Keka's Open Salon Blog

In defense of "nappy" hair

Sun, 27 May 2012 18:05:47 -0400

My pretty baby rockin' those curls

Her "high school" hair

My daughter recently completed a scholarship application in which she celebrated her beautiful corkscrew curls which, according to most TV commercials for “de-frizzing” preparations, are unacceptable by today’s standards.

In fact, in Chris Rock’s troubling but timely and important independent film, Good Hair, a group of young African American women firmly chastise one of their own. One fiercely informs her know that if she were a prospective employer, she would not hire her, because her “natural” hair might make clients uncomfortable.

There goes the “sistahhood.”

In her essay, my daughter concludes that her natural curls express her unique cultural background—half Native, half African American--and her rather quirky personality as well. She also asserts, and I have plenty of proof to support it, that the envious and adoring comments those corkscrews cause have boosted her self-esteem and confidence.

Alas, it was not always thus.

I can remember her coming home from elementary school sorely vexed, and hearing a statement I could not believe a child of mine would ever ask: “Mommy, I wish I could just be white!”

The school was predominantly white, and the ease with which her white friends could handle their hair had finally worked that last nerve. To tame those curls required a morning ritual that her white pals would never experience. Once completed, it made her adorable by most accounts, but she felt that her hair, even more than her skin color, set her apart from her peers.

Nothing would dissuade her of this view. She was constantly complimented and even told she should be a “hair model” by people of all colors and cultures. The youngsters she played with on trips back to my old stomping grounds in Chicago longed to have “good hair” like hers. Passersby, as we walked to the grocery stores or restaurants in my mother’s Black neighborhood stopped us to ask what she was “mixed with,” and, again, to marvel at how “good” her hair was.

I myself will never forget the day, when she was just a toddling tot, that a well-heeled woman on Rodeo Drive stopped us to ask if her hair was naturally “like that.” When I said it was, she rolled her eyes and sighed, “Life is just not fair.” She also explained that she’d tried to perm her hair to do “that” several times, at great expense, but none of her rather famous hairdressers had been able to make it look as good as the hair my baby girl had been born with. I had no advice to offer. And so she sailed away, her lunch with the girls possibly ruined by a chance encounter with the one thing her money had not been able to buy.

In adolescence, my girl finally began to realize that those wild curls were an asset. Like most teens, she was paradoxically yearning to be her “own self,” while also trying to be “in with the in crowd.” When she let her “freak flag” fly, people—read that "boys"—noticed, and wanted to hang.

There was something daring and rebellious about that hair. And when she became a dedicated high school thespian—she lettered in theater, in fact—her hair became her “trademark.”

She dyed it in bold, crazy colors, including a rich purple to match her purple prom dress. Consequently, the little blurb in the Theater section of her last yearbook dubbed her the student “…most likely to have white hair at her white wedding.”

We both loved that.

Though born to the generation which would learn to be “black and proud,” back in the 60’s, I had experienced similar moments of self-loathing before I regained my pride. My inner city elementary school “crewe” had created a little caste system based on “good” hair. Mine was decidedly nappy—not corkscrews but a mass of tight “kinks” that would later be considered beautiful once grown out and shaped into a huge, glistening, Afro Sheened halo. But I was “smart,” a trait which raised me a few rungs higher on the ladder than the other sistahs with “naps.”

The babes at the top were of mixed race, with hair ranging from sandy brown and wavy to jet black and…also wavy. Maybe with some natural “Shirley Temple” flava, but still silky smooth. We fought to find favor with those few, vying also to sit and walk next to them in class, at lunch, on the playground. Those who were allowed to do so were, by association, also considered at the higher end of the caste continuum.

When my mother moved us into a predominantly white suburb, my “naps” were even more of an embarrassment. Back then, high schools still required a semester of swimming, and I was the only girl in class who stuffed her hair into a swimming cap. And whoa be unto me if that cap was not pulled down tight enough! If water leaked in, my hot combed hair would draw up into a spongy mass of naps, the likes of which my white friends had never seen.

It was the 60’s by then, and some of my white friends wondered why I didn’t just dispense with the straightening thing and just do an Angela Davis. But the titters of a few of my Black peers gave me pause—later, they would begin to tease those who did not go natural. But initially, we all tried to “fit in” by having our hair straightened.

The change, for me, came in college after repeated perms thinned out my previously thick and healthy hair so badly that I had to wear it pinned back to create the illusion of thickness in back, or in a ponytail most of the time. I remember my shock and chagrin when, in the heat of passion, I leaned over my green eyed boyfriend and my hair fell forward in thin, dry, chemically depleted wisps which defeated the whole purpose of the torture I went through every few weeks to have it straightened.

He, of course, didn’t notice. I acted up a storm to make sure he didn’t notice, but was secretly humiliated. I quit getting perms, and as soon as my “real” hair had grown out enough, I cut off the that dead straw and sported a short ‘fro from then into my 40s.

When my natural hair began to change color and texture due to age and illness as I approached my 50s, I turned to curly perms, weaves and finally, curly wigs that were more like my daughter’s hair than my own. But I stuck to styles that looked like “me.” It never occurred to me, once I moved into the world of “wig hats” and weaves, to go Beyonce or even Mary J. Blige, though some of my curls are blonde or auburn.

There is nothing wrong with what those ladies do with their hair, and Lord knows, they have the money to support that habit. And white women get weaves and more, of course. But when I see and hear, in movies like Good Hair or just…in my own life, what young Black women think of their own hair, and the lengths to which they go to “hide” it…I am troubled.

If we cannot love what we are born with…what does that do to us?

To those who say Americans of all colors are far too obsessed with our looks…I heartily concur. But for young Black women, and men, the problem is somewhat different and more complex. The oft-mentioned and repeated experiment in which Black children repeatedly chose white dolls over black ones because the white ones seemed not just prettier but “nicer,” “happier” or just plain “better” is heart-rending proof.

