KWANZAA DAY 3: Ujima...The Third Day Is A Charm...(That'll Cost You $10)

By this time, I'm fully aware that some of you are celebrating Kwanzaa vicariously through these notes and you know what? I'm just not mad atcha. I'd probably do the same thing had I not already committed to this.

(Uh..I'm not good with commitment...but that's a whole other note.)

Anyway...where were we? Oh. Yesterday was...

Ujima (oo-JEE-mah): Collective work and responsibility
To build and maintain your community together. To work together to help one another within your community.


So I believe if you change your thinking, you change your world and I realize that I've been shitting on Kwanzaa from the very beginning, which is sorta unfair.

When you look back, the first two days weren't exactly painful, however, they also didn't provide any reason to justify this holiday or make me want to do this again next year. However, that was only two days. There are five more principles to go...and who knows what could happen? Who knows? Right? RIGHT?! (If I get hype...maybe you will...)

Not sure if you guys read it, but one of my FB friends broke down the spirit of Kwanzaa in a note and suggested that I find some Kwanzaa-like activities in an effort to stop being such an cynic (to be read "asshole") about this and find some real meaning. Now, I said I was trying to be a better person, so I accepted the challenge. Right after service, I'd hop on my iPhone and find the hottest Kwanzaa event in New York City. Stat.

So anyway, I'm at service and the "Announce the Notes" guy reminds everyone that the try outs for the Gospel Choir will be next Sunday.

Oh. Crap. NEXT Sunday huh?

This news sorta scares the shit out of me because I was SURE the try outs were today and since I hadn't prepared...I couldn't try out! Best excuse for chickening out of an audition EVER. But they moved it...so now I have to try out. I said I would, something inside me said I should...and now it's been moved...so I HAVE to. Or maybe I don't. I mean, I'm already IN a choir, do I need another? Probably not. (Don't worry...you'll see where I'm going with this.)

Anyway...

(Insert service montage here. Sing... hold hands...pray...sing...sing...message...sing...offering...pray...sing...hold hands... we're out.)

I'm speed-walking out of service like I stole something, hoping my speed will make me forget that I'm supposed to be signing up for something. So, yeah...I'm bolting towards the door, feeling all refreshed and "more enlightened than thou", and above all the bustle you heeeeeearrr....

"GOSPEL CHOIR TRY OUTS?! GOSPEL CHOIR TRY OUTS?! SIGN UP HERE... "

I turn to look at dude behind the sign-up table, because it sounds like he's shouting directly at me. With a bullhorn. Flushed against my right ear. But he's not. It's just his very loud voice carrying over all the worshippers, letting me know he's GOT to be the choir director with a audible reach like that. Well, there's that and he looks very...uh...choir director. (Wink..wink.)

He's holding out a clip board, smiling and making the signature-flourish-in-the-air gesture. Jeez. Thanks, I think, looking up in the air. I get the hint.

I walk over with the smirk of a person that's been busted, take his (theft worthy) pen and sign up. He thanks me and tells me how much trouble he's been having getting people to sign up (thus the movement of the try out date) , how desperate they are...and how much of a (wait for it...wait for it...) HELP I am to the choir community!

BAM! I have just helped BUILD a choir by signing up! I will help MAINTAIN it by using my voice TOGETHER with others. It's not even 1pm and I've already Ujima'd! GET IT NYE! (Do ya dance...do ya..dance... Now walk it round ya'self...now walk it round ya'self....!)

Nevermind that I don't have a song prepared, he tells me. They're taking ANYONE, and they really need a pretty face like mine. (Record scratch.) Umm. OoooKaaay. What does a pretty face have to do with singing? Aww damn. I can see where this is going...

"Shut up and mouth the words Dollface..."

"But I really CAN sing..."

"Whatever. Wear your hair out. You look better that way. Do you have a tighter sweater?"

OK fine. I'm exaggerating, but damn. Dude just assumed I couldn't sing and now, all the triumph of the moment has been zapped out of me. I don't think I just Ujima'd. Somehow, this just un-Ujima'd me. Let's try again.

Off to The American Museum Of Natural History. A few quick stops, a corporate museum comp later and I'm in there! "Kwanzaa Fest 2008!"

It's not being held in a bullshit part of the museum either...it's in the Milstein Family Hall of Ocean Life! (You know, the room with the big blue whale?) DOPE! I can't wait...I'm so psyched. I'm sure to...(uh... wait...where are my notes...)To build and maintain my community together. Yes! All that! My community is HERE! Look at all these black people in the Museum and it's not a class trip! And look! There are some Asians and White folk here too! THIS IS AWESOME... till I overhear...

"I don't know Jeff. Looks like some sort of Kwanzaa thing."

" Look... I don't care. I just wanted to see the whale. Come on guys...Jenna, get the kids..let's go. It's too crowded."

Whatever. Peace Jeff. I'm here to get some Kwanzaa in me and find out the true meaning of the thing.

LOOK...they're selling African-ish looking jewlery! Very Kwanzaa! Well I'm sure I'll find someone to talk to about this at the next table.

Nope. Art.

Clothing.

Books.

"Excuse me, where is the Kwanzaa information table?" I ask one guy who is clearly way more connected to the Mother Land than I am (thus saith his clothes/locks/oil).

He shrugs. Annoyed.

"Well, can you tell me a little about Kwanzaa?"

He's even more annoyed.

"Huh? This is Kwanzaa." he informs me, gesturing at the space... as if I he couldn't believe how stupid I was. I don't know why I expected him to sound like James Earl Jones and not Kool Moe Dee.

I tell him I know where I am, and I just wanted to find out more about it. That's when he looks at his magnets on his table and smiles. One of them pictures a Kinara and "Kwanzaa 2008". OK. I thank him and move on.

Any attempt to talk to people about Kwanzaa is failing miserably. People are selling items and/or getting ready for presentations. No time. You should have done more research.

