When we think of black fathers, so often, the reflexive narrative people start telling has to do with absence or abandonment versus engagement and re-engagement. I'm going to see where talking about things in terms of the latter gets me for awhile. See how that way of doing it - talking about fathering as engagement and connection versus silence or absence or not-there-ness - works.
I know it's not just spoken about this way regarding black fathers: it's the whole "man works all day," "moms are more nurturing," "kids need their moms" mentality that pervades our language and lives. Half-truths that amount to bad scaffolding at best, and let dads off the hook, and yet also support a narrative that empowers moms who might be manipulated (further) if things didn't at least linguistically lean in their favors. But I want to do a fixer-upper on the fathering narrative. See if I can make that my odd job, like Harrison Ford and Jesus, in between accomplishing my big mission, during the downtime away from my calling.
Harrison Ford, it's rumored, supported himself between acting jobs by doing odd carpentry jobs. I'd starve if that were my only option for income. But I knocked out an Ikea dresser tonight. Took a month. Had never done it before. Tonight, finis!
I wrote a poem once and had a character in the poem mention an Ikea dresser. Yet I'd never been inside an Ikea before a month ago.
Why'd it take me a month to put this dresser together? Because I so, so, so wanted to hammer it. But Ikea stuff is like computer stuff: if you've got to force it, or hammer it, you're putting it together wrong. But I couldn't figure out how to put the dresser fronts on, and I just stopped cold in my tracks. Left it for weeks. I'm a writer, not a carpenter. I got Jesus, but not that part of Him.
Why didn't I just hammer away? Because my friend - a handy sort - once helped me to move, right? And we'd packed all my stuff except a few wall decorations that we had to take down. Photos in frames. Special stuff, he thought. Then he realized I'd saved them for last because they were nailed to the wall, not just because they were precious photos to me. Nailed the frames. I'd forgotten all about that technique that I'd used to put up my photos until that particular moving day. For years those photos had sat still on the wall. Secure. Stuck, even, for a long time. Damaged upon removal from the wall, though. It wasn't how they were supposed to have been hung. Duhh, right? You couldn't have told me that back then. I wouldn't have listened.
The dressers, tonight, turned out all right. They look good, that's for sure. Drawers slide in and out, secured on metal brackets for a smooth pull. It stands on its own now, no longer needing me to brace one side so the other side won't fall. It holds together nicely whether I'm there or not. Pieces aren't leaning against the wall or lying about on the floor. Everything has a place.
There are some extra screws, but no screws are loose.
I'm thinking of this all as a metaphor for scaffolding a child's growth, and a parent's growth. I'm thinking about my kid, where we're at in our father-daughter relationship now. There have been times where I was sure I was present-enough, and others where I felt I was too far away. As parents know, some of those times occur when you're holding the baby in your arms. Our minds travel. I remember the months leading up to, say, 24 months, when my preoccupation was getting this kid to laugh. I'd do it, then see if she'd imitate me.
I remember trying to get her to imitate my sleepy moods, too. Ever done that as a parent or babysitter? I remember coming home from school with her and feeling exhausted. Sometimes I'd just put us both down on the bed, and look at her, then close my eyes, sort of "instructing" her to do the same. Rarely worked. Most times, I'd have to lay back, nestle her on my chest, and wrap both arms around her tight so she wouldn't fall off as I took a nap and hoped she - unable to escape my grasp - also would. I remember the jerk white kids in Caroll Gardens Park who wouldn't let her swing on Veteran's Day that year ("because you're a nickel," they said), and trying to explain why we rushed them off the swing and THEN moved on to another activity (and didn't just move on without the confrontation), thinking I'm scaffolding how to stand up to silliness in the late 1990's. (Upon confronting the grown-ups, never could figure whether it was the white parents or the black nanny that taught the jerk white kids "nickel.")
I remember letting two seven year olds paint the walls of the child's bedroom after the hardware store specially made a color just for her. Carving jack-o-lanterns, trick-or-treating, riding bikes, letting her drive before she was a teenager in the CVS parking lot...things dads do. Maybe moms do them, too: I'm sure some do those things and others and more. I remember a few years where a group of us - single moms and single dads - went to church together, shared dinners, Halloweens, Kwaanza, New Years, and especially, roller-skating sessions at Empire Skate in Brooklyn, off Flatbush Ave.
I used to attend a church where they made a point of celebrating men every week. Every week, men were mentioned as special creatures, and fatherhood was lauded. A supporter of feminists / womanysts, I at first enjoyed the recognition rituals just intellectually, so I told myself; but then more and more realized I returned as much because I was yearning for that recognition as I was applauding the idea in general. I needed the support: the scaffolding.