To take that notion into adulthood unchallenged…can have sad consequences. I feel it is the underlying issue in much of what ails us as a culture, and the fact that it continues after all these years, still perpetuated more by us than others…makes me profoundly sad.

That my daughter chooses to reject that notion and celebrate her natural hair…makes me profoundly proud. She may not win the scholarship for which she wrote those revealing words…but she has already won a prize far more important: she loves herself as she is, from hair to toe.

Boomer Heaven: Age Against the Machine

Mon, 7 May 2012 16:05:39 -0400

I spent this weekend watching Styx and Michael McDonald. And if that’s not Boomer Heaven nothing is.

But, I’m not going to talk about the music--or...not just the music. I want to talk about "my g-g-g-generation." If you're part of it, you know what song that stutter's from. If you're not, this may not be the post for you. But I hope you'll come along for the ride.

As usual, I’m taking the scenic route. I’ll get to the point eventually.

Now that I’m 60, I like to take my time. And because I’m retired, I can take as much time as I like.

So, let’s start with a Styx story.

You see, when I quit the Sun Times and moved West 29 years ago, I lost touch, almost deliberately, with all of my “fast lane” friends. As I’ve explained before, I flew a little too close to the flames of fame.

It’s a drug, that fast lane life. I got used to talking to movie stars as if they were old pals, riding in the limo with the band, to carousing with the boys ‘til the wee small hours, and to all the perks offered to most reporters.

Though you’re unable to accept gifts, that backstage pass or ticket to a premier or seat or table right up front at big events is just as good. You meet remarkable people in remarkable places, and the “access” alone is intoxicating.

I toed the line between good and evil pretty nimbly, but I was beginning to wobble a bit. Dorothy was glad to click those heels and get back to Kansas. I…was likin’ Oz just fine, far too much of the time.

So it was time to go. But I left behind a few people who had tried to help me stay sane. And who truly cared.

And about three years ago, while channel surfing, I saw James “JY” Young, the one who’d cared most, strutting across my TV screen. Only…at first, I didn’t even recognize him. Not because he’d gotten old. It was because he hadn’t aged at all--I thought he'd been replaced by some new wiz kid guitarist.

He had also gotten rid of the beard that had obscured his Nordic good looks back when, so seeing his clean shaven, “creaseless” face on my big screen was a serious shock. He didn’t look a day over 30—or maybe even 25, in his stage persona. And Tommy Shaw and the others had also stopped the clock somehow.

I wrote to their manager to let JY know how much I had enjoyed seeing him, and the wonderful orchestra full of school kids that had made that particular TV special so special. The kids had rocked the house, with Styx there to keep the audience dancing in the aisles. The teacher/administrator in me was prouder than a parent as those kids took their soloes and bows. It was the quintessential argument for keeping fine arts programs alive in the public schools of this country.

But it was my old friend beaming at them with his thousand watt grin who moved me even more. We reunited a little while after that, and that grin has been my guiding light through some really rough times yet again. When JY smiles, it heals everything that ails ya’. Or maybe it just makes you forget what ails ya’.

Whatever it is…he should patent it. Beats all the Olay, Botox and whatnot by a country mile.

On the other hand, Michael McDonald, who I saw at a jewel box movie theater last Sunday, definitely looks his age. I’ve taken to calling him “Bad Santa.” “Bad” as in…well…badass. And “Santa” because now that he has even more “snow on the roof,” and on his chin, and has gained a few around the middle, he kinda looks like old St. Nick.

But when he opens that mouth and roars…it sends chills down spines. I am not often moved to tears at a concert, but I spent most of that hour and a half or so either on the verge or just plain welling up and wiping. He sings as if his life depended on it. When he slowed things down to sing Cohen’s “Hallelujah”, a song I thought I was sick of…I dissolved.

His voice rang to the rafters, full of the joy of a life well lived, but not without a few pit stops in Hell. Heads snapped back. Some people whooped, others gasped. Everyone stood up to cheer, whistle and stomp, at the end.

And also to join in a moment of camaraderie. He, too, is a voice from our collective past. But it was also the voice of our collective experiences. The roar that touched our hearts did so because we totally knew where it came from. We’d been there. And we were celebrating together.

He gave us more than a few laughs, too. None more heartfelt than the ones that followed his little story about how one of his songs in particular had taken on a new meaning now that he was getting a little older. When he launched into “I Keep Forgetting,” women squealed. But we also guffawed.

Good one, Bruh Michael…

So…what do Bad Santa and “Stay Young” Styx have in common?

Plenty.

In both cases, as Styx says in that CNN interview, after three decades, they’re still doing what they love to do most. And now when they do it, every word, every move, every note is infused with and informed by the wisdom gained over all those years.

That's more significant than it sounds on the surface. I remember that I was a much better teacher when I went back to it in my 30s than I was when I first walked into a classroom at 22.

I also remember how easy it became for me to speak to a crowd or do a job interview later in life, too, because I knew I could connect almost any topic to something I had done or seen. I wanted to share that. And the prospective employer or audience, like my students, could feel that. They got swept up in it. It always "worked."

Mike and JY sweep us away, too. Only, when they play…we glow, because we know.

Born of an era that revered and emulated "youth" far more than this one, I think Boomers are still uniquely able to “believe”, no matter what. I keep hearing that those “adult communities” out our way are having to change the way they market themselves to keep up with us. One such community held a summer festival that Styx was part of this year, and I laughed as the guys who’d been cruising around the golf course earlier stood up on their seats to throw up “metal fingers” at the show.

That teenage boy Lawrence Gowan speaks of that lives in him, still? Those guys standing on their chairs were definitely in touch with their inner adolescents, too. We all seem to be. Pisses off our kids. But it keeps us out of that rocking chair.