BUT I HAVE! I mean..I AM! Right now! That's why I'm here! Where is the "History of Kwanzaa" quiet booth where Dr. Maya Angelou or Morgan Freeman breaks it down in narration and makes you feel all warm an fuzzy about being black?

I got an Alvin Ailey poster (hot!) but nothing on Kwanzaa..not even at the "Kwanzaa" table. And NO sign of Barack anywhere...until the end where I saw a table with hats and tee-shirts for sale.

So I left and came home pretty deflated knowing that I'm going to have to go with the choir sign-up as my "Ujima". Which, if you think about it, ain't too bad. Signing up to help a community is one thing, but you never know who you'll help as a result...right?

I'm losing steam here guys...can't lie, but I'll keep going. Next up...

Ujamaa (oo-jah-MAH): Collective economics
To build, maintain, and support our own stores, establishments, and businesses.


Oh...that's easy. Harlem...here I come!

KWANZAA DAY 4: Ujamaa, Good Skin and The World At War

The pretty West-African store owner with the amazing skin laughed at me when I asked her if she celebrated Kwanzaa. I just wanted to get that off my chest before I went any further.

Ok...here we go....

Ujamaa (oo-jah-MAH): Collective economics
To build, maintain, and support our own stores, establishments, and businesses.


"Quit playing games with my heart... with my heart... with my heart..."

Wait a minute. Did I just walk into an African store that's rocking the sugary pop sounds of...The Backstreet Boys?

Why yes. Yes I did. And it wasn't just a song on the radio, I spotted the CD case right next to the stereo system. But then again, what did I expect? A drum trio in the corner? The Graceland dancers?

I smiled at the only woman in the shop, who was preoccupied with braiding hair and looking as if nothing could bore her more. She mouthed the words to the song and finally looked at me... with indifference. It's not an offensive indifference. Actually, it's pretty damn familiar. It's the way my grandmother would look at me if I walked into the kitchen while she was doing my sister's hair. Like... "Well?"

All that phony pleasantry crap that we have to learn in order not to startle thinner skins is sorta thrown out the window when blacks/African women approach each other. The tone is harsher. Realer. Sorta like, come on now! You know me and I know you. Do we have to play this "Can I help you?" game?

Now, I'm supposed to ask a question about something...but I'm not sure what to ask. She doesn't wait for me to figure it out. She goes on braiding and humming the intro to the next song.

"How much for double strand twists?" I ask with a smile, unaware until that very moment I wanted my hair braided.

"One hundred and thirty...with hair." she answers. OH SHIT! REALLY?! I know damn well I've seen it at uppity Neo-Soul spots in Brooklyn for five times as much. AND she's providing the hair!? Shut up!

"Well what if I provide the hair?," ...in case yours is crappy?

"One hundred." she replies. It'll take five to six hours (whoa...) and I do the math. $20 an hour. I ask where she is from and can't understand her. Knowing this, she follows up with "West Africa". I don't tell her about my DNA test thing.

"Do you have any Kwanzaa...uh..things here?" I ask.

Is she laughing at me? No. She's suppressing a laugh.

"No. Kwanzaa all sold out. Think there is a cup over there." she points her chin to a table, still smirking.

"You don't celebrate Kwanzaa, do you?" I ask. She smiles.

"I am African. I am already African. I already know that and still, I come here. You understand?"

Sorta.

A guy comes in and starts talking to her. He's dropping off a package and they exchange greetings...in FRENCH. Whoa...whoa. No Swahilli? What's this "Merci" shit?

Not only can this woman speak two languages (that I'm aware of) but she's living in a foreign country, established her own business there, and can braid hair. WELL. She's waaay ahead of the game. Got her life together like you wouldn't believe and some would just see her as "The African Lady That Braids Hair."

I promise to come back at the end of the week (because my hair can use the much needed break double-strand twists will provide) and bid her farewell.

But I didn't exactly Ujamaa. I didn't buy anything yet, I only made a promise.

Now, I said I was going to Harlem, but that's too easy and that's not my community. I don't live in Harlem. I live in The Bronx and I'm guessing that going to Harlem for "black stuff" is part of the problem. If we supported it where we lived, there'd be more...uh..."black stuff" cropping up around us.

So I decided to visit Mustafah from Senegal.

I hoof it a full train stop and a half to Target and there he is... his tables overflowing with imported products. Mostly incense, oils... the good stuff. (Not that cheap shit you find in bodegas.) The key to his business is...he never runs out of your favorites and he always puts you on to something new. The neighborhood favorite is his natural potpourri. Beautiful colored rocks fragranced with oil. Women buy it by the pound every week.

I buy two tubs of 100% Shea Butter, wish him warmth and a happy new year, and make my way home. (I'm so thankful that he still sets up shop...even in the winter. I wonder if he'll ever have his own store.)

I keep walking, see a brother out there selling $5 scarfs. Business looks slow. I want something red so I pick that up from him and give him a smile. He smiles back in surprise. I'm guessing it might be the first of the day.

I'm about to head home when I see a game store. OK. If they have Call of Duty AND the Wii Zapper...I buy. If not, I leave with nothing.

They have both. (Shit. But this isn't exactly a black-owned business, is it? Am I cheating?)

The guy that comes out the back is Middle Eastern. I don't ask from where...I just want to know one thing....and YES, he owns the place! CLOSE ENOUGH ON MY MENTAL GLOBE! I'LL TAKE IT!


Later that night...slathered with shea butter and murdering the shit out of some Nazi's...I feel pretty good. Not only is my skin silky soft, but I'm getting my hair twisted this week and getting some good use out the Wii. Not bad...not bad at all. Hmm. Wonder if she will teach me French...

What's next?! BRING IT KWANZAA!

Nia (NEE-ah): Purpose
To restore African American people to their traditional greatness. To be responsible to Those Who Came Before (our ancestors) and to Those Who Will Follow (our descendants).



...fuck.

KWANZAA DAY 5: Nia. Long.

This one...was a bitch.