Being a parent who isn't living out and hasn't lived out the fantasy of being able to duplicate my upbringing in my child's life still causes residual regret. Will Smith talked about that once: how his oldest son will never know the sensation of running into mom and dad's room for safety during a thunderstorm. How he feels about that. As proto-providers, it grates to know that's one we missed giving our kid...grates when I know how I can still feel that security-vibe obtained under the covers between my own mom and dad during Tidewater storms.
See, there's one of those places where I've gone in my mind sometimes, holding my kid, or watching her do something amazing: to those moments of comfort during thunderstorms. And that's what I do: but I don't go off for long, either physically or in my mind.
But just like it's OK for me to have started the Ikea dresser, left it awhile, and returned when I was better able to put the finishing screws in tight but without the hammer, I think my parenting m.o. is OK, too.
Hmmm...
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Mr. Jordan, Ballers Can't Be Friends? 'Bron-gate Pt. Deux
I like a good rivalry just like the next guy. Rick Flair vs. Dusty Roads. Ricky Steamboat and Jay Youngblood vs. the Brisco Brothers (tagteam bouts). Johnny Weaver's Sleeper vs. Baron Von Raschke's Claw. I mean, I like a good rivalry.
But I also like when Woody and Buzz Lightyear go from being jealous adversaries to best buds. I even like when the Dave-and-Maddie's of the faux-spy world go from being sniping partners to Hart to Hart-esque committed partners by series end. Not saying Lebron, D-wade and Chris Bosh are going that way, but what if they do? Hunh? What if they do?
Toy Story is one of the highest grossing animated films of them all. Ricky Steamboat replaced Jay Youngblood with the younger Steamboat and wrestled in the Puerto Rican Wrestling League. If the Dragon can find success back in PR among the latino brethren, why can't Bosh and 'Bron? What is Michael Jordan objecting to?
Jordan recently bashed to Bosh-'Bron-Wade union by saying such silliness as, "I would never have called up Magic and Larry and suggested teaming up. I wanted to beat those guys!"
So what? What is it that he and some other NBA executives and players are really disparaging?
I don't like it when centers help the little guards up from the floor. I don't like when guys apologize after hard fouls. I don't like it when, once they're on teams, guys in the NBA speak too complimentarily about opposing players. I liked it very much when Iverson refused to verbally bow down to Jordan and tried, albeit unsuccessfully, tried to break his ankles just like he was trying to break everybody else's ankles during his early years in the NBA.
But the idea and fact of NBA players acknowledging the prowess of their peers not just in interviews, not just in private, but in face to face talks together as well as in interviews and in private, makes me want to both skip and leap off a top-rope!
How hypocritical is it to say one should make the greatest fortune possible (Jordan, about himself) and then say you shouldn't talk to other guys who also want to do that, and win championships, if the conversation is about doing that together?
Does anybody remember that there did come a day when Dusty Roads and Rick Flair wrestled in a match together? Didn't Dusty and Tully Blanchard even join forces at one point? Didn't the Baron, one week, become a good guy? Does nobody remember the various incarnations of The Four Horseman - remember that Barry Windham was a GOOD GUY??? That's sports entertainment before, and certainly after, the Jordan era.
C'mon, Jordan: you're from North Carolina. You watched Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling on TV and at the Charlotte Coliseum just like I watched it at the Hampton Coliseum! C'mon. Just, come on.
But I also like when Woody and Buzz Lightyear go from being jealous adversaries to best buds. I even like when the Dave-and-Maddie's of the faux-spy world go from being sniping partners to Hart to Hart-esque committed partners by series end. Not saying Lebron, D-wade and Chris Bosh are going that way, but what if they do? Hunh? What if they do?
Toy Story is one of the highest grossing animated films of them all. Ricky Steamboat replaced Jay Youngblood with the younger Steamboat and wrestled in the Puerto Rican Wrestling League. If the Dragon can find success back in PR among the latino brethren, why can't Bosh and 'Bron? What is Michael Jordan objecting to?
Jordan recently bashed to Bosh-'Bron-Wade union by saying such silliness as, "I would never have called up Magic and Larry and suggested teaming up. I wanted to beat those guys!"
So what? What is it that he and some other NBA executives and players are really disparaging?
I don't like it when centers help the little guards up from the floor. I don't like when guys apologize after hard fouls. I don't like it when, once they're on teams, guys in the NBA speak too complimentarily about opposing players. I liked it very much when Iverson refused to verbally bow down to Jordan and tried, albeit unsuccessfully, tried to break his ankles just like he was trying to break everybody else's ankles during his early years in the NBA.
But the idea and fact of NBA players acknowledging the prowess of their peers not just in interviews, not just in private, but in face to face talks together as well as in interviews and in private, makes me want to both skip and leap off a top-rope!
How hypocritical is it to say one should make the greatest fortune possible (Jordan, about himself) and then say you shouldn't talk to other guys who also want to do that, and win championships, if the conversation is about doing that together?