I think we’re breaking records for mid-life divorces, in part, for the same reason. We raised the kids…and looked in the mirror and didn't see a parent staring back at us. We saw, in many cases, ...not only that inner child but also an older self that paradoxically didn't look all that old.

And despite that Who song we sang as an anthem back when, we hadn't died before we got old. We'd put our dreams put on hold for a while, to wed and raise families...pursue a career. But that face in the mirror said we still had time to live a few of those dreams.

But sometimes, our spouses dreams didn't “jibe" with our own. So true to form, and the days when we used to hit the road looking for adventure back in our Woodstock days…many of us ran for dear life, looking for just one more.

We may grow old…but we will never grow entirely…up. Those well-dressed parents and grandparents at the Michael McDonald show got up and got their wiggle on like their wild young selves who used to spin around with "substance induced" abandon at many a “Be In” back when.

I never saw my parents or any of their friends still wigglin’ like that past 60. I’m not always sure it’s the prettiest picture when we do it, either.

But we damn sure still do.

And 60 looks good on us.

And it sounds...even better...

Why Obama Could LOSE: Wake UP, Everybody!

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 17:04:15 -0400

Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes

Wake Up, Everybody

I came home a few days ago to find my daughter--who is usually true to her paternal “Don’t worry, be Hopi” roots in temperament--seething.

I mean, fighting mad. But unsure where to direct all that anger.

Arizona had just passed that ridiculous and unworkable law that requires women seeking birth control to prove that they need it for “health” reasons.

Now, she has an “out.” As an enrolled member of the Hopi Tribe, she can head for the Indian Health Service clinic over on the Yaqui rez, and receive any meds she needs for free or for a pittance compared to what many others may have to pay.

And let me get this straight before the angry comments about that begin. Unlike some tribes, Hopis do not receive annuities, allotment payments or any other cash settlements for individuals.

They do, however, receive some of the services in the first section below—health care, is one. Here’s the skinny about all of them straight from the Utah Department of Indian Affairs, one of many such state departments created to provide those services:

Why do Indians receive services from the U.S. government? What are they?

American Indians receive services from the U.S. Government as a result of war and ensuing treaties that were entered into between the tribes and the U.S. Government. These treaties represented an accommodation to establish peace as Indians gave up millions of acres of land in exchange for promised services from the government, such as food, housing, health, and education. The federal government continues to provide housing and health services to Indian people. Although the federal government does operate some schools for Indian children in other parts of the nation, most Utah Indian school age students attend public schools.

The U.S. Government has a fiduciary responsibility to American Indians. This means the federal government is bound by treaty to supervise revenues generated from natural resources and assets on reservation lands.

Do Indians receive free money from the U.S. government?

No, the U.S. Government does not pay Indians to be Indians or grant them automatic welfare.

What are per capita payments and dividends? Why do some Indians receive U.S. Government checks?

· A small number of American Indians who receive checks do so because they are beneficiaries of lands that were passed down to them as a result of the 1887 Dawes Severalty and Allotment Act.

· Those who own allotment lands receive payments for either leasing their lands to Non-Indian farmers or they receive mineral royalties from oil/gas companies extracting such minerals from their leased lands.

· Not everyone, in fact, less than an est. 5% receive such royalties.

· Whenever a tribe is able to generate revenues, it is paid out to its members via per capita payments or, in the case of a profit, dividends.

There you go. On with the business at hand.

I was thrilled to see her hopping mad, myself. I wish all of her contemporaries—especially the women--would get mad and get into the fray in some meaningful way before they lose more than just the right to have insurance pay for their contraceptives.

In fact, they already have. But somehow, the idea of having to have a vaginal ultrasound and…lots of other invasive and insulting new attacks on their reproductive rights hasn’t sunk in yet.

We talked about this. We even talked, briefly, about some commercials we’d been seeing here in AZ, begging more people to run for office, under a specific law that makes it financially feasible to do so. Or…so it says.

She decided she wasn't quite ready to run for office yet. But she asked me, finally, why so many people who would be most adversely affected by the largely Republican-backed laws that had her so incensed, would vote for Republicans.

It’s a question I’ve never gotten a good answer for, until a recent Bill Maher guest explained it rather simply--I wish I remembered who it was. But here's what he said--or my interpretation of it:

Republicans deliberately give lip service to values that many poor white and some devoutly Christian minority voters feel they must agree with to be good Christians or…good people, for that matter. Folks with precious little else to be proud of or to cling to, hang onto those “Christian values” for dear life, for comfort. They want to prove that though struggling for survival and largely forgotten--except during election years--they are still good, God-fearing people.

Republicans also make speeches that sound as if they own the copyright on The American Way of Life. And again, if you're poor whites and some minority citizens are often trying desperately to prove how much they love this country despite being born "on the wrong side of the tracks," or on the wrong side of the border.

So they vote for the guy who is best at pretending to love and celebrate God and country. They also become fiercely protective of those guys, and vehemently against their "God-less" enemies who openly question and sometimes criticize the things both Christians and the elected officials of this country do.

And they remain loyal to the "God and country" conservatives, even if their "God-less" enemies are proposing programs and laws that would do more for them than the ones their "God and country" guys espouse.

That’s it. I knew it the moment I heard it. And then…I got really scared.

Because it’s really, really important that we quit trying to analyze this campaign rationally. The TV talking heads and political pundits are wasting time and breath. And the Democratic strategists had better get wise—and Rove slick--too.

There is only one thing conservative politicians want to do: to get that black man out of the White House. If it were anything else, they wouldn’t be flip flopping on things that they previously supported, things they themselves created, just because Obama says he likes them.