Nia (NEE-ah): Purpose
To restore African American people to their traditional greatness. To be responsible to Those Who Came Before (our ancestors) and to Those Who Will Follow (our descendants).


I mean...what in the hell am I supposed to DO for this? What does that mean..."restore African American people to their traditional greatness"? In what context?

This is sorta like that part in (insert any movie here) where the ghost/spirit/mystical figure says some cryptic shit like, well... "Restore African American people to their traditional greatness"...and when (insert bankable Hollywood star here) yells in frustration..."What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?!” the figure fades into nothing, leaving our star standing there looking stupid.

It's usually at this time in the movie when the phone rings...moving the story forward.

In my case, it was a text from my friend "A". He volunteers monthly with "The Momentum Project", one of New York City's largest organizations providing support and service to those living with HIV/AIDS. (Yeah, A's a unicorn ladies. My best friend and I plot weekly to knock off his mean-as-hell girlfriend. Pinky and The Brain style.)

He asks if I want to help hand out bags at a food pantry later on and BAM! There's my Nia! It's gotta be, right? I mean, why else would I get this offer out of the clear blue? You damn right I want to help A! 5pm? No problem!

But first things first. I have to do laundry. HAVE to. I mean, it's DefCon-5 type of laundry. The kind of build up when you're down to assorted items you wouldn't be caught dead in.

Case in point: "Special" thongs that are only meant to be worn for an hour, stretched out brown bra with a massive tear on the side, ill fitting expensive jeans I hate, but won't toss because I'll need to wear them the next time this happens and a Big Bird colored yellow sweater. No socks.

That kind of build up.

I have four bags, but I'm not going into "how did this happen." Let's just say, this task lasts for hours. I mean, FOUR HOURS. But that's cool. I've got my Nia covered. No need to panic.

So I take my time devouring my chick-lit novel, folding fitted sheets that eventually will end up in a frustrated ball no matter how easy Martha Steward says it is, and rediscovering my wardrobe. (Oh snap. I forgot I HAD this!)

Suddenly...it's 4pm. I've got one hour to be at the church and I've got four bags to get home. I'm starving and I look like shit. Ehh. Do I really feel like going? Can't I just skip this one?

As I text this as an excuse to A, I instantly began to feel like a jerk. Let's break down why.

I'm supposed to be helping the homeless with HIV/AIDS and I can't because my problem is...

I've got four bags of CLEAN clothes I've got to take HOME. I'm HUNGRY so I have to go HOME and EAT and I LOOK like shit.

Sigh...but if I don't, I have this sinking feeling I'm not going to fulfill my Nia. I look up the meaning again.

"To restore African American people to their traditional greatness. To be responsible to Those Who Came Before (our ancestors) and to Those Who Will Follow (our descendants)."

To be responsible. Hmm.

A texts back: Don't worry about it. It's over by 7pm anyway.

Whoa. I'm responsible for getting my ass to that church. I'm responsible for helping these people out...hustle Nye. Hustle.

I get home, wash down some chicken with a glass of apple cider, change clothes (Come on. You gottta give me that. What if I got in an accident? How would I explain purple thongs and a raggedy bra?), and I'm out the door.

............


A and I are in the main church. It's dark. It's quiet. We're alone.

We've just handed out countless bags of food and are both feeling pretty good about ourselves, so we snuck inside to reflect on our good deeds. I contemplate telling him why I accepted his offer. He's been getting on me every year about celebrating Kwanzaa and I know he'd be overjoyed, however, I've decide to keep this from him till I'm done. I don't know why.

"This place looks really modern." I whisper, marveling at the recessed lighting over the pews. "It's odd to see Catholicism look so...I dunno, new. "

"Yeah. I go to service here sometimes. I took my communion here." he says. And we both get quiet again. Not uncomfortable. Just...content.

Don't worry guys. I fully realize I'm fresh off of a chick-lit novel and this would definitely be a scene in a real life one...if we had any inkling of anything other than friendship towards each other. We don't. Operation "Boot the Bitch" is strictly to get him with my best friend, but that's another note altogether.

"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I belt out to test the acoustics. He laughs.

Satisfied with the sound, I sing a scale.

"SNOOOW...UP....TOOO...MY...KNEEEEEES...."

We let the end of "KEEEEESS..." reverb a bit, and after a while, leave the church in peace.


We chat about various things, I politely ask about his own personal Devil Wearing Prada. She's fine. He plans on cooking her dinner for the New Year and chillin. All he asks is that she picks up the wine. Sounds fair, but we both know Selfish: The Raging Bitchzilla won't do it. He teases me about my love life and vows to get me married to one of his straggling frat brothers by 2010.

"You first." I smirk. He quickly changes the subject as I knew he would. The thought of spending a catholic eternity with Little Miss Drama-pants is just too much to digest during the holiday season. I mention my best friend's name for no reason at all. Just to see if he still lights up when I do. He does. Great. Just checking.

"Would you mind meeting up with my sister? I just have to give her something for my Dad."

Why not?

His sister is just adorable. Twenty years old, cute, with a college social life in full swing. She's just as joyful and positive as he is. She's the kind of giggling ball of happiness that's instantly contagious. She makes you want to hug her for no reason at all. I can't stop smiling at her, and silently hope she never falls in love with the wrong guy.

Big brother gives her something important to take to their father, compliments her, dotes on her, lets her know she's loved and protected. It's a beautiful thing to watch and I realize that dude just Nia'd right in front of me. He took care of his baby sister and his father in one shot. What really blows me away is... he wasn't even trying.

We send her on her way and head to Trader Joes on 14th for some Proseco and appetizers (Champagne is for Mimosas the next day we've long ago declared). We share a train uptown and part ways, wishing the other a great New Years and I thank him for just being awesome.

Then I call my best friend (...and I plant A's name... for no reason at all. ; )

Then I call my own sister and tell her I love her. And wish her a happy 40th (FUCKING OUCH!) birthday.