Does anybody remember that there did come a day when Dusty Roads and Rick Flair wrestled in a match together? Didn't Dusty and Tully Blanchard even join forces at one point? Didn't the Baron, one week, become a good guy? Does nobody remember the various incarnations of The Four Horseman - remember that Barry Windham was a GOOD GUY??? That's sports entertainment before, and certainly after, the Jordan era.
C'mon, Jordan: you're from North Carolina. You watched Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling on TV and at the Charlotte Coliseum just like I watched it at the Hampton Coliseum! C'mon. Just, come on.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Poetry: Father Taught (JLSC 7)
1
He had brought bed-time kisses
to an end three years ago.
I was back home
from the week-long workshop
for high school editors that
I had paid for, by myself.
To say hello, I’m back,
I took his hand in mine
weakly, so wrongly.
“Is that how
you shake a man’s hand,
Billy—Beaver—boy?”
Disappointed, but no quitter,
he said, “This is how
you do it, man.
Sean, you look here:
V to v,
but cup your hand
so the other man
can’t grab and squeeze
your fingertips. See?”
We shook until I properly shook
a man’s hand.
2
Such little hands.
Unanticipated tiny fingers
requiring patience
that I do not have.
I want to teach
my father’s lessons
but it’s too soon
for shaking hands.
Undiscouraged, yet confused,
I slipped her hand into mine.
Her taut skin, light-colored
like the unpainted wood
of her Ikea crib
that I assembled
proudly and right
I stroke with my thumb
like a breeze off the James
the side that she’ll learn
is the black-hand side
someday. Not today.
When my daughter was three
I called to tell my father
“Crossing at Park Place
and Vanderbilt,
big V to little v,
I could swear
she stroked my hand.”
-By Sean Chambers
He had brought bed-time kisses
to an end three years ago.
I was back home
from the week-long workshop
for high school editors that
I had paid for, by myself.
To say hello, I’m back,
I took his hand in mine
weakly, so wrongly.
“Is that how
you shake a man’s hand,
Billy—Beaver—boy?”
Disappointed, but no quitter,
he said, “This is how
you do it, man.
Sean, you look here:
V to v,
but cup your hand
so the other man
can’t grab and squeeze
your fingertips. See?”
We shook until I properly shook
a man’s hand.
2
Such little hands.
Unanticipated tiny fingers
requiring patience
that I do not have.
I want to teach
my father’s lessons
but it’s too soon
for shaking hands.
Undiscouraged, yet confused,
I slipped her hand into mine.
Her taut skin, light-colored
like the unpainted wood
of her Ikea crib
that I assembled
proudly and right
I stroke with my thumb
like a breeze off the James
the side that she’ll learn
is the black-hand side
someday. Not today.
When my daughter was three
I called to tell my father
“Crossing at Park Place
and Vanderbilt,
big V to little v,
I could swear
she stroked my hand.”
-By Sean Chambers
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Women's Nails Be Growing
Recently to reward her for her grades, I took my daughter for a manicure and pedicure. She loved it.
It was my first time in a nail salon. They asked if I was also getting treatment, and I said no. The last time I remember hearing about the topic of men getting pedicures was years ago in church. I used to go to a progressive megachurch in Brooklyn, and the minister had opened a barbershop that would also provide manicures for men, he announced one service. I don't recall if the place was a success or folded, but I never went. I get massages but no manicures yet. (Big shout to Lia at Philly's Massage Spa on 4th and South Street!)
So we're in the nail salon and since she's getting her feet washed while sitting in one of the big massage chairs, the guy in the shop turns on the vibration mechanism for the chair next to her that I'm sitting in. Felt good.
Then they clipped and ... is there a more technical or PC term for when they're digging the dirt out your toes? They were doing that, then rubbing her feet, and I'm shaking in the chair, looking outside at the passers-by, trying not to think "which salon employee is the cutest" or other such things guys think about when they're at salons, because my daughter's sitting there and it's just uncomfortable. For me. For some other of my guy friends, it's no issue. Maybe their menner than me.
For years I'd take her to the same hair place in Brooklyn - took before-and-after pictures almost everytime, adorable. That hair salon. Those times were grist for stories and an education and a blessing, too. Being there for those hours (and hours and hours) because those memories are unusual for dads and daughters (and I like being unusual) but also because it's awesome to watch your kid be pampered and go from feeling just OK to bee-yuu-tee-full! Makes you smile. Talk about feeling menner than other men: treat your daughter to what causes her to glow. Addictive.