They're not even pretending it's real political discourse. Sometimes they flip flop a few hours after they state their case—the early stages of the ongoing civil unrest in the Middle East is a prime example. When Obama didn’t intervene…they slammed him. If he made a speech saying he would intervene in answer to those attacks, they stopped on a dime, regrouped and threw it into reverse.

CNN and the network news folks went bananas trying to get just one of the politicians out there doing cartwheels for The Cause to admit that this behavior didn’t make sense.

But…it doesn’t have to make sense, folks. It’s “sign language” to the faithful—a little wink to let them know that the race is still on.

And all of the voters who are down with that, not just the Republican ones but all of the voters who can use the values thing as an excuse to vote their “conscience,” will vote against Obama and everything they’ve been told he stands for. There are black Christians, in fact, who feel they, too, have no choice--that is how beautifully this strategy works. There are black people who will feel they have to vote against a black man because he has "un-Christian" ideas.

So even if Romney shoots himself in both feet…many times…he may still win. He’s a “symbol” not a candidate. The “values” people don’t have to like him to vote for him. They have to believe that it’s him…or Hell. Or...communism. Same thing in some circles.

Now, let me get another thing straight. I have nothing against people who truly believe that Obama has led us in the wrong direction socially, fiscally or otherwise. If they truly believe that, then they should vote their conscience. As I will, mine.

What pisses me off is that a lot of the politicians out there don’t believe in anything they’re saying. They’re using the true beliefs of those truly God-fearing, patriotic people to get elected, and to make sure that Obama…isn’t. And once they are elected, they will continue making sure that Big Business gets everything it asks for, and that the poor folks who voted for them believing they were sincere about those Christian values…continue to be poor. Or get even poorer, and have no services or programs to fall back on.

Case in point: just this past week, Republicans proposed we pay to keep the interest on college loans from doubling by cutting more health programs. Democrats wanted to pay for it by making businesses and wealthy folks pay more taxes.

And if the Republicans win that battle, their underclass devotees probably won't notice ‘til they go to that drugstore or doctor or hospital and discover that they don’t have coverage for contraceptives or…damned near anything else anymore. Or until they lose their life savings or their houses or no longer have Social Security or Medicare. Or until they discover that their kids are still eating pink slime for lunch and their tap water is now flammable (that has actually happened back East), all due to the mad rush to deregulate or destroy anything that keeps the rich from getting richer.

So my fellow liberals, Jon Stewart and Bill Maher aside, this Romney fella is no joke. My favorite Romney joke comes, in fact, not from one of us, but from one of his fellow Republicans, who was caught by cell video explaining that those who differed with Romney’s views didn’t have to worry. He would probably be on their side at some point during the campaign, depending on who he was talking to at the time.

Yeah, that’s that Etchasketch strategy his own PR dude admitted to. And the polls, which had him just about even with Obama within days after most of his rivals dropped out, prove that it’s working.

I’m not afraid of the Mayan calendar prediction. I’m afraid of the upcoming election, which may really be the end of the world as we know it. And the people most endangered by a Republican win won't know it 'til it's too late.

I’d like to have a bumper sticker made that says, “If he talks like Jesus but votes like Judas…don’t elect him.”

Only, I know the Republicans would just design a new one and turn the O in "vote" and "don't" into Obama logos.

For Trayvon and Emmett: My "Walking While Black" stories

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 15:03:11 -0400

Donna Summer does the "Working Girl Beep"

Me, back when I heard that beep 'way too often...

I’m not going to comment on the 911 calls, the police negligence or the firestorm that followed Trayvon Martin’s death.

I’m just going to tell you why I’m not shocked that it happened or that the man who shot Trayvon Martin wasn’t arrested. And why even knowing all that…hearing him screaming for help seconds before he was murdered made me cry bitter tears.

And brought back the memory of another dead black boy, whose mother I knew and still admire for the electrifying and unforgettable lesson she taught us in his name.

I’m just pouring out my soul here, so it’s gonna be kinda ugly. But so is what happened to Trayvon.

“Walking While Black” has been an issue since…slavery. But if you’re black woman walking in certain places at certain times…there’s a little twist to that “offense”. Here are my “walking while black” stories.

And every black woman I know has at least one or two just like them. The sole difference between Trayvon’s story and ours is that we usually live to tell ours. But sometimes…we’re too ashamed…

Working Girl—the gist of it all

This is the basic story. The better stories, variations on this theme, follow.

As a reporter for the Chicago Sun Times, I was often out late at night or in the wee hours of the morning covering stories or taking a late shift…whatever the job required. And I lived in a very popular and very congested area of Chicago at the time, where it was nearly impossible to park, even late at night.

So I tended to take cabs or buses—especially in winter when my car was invariably buried in huge drifts of snow. I always stood on relatively busy corners, but I was usually the only woman out so late/early.

But even if there was lots of traffic and people walking or even standing there with me waiting for that bus…I knew it wouldn’t be long before I got the “working girl beep.” Especially if I was well dressed for some sort of gala event or more formal setting…or, actually, even if I wasn’t particularly well dressed.

Black men would beep and wave, or call out a hearty, “Go ‘head, Shorty!” and keep going. Not one ever pulled over. Only white men did that.

If he was a young man driving what he thought was a hot car, he’d ease up to me and give me a little once over and a smile, waiting for me to tip on over and run down my “menu.” IF I hadn’t already started walking toward the next bus stop or back toward my building.

On occasion, I would just look away, and wait and see if I got the, “Oh, what? You too good for me? You think you’re too good for me, (fill in any obscene or insulting racial epithet here)! F*** you, anyway!”

Sometimes, they went into a loud, livid diatribe about how maybe I only liked those big black…well…you get the picture. But whatever they said, I learned to take off running if the streets were really deserted, because they invariably came back to try again and cuss even more if I still ignored them.