Then I open a bottle of Two Buck Chuck and watch Gladiator. (ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?)
I'm hoping the cheap Chardonnay will help me to forget that I didn't really Nia today.

I watched on the sidelines as somebody else Nia'd the shit out of today.

I was a Nia sidekick. I half Nia'd.

Damn. I Sommore'd.

(But if you squint and finish the rest of this bottle, it'll look a LOT like Nia.)

OK Kwanzaa. You've got to give me a break. What's next?

Kuumba (Creativity)
To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it.

Ok...

KWANZAA DAY 6: How Nyree Got Her Kuumba Back

See kids? This is what happens when you get cocky.

Kuumba (Creativity)
To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it.

I got stuck.

I fucking KNEW this was going to happen! On the one principle that I knew DAMN well I could handle with my eyes closed... suddenly, I sit down to my computer to write something fantastic...something incredibly Kuumba-like, and I turn to creative iron.

I..can't..move..my...arms...

Nothing...and I mean NOTHING would come out.

Ughh. If I hated Kwanzaa before, I REALLY hated it now.

Kwanzaa has managed to have the last laugh. Kwanzaa gave me writers block thus making it impossible for me to complete Kwanzaa. Oh...the irony.

And believe me...I tried.

I refused to open the novel I'm working on because I knew damn well I had nothing mind-blowing to add to it. (Fear.)

I also refused to open the screenplay I've been working on (or as I like to call it, the screenplay formerly known as a novel). I was stuck there as well and I had no gift to bring. Ba-rump-ba-bum-bum.

So what should I do? I HAD to get through Kwanzaa. I mean, now it's just about principal. (Well, not THE principle...I mean... (teeth suck) you know what I mean.)

Anyway, I decided to calm down. Got still for a minute and then, after a minute or two in the bathroom (think tank... ha-ha.) it came to me. But not exactly how I thought it would.

An inner voice told me to do something that made no damn sense.

It's something I don't mind doing, actually, I really enjoy doing...but couldn't really figure out how this was going to help me Kuumba.

(Another teeth suck.) Whatever inner voice. That's just dumb. What I NEED to do is sit my ass in front of my iMac until I get another chapter down thank you very much.

And with that, I tried to dismiss the thought again but it came back. It smacked me upside the head with the wedding-ring hand. (Remember that? OUCH. Why couldn't she ever knock you upside the head with the other hand? )

Hours passed. No Kummba. Just a blinking cursor. And there the word was again. Right in the front of my mind...

Inner voice: BAKE.

Yeah. OK. Whatever. Bake.

Inner voice: And don't just bake anything Nye. Bake a cake. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting. If you bake it...it will come.

Sigh. I know what you're thinking.

Who the hell bakes a cake on New Years Eve? I'm supposed to be deep conditioning my hair, prepping it for a festive curly fro. I'm supposed to be chilling pre-party Prosecco, putting on the good drawers, sliding on the heels, practicing the dramatic smokey eye, locking down my final plans for later on so when the clock strikes midnight, I'd be at the right place, at the right time, with no regrets and looking, smelling, feeling... head to toe...the fucking shit.
Just like... like...

uh... never.

Ever.

And that's when it dawns on me.

Not one year has New Year's Eve been "perfect" for me. Not one.

And believe me, it hasn't been from lack of trying.

Starting from my very first New Years away from home. (Story time boys and girls...)

...

I wore this dress that looked like... wait...let me draw it...

Artist rendering

Don't judge me. En Vogue was the shit back then and when I saw it, I damn near heard "MMMMMMMM....BOP!" in my head. Besides, my "something-Teen" body was CRAZY regardless of my strict "chicken wing & biscuit" diet. (And don't judge my parents either. When they saw the dress, they immediately made me go back into my bedroom and change. However, I just rolled it up and put the dress in my pocket. Shoot. I paid a good $60 for that dress with my own hard earned dough! I was WEARING that dress.)

Oh. One more thing. Before I launch into this story, you need to know that I had ZERO style. I only wore baggy clothes, kept my long hair in a permanent ponytail and wouldn't know what to do with mascara if you paid me. ...Then The Gays got a hold of me and got to work. (Sigh. God bless The Gays.)

So off to THE New Years party and my very first gay (that would kick off my illustrious hag career) informs me that the DJ is 1) cute as hell 2) a good friend of his and 3) hopelessly straight, to his disappointment.

"Go get him Miss Naomi..." he smiles, ordering me to do his bidding like his own personal Fem-Bot. He peels off my coat and takes a final look at his creation. (He was with me when I bought the dress. Of course he was.) He swells with pride and shoo. Go.

I strut into the DJ room. I mean, seriously. What dude could be THAT big of a deal? I remember DJ groupies parting everywhere like the Red Sea (Never underestimate the power of a gay man's ego boost. Ask Beyonce.)

I spot the table and stand right in front of it. Dress ablaze.

He's hunched over the one & twos, looking very "DJ". He's holding one side of his headphones up to his ear with his shoulder, manipulating the mixer buttons with one hand and dropping a needle with the other.

"Are you Corey?" I yell above the music. Very lady like.

DJ Corey B looks up at me, then down at the dress...smiles slowly and confirms that he most certainly is.

...And this is when my "shit-don't-stink" act totally backfires...because DJ Corey B is effn' HOT and I have not been properly prepped as to what to do next. Oh man..he's like.. 6'5, with long, muscular basketball limbs, looking like Leon...but even BETTER. Then, to seal the deal...he has the damn nerve to have THAT smile. Perfect. White. Straight. DIMPLES? Jesus.

OK. So long story short...in my mind, that night should have ended with DJ Corey B and I kissing at midnight, slow dancing to "Make It Last Forever” which would historically be "our song". We'd fall desperately in love and our children would make vomit noises whenever they saw us slow dance every New Year's Eve to Keith Sweat, recreating that magical night. See? Mommy and Daddy knew they would make you.