Hair's one thing, and digging out the toe dirt was different but still fun to watch. I'm a boy. So anyway, they did her toes and got to her fingernails. Same deal: rub the hands, clip the nails, dig the dirt out. (Sound like Leave It to Beaver, don't I? "Mom, a nail salon's where they dig out the dirt from your fingernails and stuff?" "Shut, up, Beave! What a stupid question. They dig it out your toes, right Ma?" "Wally!") After they polished her nails, they put this white line across all the tips. I really liked that. Sure, I'd seen it before on women and I'd seen good and bad polishes, well-done and not well-done, I'm trying to say. Hers were well-done. Then they put her under heat fans to dry it all.
So now it's weeks later, right, and I was sitting on the floor, and she was sitting on the couch with her feet dangling down. I looked over and noticed space between the polishy part of her big toenail and its cuticle. Like there's a dull space. I think the polish is disintegrating. And I go, "What's wrong with your nails, that space there between the shiny part and the cuticle?"
And she goes, "Yeah, it's time to take the polish off."
And I go, "Hunh?" Because I was thinking something was wrong with her feet or the polish was bad or like I said, disintegrating.
"My nails grew."
"Hunh?" I said.
"My nails grew."
And I never had thought about that before. I swear, till then, I had thought women with that - women at that stage between last manicure and next one, or paint removal - were just women with wack pedicures or wack manicures. Like their treatments had been wack from jump, not that their nails had grown.
Nails grow. Of course!
That's it. That's what I learned about what I see when I'm seeing women's nails with that space.
It was my first time in a nail salon. They asked if I was also getting treatment, and I said no. The last time I remember hearing about the topic of men getting pedicures was years ago in church. I used to go to a progressive megachurch in Brooklyn, and the minister had opened a barbershop that would also provide manicures for men, he announced one service. I don't recall if the place was a success or folded, but I never went. I get massages but no manicures yet. (Big shout to Lia at Philly's Massage Spa on 4th and South Street!)
So we're in the nail salon and since she's getting her feet washed while sitting in one of the big massage chairs, the guy in the shop turns on the vibration mechanism for the chair next to her that I'm sitting in. Felt good.
Then they clipped and ... is there a more technical or PC term for when they're digging the dirt out your toes? They were doing that, then rubbing her feet, and I'm shaking in the chair, looking outside at the passers-by, trying not to think "which salon employee is the cutest" or other such things guys think about when they're at salons, because my daughter's sitting there and it's just uncomfortable. For me. For some other of my guy friends, it's no issue. Maybe their menner than me.
For years I'd take her to the same hair place in Brooklyn - took before-and-after pictures almost everytime, adorable. That hair salon. Those times were grist for stories and an education and a blessing, too. Being there for those hours (and hours and hours) because those memories are unusual for dads and daughters (and I like being unusual) but also because it's awesome to watch your kid be pampered and go from feeling just OK to bee-yuu-tee-full! Makes you smile. Talk about feeling menner than other men: treat your daughter to what causes her to glow. Addictive.
Hair's one thing, and digging out the toe dirt was different but still fun to watch. I'm a boy. So anyway, they did her toes and got to her fingernails. Same deal: rub the hands, clip the nails, dig the dirt out. (Sound like Leave It to Beaver, don't I? "Mom, a nail salon's where they dig out the dirt from your fingernails and stuff?" "Shut, up, Beave! What a stupid question. They dig it out your toes, right Ma?" "Wally!") After they polished her nails, they put this white line across all the tips. I really liked that. Sure, I'd seen it before on women and I'd seen good and bad polishes, well-done and not well-done, I'm trying to say. Hers were well-done. Then they put her under heat fans to dry it all.
So now it's weeks later, right, and I was sitting on the floor, and she was sitting on the couch with her feet dangling down. I looked over and noticed space between the polishy part of her big toenail and its cuticle. Like there's a dull space. I think the polish is disintegrating. And I go, "What's wrong with your nails, that space there between the shiny part and the cuticle?"
And she goes, "Yeah, it's time to take the polish off."
And I go, "Hunh?" Because I was thinking something was wrong with her feet or the polish was bad or like I said, disintegrating.
"My nails grew."
"Hunh?" I said.
"My nails grew."
And I never had thought about that before. I swear, till then, I had thought women with that - women at that stage between last manicure and next one, or paint removal - were just women with wack pedicures or wack manicures. Like their treatments had been wack from jump, not that their nails had grown.
Nails grow. Of course!
That's it. That's what I learned about what I see when I'm seeing women's nails with that space.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Lebron's Phil Donahue Moment
AJ Adande is a mad black sports reporter. He was a heated talking head on ESPN's Around the Horn the day after Lebron James announced he was heading to the Miami Heat from the Cleveland Cavaliers.
Why can't black players conspire to determine whether they want to join forces for one franchise? Why does Lebron have to call the Cavs owner to say he's leaving after seven years when said owner wouldn't be pressed by his peers to do the same before trading James? Why can't Lebron conspire with ESPN and his sponsors to buy an hour of TV dedicated to promoting himself, his Vitamin Water, his interviews with a multiracial and dual gender set of (all ESPN) reporters while he makes cash and history? Why can't he when he proved he can, Adande kept repeating.