Older white guys cruised me nervously and usually did not speak. I always felt as if they were married and either new to cruising or just had better instincts than the younger ones, and knew in their hearts that I wasn’t really “in the life”. So they usually sped off as soon as I turned my gaze away.

But aside from the cussing, I was never actually threatened…or, not with violence. And that leads me to:

The Beverly Hills Hotel incident—followed by another one just like it but ‘way more serious

This first one is one of my favorites. The ones that follow still make my blood boil.

But the “funny” one first.

I was staying at the very famous Beverly Hills Hotel, the Pepto Bismol pink second home to sooooo many stars I won’t even go there right now. Except to add that at the time I was there, wanna be stars used to have themselves paged in the pool area, just so that they could strut their stuff past all the agents and managers and directors and whatnot that hung out there.

It wasn’t cheap, but it was a great place to stay if only because when you told someone you were staying there, they kinda freaked out a little bit. And this one time I was there just to be there—not working, just resting and having an LA adventure without a deadline to meet.

And while I was there, a huge mansion just a couple of blocks away had become the talk of the town. It had been bought by a Middle Eastern billionaire who had promptly painted it a garish green, and had all of the nekked statues around the grounds and fountains made more “true to life,” with flesh colored paint and black pubic hair.

I wish I was kidding. But I’m not. I saw it with my own two eyes.

Because one day, having found out exactly where this house was, I decided to take a stroll and get a good look. And I got there without any problem. I did a slow stroll past the train wreck to get a good look, and then walked a up aways before crossing the street to walk back on the other side of the street, for one last look to confirm that I’d really seen what I’d seen.

And on my way back, I was followed and then stopped by an LAPD cop—I still believe it was because someone saw me and called 911.

He got out and stood in the street by his squad car giving me a pretty icy glare. And then he asked me where if I worked for someone “around here.”

I told him I didn’t.

So he asked me where I was headed.

I told him.

And then he smiled a little. A real smarmy, “NOW, I get it,” smile. And I remembered that a lot of the women in the lobbies and bars of the best hotels were “on the take,” so to speak.

I didn’t smile back.

So he asked me if he called the front desk would they ring my room or…something like that.

I said, “That’s a great idea. Give ‘em a call.”

And when his face turned to stone, I realized I’d made a big mistake.

He explained to me in a very serious voice that a “stranger” walking up and down the streets in that particular neighborhood was always “kinda suspicious.”

And then he walked around the car and leaned against it.

“Can I see some ID?” he asked.

I thanked God then and there that I had brought my wallet along—why I had brought it, I have no idea, but it was in my pocket. So I produced, for his viewing pleasure…

My Chicago Sun Times press card.

Oh, snap.

He stared at it for a long time, his expression now rather befuddled. I think he was trying to figure out if it was counterfeit or something.

And then he looked up and said, “I call this number, they’ll know you?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and just said, “That’s another good idea.”

Which…was as bad as rolling my eyes would’ve been. And if I’d been a black male…I probably would’ve been thrown on the car or the ground and handcuffed right about then.

But he was turning really, really red in the face. And he started to explain, without the smirk, that it really was true that people didn’t usually walk around a lot “over this way.” It made people kinda nervous. And of course…it was a woman, walking up and down, so…

I didn’t ask him to complete that thought. But he had another one for me.

“You’re not gonna write about this, right?” he asked me. Sincerely rattled.

It was my turn to do the smirky smile.

I said, “Nah. Probably not.”

The “probably” was just to rattle him a little more. It did.

“Seriously, I just was makin’ sure, you know? These people around here, they get jumpy. “

I didn’t respond to that.

So he said, “I mean…c’mon, you’re not gonna call and tell ‘em…”

I told him it wasn’t that big a deal. And he exhaled...and told me to be careful about “that stuff” from now on, before rushing back to that driver’s seat and pulling away. And even after all that, he went kinda slow until I strutted into the lobby.

Poor thing, I bet he waited a good long while for his boss to call him into his office and give him hell for harassing a reporter. But I kept my word about our little encounter. Until now.

A variation on that theme:

I’ll cut to the chase. I was taking a short cut through a rather wealthy suburb of Chicago on the way back to the Sun Times after a concert, when I stopped at a light, and a squad car “whooped” and pulled up beside me.

The cop pointed to the curb, so when the light changed, I pulled up and over. And he got out, walked up to my window and told me it was kinda late for me to be out driving around. And asked me, with one of those smirky smiles, if I lived “in town here.”

I said, “No,” and he smiled a little more and said, “I didn’t think so.”

He kinda complimented me on my “real sharp” outfit. And then he sort of leaned down ‘way too close to my face, and said, “You know…if you’re nice to me…you can be on your way, no problem.”

I was angrier than I could say or show at that moment. This was the kind of no-win situation no woman wants to be in. And that too many women of color find themselves in far too often.

That’s when I decided not to wait for him to ask for ID. I said, “Look, I’m a reporter for the Chicago Sun Times and I’m reviewing a show--see that press thing on my dash there?”

He craned. And indeed, I did have a press parking pass that I could use to park almost anywhere I wanted when I was on the job.

I also showed him my press card. And given that this was very near Chicago…he got really, really scared. The Sun Times had a reputation for doing exposès on all kinds of corruption in the area. They had even bought a bar and put hidden cameras in it, to catch cops and government officials taking bribes.

So he was sure he was on “candid camera,” too, I think. And he said almost the same thing the other cop had said.

“Aw Jeez. You’re not going to write about this, are you?”

I didn’t have time to play with this one—I had a deadline. So I said, “I’ve got bigger fish to fry, believe me.”

And he was so glad I’d said that that he didn’t even realize that I’d just sort of wised off to him. He told me to drive safely (I love that part) and took off. I checked my mirror a few times to see if he was following me, but he absolutely wanted no trouble.