But what really happened is I got incredibly drunk off of Strawberry Cisco (aay..I know...) sweated my hair out dancing too hard to "South Bronx" when Brooklynites tried to get too froggy about "The Bridge" and the gay guy ditched me when he hooked up with a guy at the party.

Oh. Did I mention it had started to snow and the gay guy had my clothes at his place?

Oh. He also had my money & ID. (No pockets and no purse. Dummy move.)

I got a ride close to my neighborhood, but still had to troop it through a good portion of The Bronx on foot, in the snow, in heels...drunk off of liquid crack.

I arrived home in the dress, to a mother who was on the couch waiting for me.

Dress. Drunk. Cold. Sweated hair. Past curfew. You know what happened.

Oh. And I got the flu.



Quantum Leap through countless "Not as great as I thought they'd be" New Years Eve's and we now arrive at my neighborhood market, with our thirty-something heroine holding a box of Betty Crocker Butter Yellow Cake Mix.

Thanks a lot Kuumba.

But while I'm here...why not get some "brunch stuff"? So I do. Don't know why...but I do.

...........

Text 1: Are you coming to Brooklyn?

Me: Nah. The weather is crazy. I think I might just stay in.

Text 2: Hey..you hitting that party tonight?

Me: Nah. I'm...making a cake.

(Uh...no. Hell no. I can't admit that. Delete..delete...delete... )

Me: Nah. I'm staying in. The weather is crazy.


And so on and so forth.


So the mixer is on mid-speed, beating the shit out of the batter. (If you want to know how long four minutes is get yourself a hand mixer.)

I'm watching the churn and it's sorta hypnotic...and it takes me back to my Mom.

When she'd do this, like I'm sure every other kid did, we’d lick the beaters and the bowl when she was done. I'd get to frost the cake.

And then, we'd all eat the cake... GASP... ON NEW YEARS! Wholly shit! How did I forget that?

We had cake...and my parents would let us sip a little champagne in a paper cup. Man. We thought we were so grown up (not knowing it would knock us out in fifteen minutes). And Pop would buy noisemakers. We threw confetti at each other...and when the clock struck midnight we went apeshit. Wow. That was the best.

And suddenly, that's exactly what I wanted to do. No dress. No smokey eye. No snow. No bullshit.

I wanted to eat cake, drink Prosecco and watch the ball drop.
Then the Honeymooners. Then go to bed.

And I started to smile. Suddenly...it was back.

Inner Voice: If you bake the cake, it will come.

I sat down at my computer and thanks to that picture of the Mende mask I'd posted my sister reminded me of the DNA project I'd promised my family years ago. I'd traced our lineage back to the Mende tribe in Sierra Leone, and promised to present everyone with something they could not only own, but also pass down for generations. Something original. Creative. Beautiful.

So I started working on that and then it hit me. Oh snap.

I'd finally started to Kuumba.

Epilogue:

The cake came out great.
The Prosecco was perfect.
DJ Corey B and I dated for two wonderful months before I found out he had a girlfriend who'd just given birth to their first child.
The gay guy dropped dime on him and urged me to break it off with him. (Hater.)

As for the dress...my ex-fiancé found it. And promptly threw it away.

Happy New Year all!

KWANZAA DAY 7: IMANI - For The New Year...and Beyond

Well…I did it. I successfully finished "Kwanzaa".

Funny. I don't feel blacker. And I'm still not clear why this should only be done by blacks...but anyway...let me get into it.


Imani (Faith)
To believe with all our heart in our people, our parents, our teachers, our leaders and the righteousness and victory of our struggle.


Who actually sits up and asks themselves..."What do I have faith in?"

Have you ever done this? It's a hell of a question. If you've never done this...I highly suggest you try it.

Go into your bathroom or whatever room or space brings you peace and just ask yourself.

"What do you have faith in?"

The default answer for most? "God".

Yeah...yeah. But what else? Well I asked around.

Ready for some really depressing shit?


"Nothing."

"Faith is bullshit."

“That’s the problem with black people now. All this faith and no action. Faith is a concept. Used for control.”

"What do you mean...faith? I don't understand the question."

FAITH. Damn it! FAITH. You know what FAITH means, don't you?

"...No, actually I don't. What is faith exactly?"

Good question.

I knew it had something to do with belief, but after that, my personal definition breaks down a bit. So I decided to look it up.

(Glasses on... big dictionary out...flip, flip, flip... oh wait. I can't cut and paste from a book. OoooKaayy.... log on...Google... boom.)

From Wikipedia: "Faith is a belief in the trustworthiness of an idea or person. Formal usage of the word "faith" is usually reserved for concepts of religion, as in theology, where it almost universally refers to a trusting belief in a transcendent reality, or else in a Supreme Being and said being's role in the order of transcendent, spiritual things."

Let's just stay with the informal version. Religion has a tendency to turn great people into mouth foaming hate spitters, and I'm a love muffin.

Don't spit on my muffin. (Ahem. ANYhoo...where were we?)

"...Belief in the trustworthiness of an idea or a person." This is Imani.
"To believe with all our heart in our people, our parents, our teachers, our leaders and the righteousness and victory of our struggle."

And I hate to bring this guy in it, because he's running the risk of Jolie-Pitt overexposure, but I have to. Damn it...he deserves it.

Before Barack Obama's run for the presidency, I'd have to say my faith tank was running pretty damn low. It was almost like the world had gone stupid and that racist grandfather (pick one) was right. You know, the one you'd been trying to ignore. The one that kept telling you, "No we can't." Damn it... he might be right.

Public figures were bringing back "Nigger" like it was aight, the mocking misuse of hip-hop slang in your face..BY THE PRESIDENT, "nappy headed ho's", uh...HURRICANE KATRINA? I mean, I pretty much started to re-learn how to hum negro spirituals again and mentally started picking out potential owners just incase G.W found a loophole to reverse slavery.

Oh. But you think I'm joking.