I kinda agree. I have a few friends who felt James dissed Cleveland and reinforced the image of the arrogant athlete. But I don't know, I think the better question is why did we watch (another point Adande was trying to make). And we watched because we like spectacle: that's what TV is about (until I return as the reincarnation of Phil Donahue, baby!).
I am really happy for Dwayne Wade. I am tickled by Pat Riley's fierce determination to make sure Phil Jackson is not the person whose name gets mentioned before Pat's in every coach's conversation. I am ignorant about the skills of Chris Bosh. I am curious about which other players will join the Heat's roster. I am probably going to buy not a James jersey (I do already own a King James t-shirt), but I'll get a Wade item.
I don't have other emotions besides those. As a move, I think Lebron made out fine. Miami is a sexier town to win a championship in than Cleveland. He could have stayed in Ohio, players would have joined him and tried to help him get some titles. But Miami victories will be more fun. I love Newport News, but nobody can tell me it's the same charge getting a show there as the Big Apple, LA or ... London.
Phil Donahue moved his show from Ohio to New York City, and if Phil tired of the little markets, I mean, who would think a 25-year-old NBA star wouldn't?
Why can't black players conspire to determine whether they want to join forces for one franchise? Why does Lebron have to call the Cavs owner to say he's leaving after seven years when said owner wouldn't be pressed by his peers to do the same before trading James? Why can't Lebron conspire with ESPN and his sponsors to buy an hour of TV dedicated to promoting himself, his Vitamin Water, his interviews with a multiracial and dual gender set of (all ESPN) reporters while he makes cash and history? Why can't he when he proved he can, Adande kept repeating.
I kinda agree. I have a few friends who felt James dissed Cleveland and reinforced the image of the arrogant athlete. But I don't know, I think the better question is why did we watch (another point Adande was trying to make). And we watched because we like spectacle: that's what TV is about (until I return as the reincarnation of Phil Donahue, baby!).
I am really happy for Dwayne Wade. I am tickled by Pat Riley's fierce determination to make sure Phil Jackson is not the person whose name gets mentioned before Pat's in every coach's conversation. I am ignorant about the skills of Chris Bosh. I am curious about which other players will join the Heat's roster. I am probably going to buy not a James jersey (I do already own a King James t-shirt), but I'll get a Wade item.
I don't have other emotions besides those. As a move, I think Lebron made out fine. Miami is a sexier town to win a championship in than Cleveland. He could have stayed in Ohio, players would have joined him and tried to help him get some titles. But Miami victories will be more fun. I love Newport News, but nobody can tell me it's the same charge getting a show there as the Big Apple, LA or ... London.
Phil Donahue moved his show from Ohio to New York City, and if Phil tired of the little markets, I mean, who would think a 25-year-old NBA star wouldn't?
Monday, July 5, 2010
JLSC 4 - The Philly Goo Goo Violence Report
I saw the fireworks over the Philadelphia Museum of Art this year. I walked the crowd, enjoyed the music.
Now for The Philly Goo Goo Violence Report: When I was at the Parkway, and while the Goo Goo Dolls were onstage, I saw a whiteboy near me get pushed into his homey's arms by a brother who felt like ole boy got too close to bruh's girl. Whiteboy stayed limp for the entire three minute tirade. I think the whiteboy was drunk. I don't know whether he did anything to bruh's girl or didn't, but bruh didn't sock him, he just pushed him, warned him, and turned back to watch the Goo Goo Dolls.
Mind you, I was not hoping anybody would get punched, but I would be lying if I said I hadn't wished something would occur somewhere to force the Goo Goo Dolls to stop performing. I don't think you're supposed to get sleepy at a July Fourth fireworks extravaganza, but dem Dolls were straight Ambien with theirs, in my view. I left the scene. I ate pizza, drank fruit juice, people-watched on Chestnut and 21st. I abandoned my cigar-smoking tradition in favor of doing a half-year reflection on what's gone right so far in the year, in this case, 2010. (Lots has.)
So that's my violence report. Now it's July 5th. I watched the news today, and oh boy...
All too predictably, the report was of violence at the celebration, by teenagers. "Teenagers took over Broad Street," said the local ABC news anchor. Video showed lots of anonymous people deep in numbers as Market Street is wide, walking up that main drag from City Hall. I think I was supposed to see a mob or an angry mob. Not a flashmob, the anchor made clear, because that implies social media (facebook, twitter) would have been used to call the mob to disorderly conduct, and there was no proof of that.