Walking a dog while black

I should’ve seen this coming. The Oro Valley, AZ police had already questioned my ex-husband one day when he was sitting outside of our apartment waiting for our daughter to come out for a day with Daddy.

When I went outside to find out why Dad was being questioned, I was told that there’d been a few robberies around our way lately and--get ready, because they really do say this—Daddy “…fit the description. Hispanic male, kinda tall…thin…”

“He’s not Hispanic. He’s Hopi,” I said. Which…didn’t really matter since the cop wouldn’t have known the difference, really.

But it caught him up short anyway. And after a few more lame excuses, he looked at our daughter who’d come outside to find out what was going on, and loped back to his squad car and left.

Again, this shouldn’t have surprised me. A few weeks before that, a few of my Hispanic and black students started walking from the “snob school” a few blocks from our apartment hoping to escort me to the championship game they were playing.

They never got there. A cop followed and then stopped them. And when they explained who they were, he glared at them even harder.

But he turned around and headed back toward the school. And the boys were so mad that they played harder than I’d ever seen them play. And they lost because of a strange “problem” with the clock that nullified a final basket.

We did some serious discussions and essays about how males “of color” were treated in neighborhoods like that. They had some incredible stories to tell. And were relieved to be able to tell them to someone who wouldn’t tsk and tell them they were “too sensitive” or too quick to play the “race card.”

So….let me get to the point, finally. I told you this would be ugly.

One morning around 6 a.m., I headed out, as usual, to walk our beloved Pomeranian, now much missed and lovingly remembered, so that I could get back and get my baby up and ready for school and myself ready for work on time.

Because it was still dark at that time of year, I was wearing a t-shirt, baggy pajama bottoms, curlers and some sort of jacket—I don’t remember what kind. And fuzzy slippers, too. Real “sharp outfit,” right?

And about mid-block I was suddenly blinded by a very bright light.

I shielded my eyes and then could make out, in the street just ahead of me, a squad car that had stopped. The cop had turned that big light they have up by the rear view mirror on the driver’s side.

I didn’t stop. I was in no mood to deal with this nonsense at 6 a.m. a few feet from my house.

I let Bijou do her business, turned, and walked back to the house with the light and the car still following me. And then I went into my house and peeked through the blinds. He was still sitting there.

I guess some black woman with curlers, baggy jammies and a toy Pom on a leash had robbed a house recently—who knows?

But by the time I went out to the bus stop with my baby girl and all her pals, and Bijou, too…he was gone.

The Emmett Till connection

So, again, it was no surprise when I heard that a 17-year-old Black kid with a bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea was shot by a neighborhood vigilante who followed him around the gated community because he looked “suspicious.”

Or that the murderer hadn’t been arrested, despite his history of overstepping his appointed duties—he’d made dozens of similar 911 calls before deciding, this once, not to heed the dispatcher’s warning to stop following the “suspect” and leave it to the police.

His mother has asked the media to stop playing that the 911 call with Trayvon’s terrified cries in the background. But I believe she should follow the lead of my my 5^th grade teacher, Mamie Till-Mobley, who made an extraordinary and painful decision when she brought the battered, water-bloated body of her teenage son, Emmett Till, home to rest at last.

She kept the casket open. She wanted the world to see what had been done to her baby boy. Because she knew that one look at that ravaged, misshapen “thing” in the casket would say more about the world in which such things could happen to a teenage boy than any sermon or speech.

We need to hear those bone chilling screams and the shot that killed Trayvon seconds later.

Yes, it’s a parent’s worst nightmare come true.

But it might finally wake the whole world.

Bits and Bobs--March, 2012

Sun, 18 Mar 2012 16:03:41 -0400

A Beautiful “Non-Denominational” Prayer of Thanks for Kids and Grownups, too

My baby girl, her father and I sang that song every night as she was coming into consciousness in her early years.

It’s a Raffi tune, but we found it, sung by a woman who sounded like Judy Collins, on a CD with lots of songs for youngsters. And we decided it was a great way to introduce her to the Hopi worldview, and to give thanks without pledging allegiance to any particular religion overtly so early in her life.

We wanted her to keep this song in her head as she was outside soaking in the beauty of the Hopi mesas, chasing rabbits and birds and lizards and frogs--and her male cousins, who dropped by daily to play.

Boy cousins are second fathers to Hopi children, and hers were both thrill rides and disciplinarians for which her father and I were very, very grateful.

I find that after my brush with death and after I became a sexagenarian (gotta love any title that has “sex” in it, right?) a few days ago, I am more grateful for than angry or regretful about most things these days. In fact, I remember the good things and forget the bad and sad, most of the time.

Maybe that’s a sign of impending senility, but I think not. The older I get, the less I stress.

And the more I digress, Jeez! So I'm really here because wanted to share a few little things with my OS family that I have collected over the last few weeks. Every day I see or hear something that makes me want to post a little blurb here. And then I back off because they’re just little bits—nothing deep or Editor’s Pick worthy.

But I think I might start collecting those things to do this monthly, just in case there's a nugget or two you can use.

We'll see. But for now, here's some "news" you can use:

Cee Lo and Daryl Hall literally rock the house:

Get it while it's HOT! Daryl Hall (Hall & Oates) has one of the best concert shows ever, all online and starring artists he loves who come and kick it at his killer country home. They talk, cook, eat and play amazing music. On his latest show, he teamed up with Cee Lo Green, and it may have been the best show of all. He even got to sing “F+++ You” with the F word intact!

Check this out—I danced and laughed and hooted and applauded as it I’d been front row center. TOO much fun to miss:

http://www.livefromdarylshouse.com/currentep.html?ep_id=67

Here's a sample--hottest song of all:

"I Can't Go for That" Cee Lo and Daryl

The Mayo Clinic rocks HARD

I still haven't fully recovered from that scary illness that nearly killed me last year. So I decided to head for the Arizona branch of the Mayo Clinic, the “court of last resort” for those of us seeking relief from seemingly incurable ailments.