Man, I sat in my office and watched while corpses floated down the street. The elderly dying on the side of roads in wheelchairs. Oh...it hurt so bad I moaned ya'll. MOANED.
I cried like a baby behind a closed office door, while everyone around me tiptoed, not knowing what to say. Shit. What can you say?

My Imani was pretty much gone. After I saw that, I decided to move to Costa Rica. France. Canada. Shit...anywhere. I had a full-blown case of "TBN". "Tired of Being a Nigger". Learning a new language was better than going though the rest of my life feeling like this.


(Wait a second. Time out. I just realized, I may have to explain "TBN" for those who don't understand. Feel free to skip this part if you've already suffered through a full-blown case of TBN. I don't want to trigger a relapse.)

..........................
For my not-black friends...(hmmm...how can I say this?) "Tired of being a nigger" isn't just about being called a bad name. It's sorta hard to explain, but I'm going to try. With a little help...and some pictures.

Here's BET's list of the top 25 events that Misshaped Black America. I won't go into them in detail, but feel free to do so on your own. I encourage it. And while you're at it. Try to imagine your family living through and rising above all this...whenever you're not getting followed around the hair supply store. (HEAVY SIGH.) Ok. Here we go...

25. The Jheri Curl
(Though I would like to say, if you have curly hair and use "Let's Jam", you can be misunderstood. Just wanted to put that out there.) Keep it moist...




24. Hurricane Katrina. Wade in the water...




23. The N-Word (Yeah. They annoy me too...)



22. CoIntelPro (This was BULLSHIT...but get a bigger sharpie next time.)



21. Elvis. Our "OJ".


20. Negative Hip-Hop (Heavy sigh...)


19. Bling-Bling. Because you don't shine enough.


18. Welfare. Not just for polygamists anymore.


17. The American Prison System. There's always room for one more!


16. Light Skin Blacks vs. Dark Skin Blacks (Talkin' bout good and bad haaaaair....)


15. Ward Connerly. (Thanks Ward. Nice try though.)


14. The US Supreme Court. I'm sure they were fair.


13. Ronald Reagan/ Reaganomics. And he TOTALLY has your best interests at heart.


12. The Burning of Black Wall Street. Look into it.


11. Soul Food. Pressure on a plate.


10. Gangs. (Learn to speak "Gang" in less than one hour!)


9. Hollywood. (Wow. How'd that MFA from Yale in Fine Arts work out for you?)


8. The Deaths of Malcolm X & MLK. (Still hurts, doesn't it?)


7. Blacks that glorify stupidity. (Teeth suck.) Be THAT as it may, we still say it for the simple fact that it's fun to say.

6. The KKK. Boys in the hood.


5. Apartheid/Segregation. (Sorry. Why don't you clench and keep it movin' till you reach the bushes. This is for OUR urine.)

4. Religion. "And God says, "Niggers get to be free in Heaven later! Serve your master NOW." It says so right here...in dis here good book. In pencil. Wit, I recken a few thans crossed out. But... since Ise can't read, Massa told me what it says, bless him. And thank Jesus for him!"


3. AIDS. (Still raw-doggin' it, huh? How's that working out for you?)


2. Drugs. (Killed us. On so many levels.)


1. Slavery. (...)



As a black person, it's just... (heavy sigh...) HARD to have faith in anything when you've got all this on your back. (And more, but I'll be here all day and I've got things to do.)

Try to erase one. Just one. Try to forgive it, let it go, and see what happens. You still have at least 24...and all of them have LAYERS. Understand a little better? OK. Back to Imani....

...................

So yeah, I was losing it. And then something happened last year...

And now, I'm going to say something that is going give some a rash, but hey...it's the truth.

You know who helped me this year with my Imani big time? (I'll get to Barack and Michelle in a minute. And my nephew too... who became a single teen dad, dropped out of high school, then returned to finish, picks up his son as much as possible and is now working his way through college. Big up to you for not giving up!)

You know who else stepped up big time?

White people. Millions of 'em.

When it came to this election, whites joined forces with the rest of us and were pretty much like...fuck that!

We all got hit by rising gas and food. We all got...tired. Let's try and put this bullshit aside and get better! And tell me you weren't shocked.

Tell me when Barack won Iowa... IOWA... you didn't look at white people like... SAY WORD?!

And suddenly, they weren't all "trying to hold a brother down" and we weren't all "not fucking with them cuz they're trying to hold a brother down"...and we both moved an inch. Not a huge distance, but it was a start.

Then, just when the machine tried to put everyone back in their respective corners... here comes Barack. And he reminds all of us that we're people. The man won't deny his African roots. He won't deny his white roots. I'm American. Fuck that. Deal with it.

And when we tried to act up and say he wasn't black enough, or white enough...dude writes a speech and verbally spanks us AGAIN. "There isn't a black America or a white America... there is the United States of America". In other words, ya'll have got to get over it. Seriously.


Then he started winning...and I started to feel something that I hadn't felt since I was a kid watching "Magic Garden", hoping Paula would see me through her magic mirror...

Hope.

We might win this. We might have a black president. WE might actually overcome.

I don't have to go into it. You were there. You cried for days like a baby just like I did.

However, as soon as he was pronounced winner… something in me just…just… changed.

Geek Moment: Know that part in “The Matrix” when Neo gets shot dead by Agent Smith ...then Trinity kisses him, tells him he's got to be The One cuz the Oracle said...blah blah blah? Then he gets up...and says, very quietly..."No."? Dude just stopped dodging bullets and just ...FUCK THAT. Pluck. Drop.

Yeah well...THAT HAPPENED.

Everything I'd lost faith in... dreams, goals, family, friends, relationships suddenly got a recharge.

I took a look at where I was and said, "Uh...I don't want to be here anymore." And EVERYTHING changed. (Katt Williams...) EV-ER-RY-THANG.

Back to Imani: To believe with all our heart in our people, our parents, our teachers, our leaders and the righteousness and victory of our struggle.