Then the station cut to what goes for proof, I infer: an eyewitness - maybe blonde, maybe brown-haired, maybe grey-eyed, maybe simply blue-eyed - saying from under his baseball cap, "I was just walking down the street from the fireworks. Then I heard somebody say flashmob. Then I saw someone get punched. Then they started coming toward me." Mind you, he was not - what's the word? - caught or overwhelmed by the, um, mob. He was not touched! He was looked at.
Somebody looked at me before. And I certainly have felt like people have moved in my direction before, and I'll say more: once, they were black people. And teens (mind you, I teach them). Finally, I have owned baseball caps, and I mean lots of them. Phillies, Pirates, Red Sox, Yankees, Michigan, Ohio State: aw man, I loved that red and gray Ohio State hat I used to have. And you know I was sporting the Cavaliers hat with the thin-V and the cross-swords under it when everybody else was wearing the more boxed-out-letters type logo. Oh, yeah, man, I wore it on a college news broadcast with some Jams pajama pants, once. Remember Jams? I loved my purple janks.
I digress. Back to the thing.
People have seen me, moved toward me, hatted, hatless...I want to be on the news. So, that's number one.
Number two: Proof, good reporting, that's what I was getting at, right? Where's the person who was punched? Where's the puncher? Where's the story? The one I'm supposed to do something with today because it has information, or because it is information. Because it's news. Community news by and for community members.
Consider the source of the eyewitness report, and deliverers of ABC's report (the anchors). Well, what's to consider? What do we know?
Full disclosure from this here blog-source: For those who might not know, things happen to me, and often I see things. This July Fourth experience (the Goo Goo / pushing incident) was less dramatic than the time I took the Zipcar that turned out to be a guy's actual car (had it for, what, five hours?) to my daughter's softball game, and I cruise coolly back to the parking garage to return the vehicle, and the guy comes over saying, "How's that car drive? You like it?" And I go, "It's great!" (It was a mini Cooper convertible, handled well, Scorpions CD was in the deck, rockin'!) Guy said the cops were on their way, and I said, "Why?" He goes, "That's my car."
True story. For another blog. (Post a comment, if you want to hear that whole tale.)
Did I digress again? Violence, teens, civil society's fear of both: I think I'm trying to talk about that. Point is, I'm a source! Source of what: that's a valid question, right?
Remember Aunt Bunny who comes to Eddie Murphy's family cookouts, and Eddie's drunk father's comments: Why everytime you come to my house, you have to break the stairs, Bunny? And she throws her head into the fish tank, and lifts out a live one, and from between her bare teeth, she says, "Gooney goo goo!"
Man, that jank cracks me up eh ver ree time!
Everytime.
Now for The Philly Goo Goo Violence Report: When I was at the Parkway, and while the Goo Goo Dolls were onstage, I saw a whiteboy near me get pushed into his homey's arms by a brother who felt like ole boy got too close to bruh's girl. Whiteboy stayed limp for the entire three minute tirade. I think the whiteboy was drunk. I don't know whether he did anything to bruh's girl or didn't, but bruh didn't sock him, he just pushed him, warned him, and turned back to watch the Goo Goo Dolls.
Mind you, I was not hoping anybody would get punched, but I would be lying if I said I hadn't wished something would occur somewhere to force the Goo Goo Dolls to stop performing. I don't think you're supposed to get sleepy at a July Fourth fireworks extravaganza, but dem Dolls were straight Ambien with theirs, in my view. I left the scene. I ate pizza, drank fruit juice, people-watched on Chestnut and 21st. I abandoned my cigar-smoking tradition in favor of doing a half-year reflection on what's gone right so far in the year, in this case, 2010. (Lots has.)
So that's my violence report. Now it's July 5th. I watched the news today, and oh boy...
All too predictably, the report was of violence at the celebration, by teenagers. "Teenagers took over Broad Street," said the local ABC news anchor. Video showed lots of anonymous people deep in numbers as Market Street is wide, walking up that main drag from City Hall. I think I was supposed to see a mob or an angry mob. Not a flashmob, the anchor made clear, because that implies social media (facebook, twitter) would have been used to call the mob to disorderly conduct, and there was no proof of that.
Then the station cut to what goes for proof, I infer: an eyewitness - maybe blonde, maybe brown-haired, maybe grey-eyed, maybe simply blue-eyed - saying from under his baseball cap, "I was just walking down the street from the fireworks. Then I heard somebody say flashmob. Then I saw someone get punched. Then they started coming toward me." Mind you, he was not - what's the word? - caught or overwhelmed by the, um, mob. He was not touched! He was looked at.