And having had the "Mayo experience," I urge any of you who have mystery maladies and also have a Mayo Clinic reasonably close to check your insurance to see if Mayo is in your "network." It was listed in mine, and I now receive Cadillac care for just the usual co-pay.

Every inch of the Scottsdale campus is "user friendly." There are grinning greeters by the elevators on every floor who hasten to assist you, but the abundant "signage" and logical layout make assistance totally unnecessary.

What tickled me most was the numerous and well placed rest rooms all over the building. They have anticipated the needs of the very sick people who come to them, and who may not be strong enough to go searching.

And don't be late! Mayo runs like clockwork. You’re called at exactly the time listed in your “itinerary,” and the clerks at the Check In counter move through that process deftly--but cheerfully. In fact, even if your doctor decides to bring another colleague into the mix--and they almost always do--that second doctor walks in or sends for you within 10 minutes.

I don't know how they do that, given the throngs of patients who fill the waiting rooms everyday. But friends and family who've accompanied me say that that waiting room empties and fills, empties and fills as groups of patients are called at their appointed times.

The doctors, who dress like bankers as befits their status in the medical world, are remarkably personable and compassionate. They also welcome emails or phone calls, and respond the same day.

And there’s precious little they haven’t seen. So they were well acquainted with Stevens Johnson syndrome unlike some doctors I've mentioned previously. And they knew that it was a very idiosyncratic syndrome indeed.

So they examined and even photographed my entire body, and did a new skin biopsy to find out exactly how my unique case should be treated, instead of using a “one med fits all” approach.

They deduced that my skin was so traumatized by the acute stage of the syndrome that it sends out an SOS to my white cells whenever it feels "threatened." I'm now in the process of “training” my skin to chillax—and it’s working.

I’m actually sad when my examinations are over. I feel so safe and well cared for when I’m there, in stark contrast to the negligence that set this syndrome in motion almost six months ago. And it upsets me that everyone doesn’t receive the same respect and expert care.

But I’m relieved that almost anyone can have The Mayo Experience through their insurance plans. Check yours, in case!

Vaseline--it's not just for granny anymore

One of my favorite Mayo moments was when the doctor was taking me through a brochure full of information designed to help me care for my tortured skin. She read a list of expensive moisturizers, and then smiled and said, “Just get a big jar of Vaseline. It's cheaper and it works better."

Now, I grew up in a family of black sistahs who loved them some Vaseline. I myself headed straight for the expensive stuff as soon as left the nest. But this is the third time a dermatologist has “prescribed” a jar of good old petroleum jelly instead of pricier lotions and creams—even my beloved $16 a jar Cera Ve can’t beat a $4 jar of the granny grease.

When I have to use ointment from head to toe, a second layer of Vaseline helps the skin absorb them, and if I wear sweats and gloves to bed, I’m baby’s bottom soft by morning—that’s an old trick, but it bears repeating, given the endorsements it has received lately.

So slather it on, ladies and gents! And save some of that hard earned cash.

(Related remedy: She even agreed wholeheartedly with the time honored tradition of scalp oiling that those old sistahs also used to do a few times a week. I found myself a jar of that old Blue Magic that the my mother’s beauticians used to use, and I oil my flaky scalp regularly, too, now. It keeps those flakes from falling and has worked with the other topicals to heal the rashy spots and promote hair growth.)

Three natural remedies for hypertension and high blood sugar

Despite what you’ve seen on YouTube , a spoonful of Ceylon cinnamon (NOT the coumarin rich cassia that Dr. Oz prescribed--thank you Frosty for the heads up) is very, very good for you. If you put it in your tea or make tea out of it, that is. I should know. I lowered my blood sugar level 30 points with it.

Prolonged use of prednisone wreaks all kinds of havoc on the system, and one side effect I discovered a few weeks ago was a stunning spike in my blood sugar level. My blood sugar level had soared to 130—that’s pre-diabetic.

I was warned after two high readings that a third would mean I’d have to begin to think very seriously about starting some form of treatment. I was gob smacked. It doesn’t run in the family. And my levels had always been about average to low.

So I hit the Net hard. And about a week before Dr. Oz would confirm it on TV, I discovered via the Net that cinnamon was a natural way to keep that blood sugar level low. But Dr. Oz got the species wrong--I've corrected that here, thanks for a timely comment here on OS! The cinnamon I purchased, burmanii, is fine, but Ceylon is best.

A few weeks later, on my next round of labs, my blood sugar level had dropped to a barely above normal 98.

Given the success of that natural “cure,” I’m taking a teaspoon of garlic honey every morning and night, too, to see if that keeps me from having to take meds for my high blood pressure—another remedy I found online and had several friends confirm from experience.

Both remedies are simple. A daily spoonful of cinnamon stirred into or sprinkled on top of anything you like is enough. I steep cinnamon sticks or freshly ground cinnamon in water and drink the tea hot or iced—iced is yummy with stevia or Splenda, for a low cal treat. If you fancy Mexican chocolate, you may not need it, as most of the authentic varieties contain a healthy dose in each cup.

Garlic honey is just as easy to make. Just fill a jar with cloves of garlic--you don’t even have to peel them--and pour in as much honey as the jar will hold. You’ll have to wait ‘til it filters through those cloves, and then add more ‘til it’s really full. Then, let it sit for 24 hours or up to a week, as some recipes suggest, to get the garlic infused into the honey. One teaspoon per day is recommended—I take two, for good measure and because it just tastes so good!

