30 minutes later she tried to convince the clerk that her expired visitor visa was a valid government issued document to receive her daughters birth certificate. It was enjoyable to watch her get bounced out on her ear.

Another clerk had a sign on the wall that read - "I can only please one person a day, and today is not looking good for you. Tomorrow is looking even worse." and next to that sign she penned another one saying, "and I touched the hem of His garment and was made whole." She should be fired for so many reasons. Her attitude was just wrong wrong wrong and the Holier than thou wrong!

But, to tell the truth, the place was better some other I have experienced. I just find the entire experience dehumanizing, every single time, no matter which government it is (state or federal - have you tried to get something done at SSA lately). To pass the time I enjoyed my latest Donna Hill novel and relaxed. And tried to forget that I was sitting in a government building waiting over an hour for a birth certificate.

Terrified

Have you even been terrified? Not frightened or simply shocked, but truly terrified. That frenzied feeling of horror and lost control as you watch the foundation of your world shatter, but are unable to gather the pieces and create some vague resemblance of reality.

That happened to me today.

My daughter loves candy. While everyone else was eating hamburgers at her godbrothers cookout, she insisted on a piece of candy. After dinner mints, the kind that are chalky chewables. I assumed she would chew it. She didn't.

While sucking on it, she tried to reach for something and speak at the same time. The mint became lodged in her throat. In a ludicrous moment of panic, I held her arms above her head, hoping she was just coughing. She began to jump up and down, frantically trying to dislodge the course blockage. Our good friend who is a nurse just happened to be on one side of me and her friend, a day care provider was on the others side. Their backs were turned.

"Is that child choking?" The daycare provider swung around and snatched my baby before I could make a sound and began to administer the Heimlich. She swung Jada over her arm, face toward the ground, and began pumping her stomach and talking frantically. The rest of us were all simply frozen. I stood there in shock, watching this women pump my child in an attempt to induce vomiting. Then, just as it occurred to me that my everything, my child, could possibly die, the mint popped out amid a slew of saliva.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I couldn't breathe. It took everything in me to not fall on my knees crying and thanking God. Everything I had to regain some sort of composure. Tears silently fell as I held my daughter, and thanked the woman in a distant quiet way. Distant because my brain hadn't quite released the fear I had just experienced, like some sort of aftershock reverberating through my soul. And the vibrations became louder and harder as the reality of what could have happened seeped into my thawing mind.

I held my daughter closely, I couldn't let her go. I couldn't believe that I had found myself so helpless, that when my daughters life was on the line I raised her hands above her head. I raised her hands above her head. What the hell? I have been meaning to take CPR since the birth of my daughter 7 years ago, yet here my baby twin found herself choking and I wasn't prepared. 5 children and I had let that type of necessary training fade away with other "must do's."

Terrified. That's what I was. And still am. I am still crying as I write this. I process pain so differently than others, because I have experienced so much of it and such a young age. Things and circumstances and relationships that most of my closest friends know nothing about. Wrapped up the pain, twisted the ends to keep it contained, and pushed it deep down.

But events like today, they unravel the tiewrap containing my hurt, poke holes in the ziploc of my emotions. Because terror continues long after the situation has been rectified. Like when someone breaks into your house. Afterward, you feel a new vulnerability, a raw festering wound, worried that it can happen again, that next time you won't be so lucky, that your sanctuary has been violated.

That's how I feel right now. My sanctuary of oblivion allowing me to believe that we were impervious to day to day catastrophes, has just been obliterated. And I sit here, still shaken, fighting the residue that terror has caused.

Submission

I have wondered for a long while at the power of submission. Submission. What a dreaded word. Women are taught to never submit themselves to a man's will or his power. That submission is equivalent to slavery, a demeaning forfeiture of all self esteem.

I remember when I was interviewed on Literary Pizzaz, blog talk radio, about six months ago. W e spoke about relationships and I talked about submission, the power of submission that I had discovered as a wife and a sensual woman. One of my Internet supporters was livid with me. She threatened to remove my poetry that she had posted on her website and denounce my name for having said I sought to submit to my husband. Her site encouraged love and acceptance, with an accent on lesbian relationships. I had offended her to the very core.

But she later admitted that she didn't hear the entire show, she had tuned in at the point that I spoke on submission. So she didn't hear my take on it. While my take was still not pleasing to her, it was much easier to swallow, I think, for her.

So here it is: submission. Oddly enough when I say the word I think of power. Lust. Sensuality. Yearning. Satiated. Fulfilled. Submitted.