Yeah. I completed it. But I still have a problem with Kwanzaa because it's not just about OUR people... it's about all people.

Not just OUR parents, teachers, leaders. We need to have a little Imani in ALL of them.

I think we're ALL moving in the right direction and the struggle isn't just for blacks anymore.

So blacks, listen to me very closely. I'm only going to say this once.

Get your head outcha ass. Pull your pants up. Stay off Maury.

When an immigrant gets bashed by some ignorant jerk in a white-hood or not...that's YOU. When a gay person is denied rights...that's YOU. We didn't come this far to just sit on it and say, "Oh well. Ya'll should figure it out....we did."

Sure...we opened the door, but now it's our duty to help others walk through.

Sorry...I'll get off my soap box now. Where was I? Oh...yeah. Imani.

So...all that to say, I've had Imani since November 4th. It took some time to get it back...but I'd been working on it for the entire year and I'm glad it paid off...because my Spanish is still bootie and my French is just as bad. Tres mal.

And sure, Costa Rica's a nice place and all...but they ain't got shit on the Boogie.

(Insert "South Bronx" here...and pump it.)

I wish you all love, truth and prosperity in 2009 and beyond... thanks for going on this journey with me...I couldn't have done it without you!

-Nyree



P.S.

Did I change my mind about Kwanzaa? Absofuckinglutely not.
It’s still a bullshit ass holiday, however, I do realize that some people may just need it. Actually... a lot of people need it. Maybe I'll do it again next ye... no. That's a lie. I'm not doing it again. Sorry.

OK… I got some fun writing out if it too. And a cake. And some shea butter. So rock on with your produce and candles if you need to.

As for me… giving up my week between Christmas and New Years...AGAIN?
(Come one everyone, say it with me.)



Fuuuck that! : )

Besides, who needs Kwanzaa? We've got this.

Defend Sex And The City. (SATC2 Review)

(No Spoiler-o.)




Dating an obese man who won't change AND dating a man with kids whose mother prefers the ex.

These are the sole two topics my BFF and I figured out are the only two stones unturned in the franchise span of Sex And The City's six seasons and two movies. And until they cover that shit, we won't stop going to see anything Michael Patrick King dreams up for our four favorite heroines.

I'll have you know that I've gotten too much shit from guys about my love for SATC. Too much. Sorta sounding like this...

"Not YOU Nye!"
"I'm so disappointed!"
"Oh shit. You really ARE a girl!"

Yes...I am. Complete with a vagina and estrogen. Sorry to disappoint fellas.

Wanna know why women love SATC? (Well, aside from knowing there's nothing better than sitting on a couch next to your boyfriend and watching that shocked look on his face that says "Do women really think like this?!". Please resist the temptation to say "no". In other words...try not to lie.)

Real talk...SATC is our grown up version of the Disney Princesses thrown in a blender on high with some Barbie added in...all poured in a fabulous martini glass. And just like little girls like to dress up like the Princesses...well...you get the point.

The stories? Totally Princess. Strong female leads who don't fit in, ugly ducklings in their own worlds. They want more and live in a world that doesn't realize how fabulous they are until one day...

The fashion? Totally Barbie. I don't need to explain this, do I? The gazillion types of Barbie? A closet that never ends...and that was BEFORE the gays got a hold of her. And speaking of the gays...

This is my only beef with the movie. (Aside from the shock of how old everyone looked.) The series itself was gay and campy, sure. But that was balanced out with a healthy dose of a writing team comprised of women & straight men to tone down all that....ALL THAT. Because as we can see, Michael Patrick King, left to his own gay-vices, gives you Liza Minnelli.

Doing "Single Ladies" in a body suit.

At a gay wedding.

With swans.

I almost wanted to throw a football at the screen to see if it would burst into glitter due to the sheer force of the gayness radiating out of it.

But I digress.

My point is...SATC is not real. It's not supposed to be!

It's a comedy people...lighten up! And it's contributed a much needed service. Get women through the sheer hell of dating in your 30's with a laugh while vicariously playing dress up in some outrageously priced clothing. What? This is wrong?!

We know its fake...but those flaws and doubts and dating disasters are as real as they get. And for anyone who has watched an ex get married and asked, "Why HER and not ME?"....

For every woman who has found herself an unplanned mother while trying to maintain a career...

For every woman who has had to watch all her friends get married and start families while she seemed to fail at it over and over...

For every woman who saw a hot guy and wished she the had the balls to just...well...fuck him and forget him....

THIS show got you through it all....without wanting to off yourself.

As for the movies...with some schmaltz and a smile, they've answered the question we were dying to know after Big told Carrie..."You're the one." (..And we found out his name was "John". Eww...BTW. Just...EWW.)

That question being....umm...OK.....Now what?

Everyone is married...so is life over?

I mean...it took soooo much to get Bradshaw to Preston...now what? Huh?
What do we do NOW Carrie?!! ANSWER US!!

And that's the reason we needed the movies. Not wanted. NEEDED.

When the "Now What?" arises, we know that somebody...even if they are fictional...has been through it. ("it" being "marriage". Territory that the single woman finds dark and mysterious and frankly...wonders why the hell she's even heading towards it...)

And these fake/glammed out chicks will offer wisdom and calm your ass right down. And when you get through it in your personal life...ALL of it....you can pop in that DVD box set and laugh at their mistakes.... and yours.

Knowing where they've been...and how far they've come, you can DO that. You got through some of the very same bullshit. It's just not all wrapped up in a pretty pink velvet box set...(Thank GOD.)

I'm currently living season six...where the ladies are just a little older than me (Thank GOD x 2) but that's cool.

I like my Sex And The City ages decades from me. At least one decade to be safe...

And to be honest...I don't care what happens to them next. All I ever cared about was them up to this point. Especially since the "boring married couple scenario" has always scared the shit out of me. Almost as much as "I wanted a kid and now I hate it" fear. And now, as they told me before when I had my "I'm gonna get jilted at the altar" panic attack, they've calmed me right the fuck down with this movie. Right the fuck down.