And there's one more that doesn't taste so good: coconut water. There's research that proves that drinking two to three cartons or bottles of the stuff (make sure it's pure coconut water, not the flavored stuff loaded with additives) daily definitely lowers blood pressure. It has all kinds of health bennies, actually, and many athletes prefer it to Gatorade. One article said it's used instead of plasma in some countries--I have no idea what that's about!

It ain't cheap, but the way. Pills would cost less financially, but physically, they take their toll. And since my illness, meds of any kind are a big risk.

Amazon.com has a little "club" you can join to receive the unfortunately named Naked branda lot cheaper than usual--a 12 pack can run as high as $38, but they offer it for $16 a month. Here in Tucson, I get as 12 pack Vita Coco for $15 at Cost Co.

I’ll be taking my BP starting next week, to see if the garlic honey and coconut water are working. Watch this space!

Heartburn problems?

Put down the Prilosec, pal. The best remedy is another kind of water that's 'way less expensive: just plain old HOT WATER. Yup. Boil some water and swill it straight as soon as you can stand it, or toss in a bag of herbal tea.

Some articles recommend having a cup of herbal tea with meals to prevent that acid from backing up in the first place. And never fear--if the burn strikes late at night, even a few gulps of hot tap water give you quick relief.

Why does water work? It dilutes the acid and soothes the esophagus, too. I also have found that there's usually a pretty healthy burp a few seconds into the treatment--those of you who have heartburn know why I told you that. Ahhhhhh...

Indica Girl

Speaking of natural remedies, I’ll be writing about my experiences with Arizona’s medical marijuana registration process--and the slightly murky issues involved obtaining the “medicine” itself here in Tucson.

But if Pat Robertson has endorsed it, can legalization be far behind?

No, I’m not kidding. Here's proof from The Bureau of Trade site, which checks out craigslist, ebay and other sites for collectibles and sends an illustrated list to your inbox. This blurb came with a really interesting crucifix that had Jesus swaddled in weed leaves. I hope the links still work, because they take you to some really interesting stuff:

Holy Smokes

Pat Robertson sanctifies marijuana

This week the 700 Club became the 420 club when Pat Robertson decided — presumably with the grudging approval of beloved talk-show sidekick Jesus — that the War On Drugs has failed. Marijuana, contended Paterson, should be treated like “beverage alcohol,” which will prove a boon to evangelical Phish phans, but further delegitimize those of us who administer alcohol subcutaneously [file not found]. It’s a shame he didn’t receive this revelation in 1988, when he ran for president as the Rick Santorum to George H. W. Bush’s Mitt Romney. There’s no question we’d be living in a different world had he won: Haiti might have prevented its earthquake by casting off the devil; gays wouldn’t be raping angels in New York; and, apparently, the po-po would no longer be able to kill our buzz. Today, Pat Robertson is our bud … our God Bud.

Kettlebellin'

I bought the DVD that the video excerpts below come from. And I can’t tell you how glad I am that I caught The Talk—the only daily schmooze show I stop everything to watch--the day they introduced kettlebells as part of a cross training routine.

When the fitness guy said that kettlebell training was all you needed to get and stay fit, I went to Amazon.com and got myself a 10 lb one and Amy Bento’s Absolute Beginners Kettlebell 3-in1 DVD.

After being bedridden for several weeks, I’ve lost a great deal of muscle tone and strength. But I can do the routine below without much stress or strain, and I’m determined to work myself through all three routines very soon.

If you’re a coming back from a serious illness, cautious about exercise due to a chronic condition or just a couch potato, this bell’s for you. SWING it, baby!

Amy Bento rockin’ the bell

Box Tree Radio kicks it Old School style

This little bitty Net radio station makes me cry. Regularly. Which…might not sound like an endorsement, but let me explain.

Box Tree (http://www.boxtreeradio.com/) plays serious R & B, funk and soul from ‘way, ‘way back to…not so long ago. And every now and then, they even dust off an old 78 disk that I remember from childhood block and house parties.

And that’s when the tears flow.

I can see all of my old Southside Chicago buddies, parents and elders all together again eating, laughing and dancing in one backyard or another. Or family members sweating those conks and pressing comb dos back to kinks in the living room on holidays with my father as dj par excellence.

So boogie on down--that's an even better way to exercise!

Daily Candy really outta stop doin’ this

But I hope they don’t stop any time soon, actually. These are collections of some of the most decadent and delicious delicacies available the world over. If you’re looking for a sweet or savory treat for yourself or to send as a really unique gift…well…these two Web pages are all you need.

I bought drinking chocolate so decadent I feel almost guilty when I mix some up. One of ‘em is spiced with chili pepper for a serious kick. And I dare you to go through either of these pages without buying at least ONE thing just for yourself. Here you go:

Raising the Chocolate Bar

http://bit.ly/xoelRu

Snack Happy

http://bit.ly/wgmKEi

Oh, No! The Big 60

That's what it says on the huge balloon my daughter gave me along with a delicious German chocolate cake and a series of wonderful presents on the big day. I maintain that 60 is the new 40 for Boomers--if you don't believe me, think about your elders and how old they looked at 50, let alone 60. Gerontologists are now dealing with sports related injuries more often than strokes and heart attacks.

We're a spirited lot, to be sure. And while I don't look my age, I'm kinda proud to be my age. Lemme just use the lyrics of that song up there, to say it all for me:

Thanks a Lot

Thanks a lot

Thanks for the sun in the sky

Thanks a lot

Thanks for the clouds so high

Thanks a lot

Thanks for the whispering wind

Thanks a lot

Thanks for the birds in the spring

Thanks a lot

Thanks for the moonlit night

Thanks a lot

Thanks for the stars so bright

Thanks a lot

Thanks for wonder in me

Thanks a lot

Thanks for the way that I feel

Thanks for the animals

Thanks for the land

Thanks for the people everywhere

Thanks a lot

Thanks for all I’ve got