Tag: Beyonce

In Slave

It’s February already.

The shortest month of the year, and the only one where you could run into timekeeping issues with your age if you were born at the very end of it during a Leap one. Thankfully, my dad dodged that bullet by a day… although sometimes I felt it would’ve explained a lot of his behavior.

It is also most notably Black History Month, which used to mean reports and special school plays in honor of famous people of color during my childhood.

Today, it means I spend the weekend watching the NAACP awards, frying shrimp the way my grandmother taught me in Savannah, catching “Django Unchained” finally, and taking to Twitter to read and review commentary on the performances and ads during the Super Bowl while simultaneously trying to watch the game and contain my audible reactions to the game. All in that order.

Like most New Yorkers, I went into watching this game more for the ads and Beyonce’s halftime show because the Giants weren’t in it and could therefore care less who won. I moderately appreciate football as a sport, but fully enjoy the uniforms and the use of words like “tight end”. I’m crass. Get over it.

That said, it turned out to be an awesome game.

But the NFL went full-on “Sista-girl power” with a line up that began with Jennifer Hudson and Alicia Keys, and ended with that fem-bot Sasha Fierce leaving no questions about live performances… or why she now performs without the other members of Destiny’s Child. It was like a precursor to the Essence Music Festival.

Anyway, back to the point of this story…

The NAACP awards turned out to be emotionally overwhelming. After tearing up from the story of Vice Admiral Michelle Howard, I was then struck by the iconic moment of Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte standing on stage together, as the former presented the latter with the Spingarin award in recognition of his tireless charity work. That’s when the cosmic shift in the room occurred.

Mr. Belafonte is no stranger to calling out black celebrities for not taking a more active role in enriching the lives and opportunities of the black youth. But on this particular night, he used his moment in the spotlight to challenge all of them to use their influence to make and be the change needed in the communities to ensure kids today are educated instead of incarcerated. His speech was so moving, it jarred Jamie Foxx to the point of getting him to stray from his rehearsed speech of the season (only briefly, unfortunately).

For me, it sparked thoughts of the days when black actors were “actorvists”, and entertainers were outspoken in their community and in turn the community responded. Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee, Poitier and Belafonte, Paul Robeson. All walked alongside the legendary Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcom X. Today, the number of celebrities willing to get their hands dirty are few, with exceptions such as Don Cheadle, who after making “Hotel Rwanda”, began campaigning and co-authored a book in efforts to end genocide in Darfur. The going trend is now to sign large tax-deductible checks or make photo-scripted appearances to boost one’s PR.

His speech stayed with me as I watched “Django”, which, when one isn’t focused on the graphic and gratuitous violence or the use of the N-word, you can appreciate for what it is: a good — no, great — revenge fantasy. Just like “Inglorious Basterds” before it, this movie takes a very real and very traumatic page in history for a race of people and asks the question “what if the tables were turned?” If you go looking for inaccuracies or expecting to be offended, you completely miss the true story buried within; the one where slaves were whipped, torn apart by dogs, put in “hot boxes”, and subjected to numerous atrocities — least of which is being called an N-word — worst of all being conditioned to betray and mistrust each other for their own survival.

And there it is… centuries later, we’ve become our worst enemies .

As Mr. Belafonte calls for an end to the penitentiary mindset that has been steadily crippling our communities over the last few decades, the city of Chicago has just tallied over forty homicides just in the month of January. Before the ball dropped to mark the end of 2012, they had notched over 500 murders in total for the year. Crime in minority neighborhoods have risen with the desperation of those who see more opportunity in guns, drugs, and professional sports than with degrees or specialized training for careers that can’t be outsourced.

It’s become customary to point the finger of blame at our lighter-hued counterparts for the lack of progression in our community, but we are squarely to blame for it. When we fail our children by denying them basic things such as quality education, stable and healthy home environments and just a strong sense of pride and self, we set up the future generations to follow suit.  When we put programs on where our women fight over men and money, put out songs that glorify violence and misogyny, and teach our kids at a young age to value expensive, high-tech and designer items they can’t possibly afford  — we are mixing a recipe for disaster. We are enslaving ourselves.