"Life goes on. You will survive if it does happen. But please look fabulous while doing it. And when you go through menopause, get that Suzanne Sommers book.
-Love, The Girls."

And now...I can slip off their little tiny Manolos, and put the dolls back in their carrying case. There's nothing more to say. Life's training wheels are off....time to close the book and live it. I don't need another sequel. I get it...I know the last line of the book.

"And they all lived happily ever after...most of the time. And when they didn't, they survived anyway. ...In gold encrusted Louboutins. The End."

And yeah. I know it's not real. But it makes me feel better, OK? Lay off. It's my thing. And I love it.

P.S. BTW...Miranda DID date a fat guy in Weight Watchers after she had Brady. (Glazed donuts...remember? He kept trying to kiss her after he went down?)
She also dated the guy with the kid from the gym.
Charlotte dated Trey who had "Bunny"...the back washing mom.
I'm sure if we combined all three episodes, we've got some answers here.

P.S.S. Charlotte and Harry's baby is ugly. Sorry...but she really is. At least they kept that real.
There's no WAY Charlotte and Harry would make a cute kid. No. Way.

Cost: $12.50 for a ticket. But if you know some bootleggers... $5.
Black Factor: There are no black people in Sex And The City. I mean, the assistant was a cute attempt, but really... we weren't fooled. There are, however, plenty of brown folk in this one. Plenty.
Would You Do It Again?: Oh for the love of John James Preston...of course I would. And will. Over and over... and over ...


- Posted using BlogPress from my NyePad.

Location:A coffee shop. (How "Carrie"...I know.)

Run 10K's...Through The Effin Mud

Nah... we don't. Especially black women.

We don't run. Well not unless we have some sort of background in the military or some shit, and even then, we don't like it.

For example...

My older sister came home from the Army in amazing shape back in the day.
She was a cheerleader, but this took her body to a whole other level.
Cut. Ripped. Toned. She was Linda Hamilton in T2, with deltoids and abs not to be fucked with.

She looked nothing short of amazing and attributed her sweet...sweet..back to waking up every morning with her troop and running five miles.

Five. Fucking. Miles.

Running.

Every. Single. Morning.

"No, but it's fun!", she insisted. "We run to cadence so it makes it easier."

Now maybe it's just me, but when men, traditionally, had to make up songs to get through some shit, it wasn't pleasant.

Chain gangs...slavery... You get my meaning.

So there's no amount of sugar filled spoons that was gonna convince me running was a happy experience. I mean, of you look at the faces of people who run, they are, very clearly, the exact fucking opposite of joyful. They look like death.

Death with bad knees.

So no thank you Sis. You ran cuz the govt paid you. You want me to die for free? Nah...I'm good. Mama didn't raise no fool. Well, not more than one, anyway.

Fast forward twenty years. (Ouch. When did I become able to speak in terms of multiple decades?! Stay tuned for my Mid-Life crisis after these important messages.)

My body has decided to turn into Artex the horse in "The Never Ending Story". Wait...let me back up.

I broke my foot, couldn't workout or walk. THEN I caught a painful wart. Couldn't workout or walk. Seven months later....15lbs. Boom. I can't fit my jeans. Double boom. I refuse to buy new clothes. Pow. I retreat into the Swamps of Sadness. I'm gonna be fat...sigh. Let me just give up. Fuck it.

Then, the gays decided this couldn't happen. Not me. The gays. And once you get gay husbands, you are bonded for life.

"It's not cute." No, they didn't actually say this. Instead, they made suggestions...

"Hey...why don't you RUN the Army ten miler with us?!!"

...Run? 10 miles? Even with all the hot Army guys surrounding me, this seemed like a bad idea. I can see me now. On mile 4...looking like a big bag of what-the-fuck while a crew of tight bodied, buzz-cut army dudes cadence their asses right past me, chanting to the top of their man-voices about fat people.

(Oh yes. It's a real cadence.)

Needless to say, I passed. Even though the race would take place well after my foot was healed...still. No thanks.

Then they asked me to go to Hip-Hop dance class. Knowing I am a part of the Rhythm less Nation, I said no thanks.

And this is how weight gain happens. Suddenly, you find yourself saying no to anything active and yes to Hot and Crusty. And Cheeseburgers (but they're SLIDERS). And pizza. And garlic fries from Trader Joes.

...the whole bag.

Now, shit doesn't get real however, till you have to go somewhere requiring "dress up" clothes. Well, at least, that's when shit got real for me.

A healed foot, beautiful shoes...and a closet full of "a size too small". And for someone who was once "ten sizes too big" (and didn't notice till I was in a Vegas bathroom standing next to Playboy Bunnies looking like the "before" photo)...attention must be paid.

So that said, the next time I was asked to participate in something that would facilitate the shrinking of my ass...I had to say "Yes" to it. And that meant I would be participating in the "Down And Dirty" 10k in Philly, this July.

Where (in costume), I'll be running 10k....AND hurling myself over and through military obstacles, water crossings, cargo climbs...

I HAVE to work out. And run. Or go back to "before".

I'm presently on week 3 of training and it's ugly. Its reeeeeal ugly. Up to 4 miles run/walk...with miles to go before I sleep.

So...apparently, Momma did raise a fool. But this fool's body will be incredible...and back in a 6 shortly...or close to it, by race day.

(Oh...and I DID take that Hip-Hop dance class. That entry is coming. It wasn't pretty. Just gonna put that out there.)

COST: $60 (if you register before July 1st.)
BLACK FACTOR: Aside from my group? Ehh. We don't normally run and we DEF don't run in mud...or water. (Hair thing...helllloooo) but there are enough brown folk there to feel comfy. Besides...after the mud, everyone is brown.

WOULD YOU DO IT AGAIN?: Well...let's just see how it goes, shall we?

www.downanddirtymudrun.com