Somebody looked at me before. And I certainly have felt like people have moved in my direction before, and I'll say more: once, they were black people. And teens (mind you, I teach them). Finally, I have owned baseball caps, and I mean lots of them. Phillies, Pirates, Red Sox, Yankees, Michigan, Ohio State: aw man, I loved that red and gray Ohio State hat I used to have. And you know I was sporting the Cavaliers hat with the thin-V and the cross-swords under it when everybody else was wearing the more boxed-out-letters type logo. Oh, yeah, man, I wore it on a college news broadcast with some Jams pajama pants, once. Remember Jams? I loved my purple janks.
I digress. Back to the thing.
People have seen me, moved toward me, hatted, hatless...I want to be on the news. So, that's number one.
Number two: Proof, good reporting, that's what I was getting at, right? Where's the person who was punched? Where's the puncher? Where's the story? The one I'm supposed to do something with today because it has information, or because it is information. Because it's news. Community news by and for community members.
Consider the source of the eyewitness report, and deliverers of ABC's report (the anchors). Well, what's to consider? What do we know?
Full disclosure from this here blog-source: For those who might not know, things happen to me, and often I see things. This July Fourth experience (the Goo Goo / pushing incident) was less dramatic than the time I took the Zipcar that turned out to be a guy's actual car (had it for, what, five hours?) to my daughter's softball game, and I cruise coolly back to the parking garage to return the vehicle, and the guy comes over saying, "How's that car drive? You like it?" And I go, "It's great!" (It was a mini Cooper convertible, handled well, Scorpions CD was in the deck, rockin'!) Guy said the cops were on their way, and I said, "Why?" He goes, "That's my car."
True story. For another blog. (Post a comment, if you want to hear that whole tale.)
Did I digress again? Violence, teens, civil society's fear of both: I think I'm trying to talk about that. Point is, I'm a source! Source of what: that's a valid question, right?
Remember Aunt Bunny who comes to Eddie Murphy's family cookouts, and Eddie's drunk father's comments: Why everytime you come to my house, you have to break the stairs, Bunny? And she throws her head into the fish tank, and lifts out a live one, and from between her bare teeth, she says, "Gooney goo goo!"
Man, that jank cracks me up eh ver ree time!
Everytime.
Friday, July 2, 2010
What Prince Did
I recently reread some of Audrey Lorde's essays in Sister Outsider, and so with fresh eyes through Lorde's lens, I can see how women might be thought to have more access to power through the erotic sensibility than men. Maybe a producer at BET had done the same. BET gave Prince their 2010 Lifetime Achievement Award, and I saw the rebroadcast of the all-female tribute recently. The purple one was paid homage by older and younger artists, but no peers. A pregnant Alicia Keys thrusting her rendition of Adore, a shoeless Patti Labelle kicking out Purple Rain, a quirky newcomer jerking out Let's Go Crazy and another plucking off If I Was Your Girlfriend using an upright bass, these women were fun to watch and fine enough to listen to. Nobody knocked off my socks.
They changed the words and totally steered toward the lane Prince has been driving in for a decade now: the safe zone. You either sing If I Was Your Girlfriend right and risk the lesbian double entendres, or don't sing it. Otherwise, it's like pretending Prince didn't cleverly and deliberately blur lines of sexuality, spirituality, sexual orientation, gender, race and musical genre, for effect, and effectively. Even if you weren't doing it in real life as a teen or older person enjoying his music, his hope was you'd risk asking how much of your mind you had left and stop worrying about how much time you had left, right?
After the asking, there was supposed to be some stretching, I think.
There was not much stretching at the BET Awards, I don't think.
Prince, in his acceptance speech, told the younger artists that they did not have to do some of the things he'd done, or make the mistakes he'd made. While I know Prince could be talking about not making business mistakes that he made, I also think there's room to hear him saying stay away from the content (topics, style) of the music from the first half of his career - the music that defines the guy BET honored. The rock star. The seducer. The guy who wrote about signs, kisses and licking things. Last night made it seem like Prince was Ralphie from A Christmas Story who watched the kid stick his tongue where it didn't belong and for all the world to see, and not the risk taking auteur of guitar licks and others (or so one of his personas hints at at the end of Girlfriend).
I became a fan of Prince because I thought Prince was the kid. Didn't you? Was he only playing "the kid" in Purple Rain?
Even if the second half of his catalogue is going to be a series of tributes to, as he says, Jehovah, why can't it be funky like the Staple Singers' music? It's still the case that becoming great at something requires showing mastery of what's come before in the realm of your artistic exploration. I wasn't a Madonna fan, but she sort of did some of this, too, if not entirely with her music, certainly with her crafted media persona. Why can't Prince blaze that trail between number one sex symbol and old guy at the club without becoming boring or played out? And why can't younger artists help by raising their talents and their tributes to a higher level at these kinds of awards shows. The jerky girl rocked it; the others, not so much.