I’m sure they’d be remiss to admit it, but if Spike Lee had done that movie instead of Quentin Tarantino, they would be hailing him as a genius for sparking a conversation about slavery that hasn’t been explored since “Roots”. Personally, I think Spike should have done the film, so more people would be talking about it instead of fixating on a word.

It’s great that we celebrate the achievements of accomplished people of color. It would be even greater if we didn’t just allot a month out of an entire year to make them feel special. It’s almost akin to picking one day out of the other 364 to express your love for someone (hmmm… coincidence that it’s the same month?). It would be fantastic if we could make a habit out of excellence, instead of pointing people out like zoo animals, but I guess in some way it inspires one to aspire to something more.

But enough about this.

How about those Super Bowl commercials?

Where I Wanna Be

So far… 2013 is off to a stellar start.

Despite the frigid temperature, I’m overcome with a warm feeling from the week’s events.

Coming off the high of ringing in the New Year at the Barclays Center, where I scored a floor seat near the stage just hours before Coldplay and Jay-Z took to it, it never occurred to me that anything could top that.

Then this week happened.

In addition to catching up with two of my best friends, whom I haven’t seen in a long time, my newfound sense of whimsy took me to Washington, D.C. to witness the second inauguration of President Barack Obama.

With no real plan except to brave the crowds in the National Mall at the crack of dawn, I was once again blessed by a higher power — and a cousin who was fortuitously in town — with tickets to a special standing area. Surrounded by hundreds of thousands of strangers, we found a comradery and an energy that made standing outside for hours on a blustery Winter morning bearable. We cheered, screamed and booed in unison when notable personalities appeared on the large monitors. We fell into a revered and almost church-like hush when Medgar Evers widow, Myrlie, hit the podium. We beamed with pride when the first family arrived to take their seats… and ultimately their place in America’s history.

What often escapes the glare of the media is the human stories surrounding an event as large as the presidential inauguration. Days later, the only story they’ve grasped from that moment in time is that of a singer who chose not to risk singing in a cold, dry environment two weeks before she’s to hit a much larger audience for one of the biggest sporting events of the year, in which she’s being paid handsomely. Truth be told, many of us had already made our way toward the Metro station after the president spoke, and had completely missed the performance in question. My appreciation for Beyonce, Kelly Clarkson, and the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir could never override my love and need for food and warm spaces.

But the real story was what was happening when the president spoke. Looking at the faces amongst the crowd and seeing the thrill in people’s eyes. Witnessing the veterans let out one of those “hoo-ahh” cries when he honored them. Seeing my friend’s young mentee — an LGBT advocate destined to change the world — beam with pride when he acknowledged her community. Sure, there were people who didn’t agree with everything that was happening politically, but even they got a chance to be heard that day. It was truly something to behold, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

For many, the historic day was four years ago, but much like the president, for me, it was a new day and a second chance to get it right. I’d completely missed the first inauguration, having been at work and preparing to go on vacation later that week with my then-boyfriend. The next day, the one person whom I was eager to discuss it with had passed away; born and raised in segregated south, my adoptive mother was never more excited than when Obama was elected POTUS. Upon seeing her number on my ringing phone, I excitedly answered “I was wondering when you’d call!” only to hear my sobbing brother on the other end of the line. The next few days… months… years… were a blur, but the regret of never having that moment with her was never clearer. So this year, I got to have that moment for her.

Even with the bittersweet taste of my latest adventure, the unimaginable joy of living in that moment — whether in tribute or transition — leaves me hungry for whatever comes next.

And so, I’ll continue following my heart and my gut to these unknown places. If the track record thus far is any indication, it looks like I’m in for an amazing trip.