For me, submission is not a yielding of my power or personal gains. Submission is comfort. It is being in the presence of a real man, who loves me and protects me. In appreciation for his cover, for filling that space that only a love can, I offer him respect, in the best way I can. I encourage him and uplift him. In exchange, he provides for me and his family, supports my personal flight, and is the alpha to our pack. It means I can rest, and share my load with someone will finds me special enough to carry my burden. Submission. A different kind of definition.

So, I think we are right to teach women not to submit in a literal sense. Because that is not the purpose of the submission I am talking about here. The submission I speak of is akin to Terry McMillan's long awaited exhale. Its the acknowledgement of finally finding a stable and secure love and allowing yourself to rely on him, to lean on him. It is welcoming him into your arms late at night, into your body whenever he yearns for you, because your essence yearns for him. It is an unspoken appreciation, a deep well of partnership in which a trusted bond is strengthened.

Submission.

Kindred - Literary Love

I fell in literary love. Again. But the first time in years. I haven't had a literary love fall in years. The first time was Toni Morrison's Beloved. The fifth time I read it. Yep, on the fifth time the story wrapped itself around my brain in one comprehensible montage and I was overwhelmed by the creative masterpiece I had experienced.

Then, a more recent literary love fall occurred three years ago, when I read Anita Diamonte's The Red Tent. I was smitten. Consumed. Enraptured.

Both of these women took words and pen and created a world unto itself - in which the stories are so multi layered that a critical analysis yields so many different valid points and perspectives. It is an artist who can take the written word and swirl it into something so complicated yet so simple, capturing your mind with the arc and swerve of the characters and life's circumstance.

That's really what I always wanted to be. A literary artist. Someone who could take words and fit them together in such a way that it formed a simple maze, an easy logarithm. An engaging read which leads the mind to keep thinking, to continue calculating, to formulate endless what ifs and possible scenarios. Like the Harry Potter Series, like I Am Legend, like Star Wars...

I have strayed from that.

I read Octavia Butler for the first time. The novel Kindred. I have to sigh after writing the title, I am smitten. Absolutely in love with this masterpiece, a carefully drawn sci fi of a woman who inadvertently time travels to the antebellum south. The book may replace Beloved in my heart as an all time must read. But the beauty is in the simplicity, in the telling of the story without an agenda, without clearly defining right from wrong or labeling good and evil. The archetypal characterisations don't fit and aren't here.

In Kindred, Dana is drawn to the past to save Rufus, a young white boy whose family owns slaves and who will be Dana's great grandfather. If he continues to be careless with his life, without Dana's intervention, he will die before Dana's many times great grandmother will be conceived, annihilating Dana's family.

That's the premise. But it is so much more complicated than that. How about the fact that once Dana saves Rufus, he is drawn to her. He loves her. But not in a sexual way. However, he finds himself inexplicably in love with Alice, the young girl who is her great great grandmother and looks exactly like her. Who he rapes, but loves, but rapes and eventually ruins (thankfully, the reader never gets details of their love life). And, upon Alice's death he tells Dana that she and Alice were one to him.

Therefore, if Dana had never saved Rufus, he would have never fallen in love with Alice in the first place, which turned out to be the cause of all Alice's problems. And while Dana thought she was saving both Alice and Rufus, was it her inclusion that actually ruined both their lives (Rufus fails to take a wife, so smitten by Alice).

This is just one of a million scenarios in which the brilliant story captures the mind. But my other favorite thing about this book is there is no obvious black theme. No Spike Lee type announcements, no Roots clarity. It even bests Beloved in that it doesn't delve into every dastardly result of slavery to prove the point of how awful it was, demonstrating every horrific imaginable scene.

Instead the horror is simply portrayed in the day to day, in the simplicity of a society defined by slaves and slave owners. As horrible as Rufus father may seem, we come to understand that he is just a man in his times. Just as is Rufus. Their understanding, their logic is different, is formed from the very fabric of America as it was then. Similarly, the slaves were who they were, people in a horrific circumstance. Their coping, their manipulating, their attempts at dignity were simply what they were. There is no over done moment when Rufus or his father denounce the woes of slavery, there is no fantastic moment when a slave becomes an empowered symbol of liberty. Instead the story lets the characters be, and Dana is forced to adjust to the cloth in which she has been sewn. This modern 70's woman becomes a slave in every form of the word, it was the only way to matriculate. And she is faced with choices and situations that boggle the mind, rendering all her education and high ideas useless in the face of a basic need to survive.

I've gone on too long. As I tend to do when I am in love. Again. Kindred is a wakeup call to me, a charge to return to the genre I believe I am called to write - speculative fiction. It is time to leave the "luving" writing alone - the easy stuff that passes the time- and begin my research to churn out the classic that lies deep within me. Somewhere.