I guess I'm just also at a loss to imagine who I would rather have seen up there. I got it: Prince himself, Dr. Fink, Tommy Barbarella, Wendy and Lisa, Rosie Gaines, Levi Seacer, and the big guy who rocked the drums on Gett Off (from New Power Generation). I would have rather seen people who told me it was not only OK to enjoy Prince from the late seventies through the early nineties, but also that it really happened. When I say it, I mean the great instrumentation of the Come album and in singles like The Question of U and When Doves Cry. And I mean the religiosity of The Cross and the adolescent politics of Ronnie Talk to Russia. And the sadness of Anna Stesia and the collaborations like We Can Funk (with George Clinton, on Graffitti Bridge). And the best love song ever, for my money, Adore. Shoot: And the Batman soundtrack. And the album lyric sheets, the glyphs and other symbols...All that it, that wasn't on the stage at BET in any large measure at all. Anybody besides me remember It?
I think about it baby all the time, all right
In the bed, on the stairs, anywhere, all right
I could be guilty for my honesty, all right
But I got to tell you what you mean to me, all right
(Prince, "It," Sign of the Times, 1987)
While the BET tribute seemed safe, and tried to leave well-enough alone, Prince was the rare male figure artistically exploring that idea that the erotic was one road to an aspect of empowerment, and exploring it well, since back in the late seventies, and best in his heyday of the 1980s. Prince inspired rhythm and bluesers, rockers, and rappers. And as is oft repeated by those of that latter genre: if you don't know, now you know.
They changed the words and totally steered toward the lane Prince has been driving in for a decade now: the safe zone. You either sing If I Was Your Girlfriend right and risk the lesbian double entendres, or don't sing it. Otherwise, it's like pretending Prince didn't cleverly and deliberately blur lines of sexuality, spirituality, sexual orientation, gender, race and musical genre, for effect, and effectively. Even if you weren't doing it in real life as a teen or older person enjoying his music, his hope was you'd risk asking how much of your mind you had left and stop worrying about how much time you had left, right?
After the asking, there was supposed to be some stretching, I think.
There was not much stretching at the BET Awards, I don't think.
Prince, in his acceptance speech, told the younger artists that they did not have to do some of the things he'd done, or make the mistakes he'd made. While I know Prince could be talking about not making business mistakes that he made, I also think there's room to hear him saying stay away from the content (topics, style) of the music from the first half of his career - the music that defines the guy BET honored. The rock star. The seducer. The guy who wrote about signs, kisses and licking things. Last night made it seem like Prince was Ralphie from A Christmas Story who watched the kid stick his tongue where it didn't belong and for all the world to see, and not the risk taking auteur of guitar licks and others (or so one of his personas hints at at the end of Girlfriend).
I became a fan of Prince because I thought Prince was the kid. Didn't you? Was he only playing "the kid" in Purple Rain?
Even if the second half of his catalogue is going to be a series of tributes to, as he says, Jehovah, why can't it be funky like the Staple Singers' music? It's still the case that becoming great at something requires showing mastery of what's come before in the realm of your artistic exploration. I wasn't a Madonna fan, but she sort of did some of this, too, if not entirely with her music, certainly with her crafted media persona. Why can't Prince blaze that trail between number one sex symbol and old guy at the club without becoming boring or played out? And why can't younger artists help by raising their talents and their tributes to a higher level at these kinds of awards shows. The jerky girl rocked it; the others, not so much.
I guess I'm just also at a loss to imagine who I would rather have seen up there. I got it: Prince himself, Dr. Fink, Tommy Barbarella, Wendy and Lisa, Rosie Gaines, Levi Seacer, and the big guy who rocked the drums on Gett Off (from New Power Generation). I would have rather seen people who told me it was not only OK to enjoy Prince from the late seventies through the early nineties, but also that it really happened. When I say it, I mean the great instrumentation of the Come album and in singles like The Question of U and When Doves Cry. And I mean the religiosity of The Cross and the adolescent politics of Ronnie Talk to Russia. And the sadness of Anna Stesia and the collaborations like We Can Funk (with George Clinton, on Graffitti Bridge). And the best love song ever, for my money, Adore. Shoot: And the Batman soundtrack. And the album lyric sheets, the glyphs and other symbols...All that it, that wasn't on the stage at BET in any large measure at all. Anybody besides me remember It?
I think about it baby all the time, all right
In the bed, on the stairs, anywhere, all right
I could be guilty for my honesty, all right
But I got to tell you what you mean to me, all right
(Prince, "It," Sign of the Times, 1987)
While the BET tribute seemed safe, and tried to leave well-enough alone, Prince was the rare male figure artistically exploring that idea that the erotic was one road to an aspect of empowerment, and exploring it well, since back in the late seventies, and best in his heyday of the 1980s. Prince inspired rhythm and bluesers, rockers, and rappers. And as is oft repeated by those of that latter genre: if you don't know, now you know.
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