May Day, May Day--Folks Gone Cray Cray!!!

Hello Readers,

I come to you now, with my second post in as many hours, with a late-breaking news item brought to my attention by Litsa.

The following billboard is located in the Soho area of NYC, just blocks from the downtown Planned Parenthood offices:




Um, what?! How dare they use this gorgeous, young, gifted, and black child to create sensationalism that is demeaning to black people of all backgrounds--and during Black History Month, no less!!!

You know a blacktress is down with PPNYC (you can check out some stand-up I did for a benefit for them on Youtube)--they help the uninsured keep their down-theres so fresh and so clean, clean, and I'm not hatin' on anyone who makes it happen.

The most dangerous place for an African American is in the womb?! Um, clearly "Life Always" doesn't get out much. Let me bring them some truth.

The Most Dangerous Places for an African American in 2011

• A rally held by one of the 100+ Ku Klux Klan chapters (also known as "klaverns") in the United States.
• The US Penitentiary System
• Massachusetts and South of the Mason-Dixon line.
• A Justin Bieber concert (Well, this is dangerous for anyone, really. Those teens go into a crazed mental state y'all. Come at you foaming at the mouth, all fists and elbows, like a whirling dervish.)
• A home in which a fire arm is kept.
• A deserted alley at 3am. (Again, not racially specific)
• The backwoods of Australia, on Australia Day--or after a cricket match. (trust me)
• A middle or high school anywhere in this country (but yes, it does get better!)
• The offices of "Life Always"--largely because an internet search comes up with nothing. It would seem that these cowardly masterminds exist in a realm beyond space and time--or, at the very least, a realm where no one wants to be held accountable. A dangerous place, indeed!!!

Update: You'll notice that I just changed the title of this post, removing "White." I did so after seeing a news segment on NewYork1 that featured a black priest speaking on behalf of Life Always. Whether he was just a front man or an actual leader of the organization, it proves that there is a wolf in the hen house, and I must not besmirch a Caucasian with my rash assumptions. After all, what kind of TRUTH would I be telling if I did?!

Reading Rainbow

I went to stay at my mom’s place last night, because her Latin lover was out of town (they’re married, so it’s not as sordid as I make it sound, but he'll always be a Latin lover to me). It reminded me of coming home from college: I was directed to make myself comfortable but I didn’t have any of my stuff around, I used my mom’s car to purchase bulk items, and I even brought over some laundry (I swear, it was at her insistence!).

The only difference is that now, as I get closer to 30 (gross), I can really see my mother as a person—and boy, is this lady a piece of work. I mean, we all know she loves Luda, but there's more to Mama Truth than I give her credit for. She epitomizes the phrase Strong Black Woman, raising me solo and even sending me to Africa to live with my grandma so she could study and take the bar exam (and passed, obvs). Mama Truth grew up youngest of 7, in a house run by three simple rules:

1. We’re not going to the hospital unless you’re holding a body part (yours or someone else's) in your hand.
2. If your mother can’t be honest with you, who will be? (i.e. Yes, you do look fat in those jeans.)
3. Laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Cry and I’ll give you something to cry about.

Needless to say, she’s not the most emotive.

As I got ready to go to bed last night, I went down to the family room to grab a book. A survey of my mother’s bookshelf provided me with more insight than I’d gotten in the 27 years that I’ve been her child (not including the time en utero). Here’s a sampling of the books that were so important to her that she had them shipped from Manhattan to New Jersey (almost a hundred didn’t make the cut):

Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, by Steve Harvey
How to Clean Practically Anything
Why We Suck, by Dennis Leary
Black Pain, by Terrie Williams
The entire Cornel West collection
When to Speak Up and When to Shut Up
Dreams of my Father, by Barack Obama
The complete works of Toni Morrison
Rock This, by Chris Rock (This was a birthday present from me in 1998--tenderness!)
The Elements of Grammar
Low-Fat Soul (this book is a contradiction. If it doesn't cause type-2 diabetes, it's not soul!)
The Darwin Awards
Who Moved My Cheese?, by Spencer Johnson, M.D.*
(I didn’t even bother picking this one up. The spine was all I needed to see)
Eat, Pray, Love
The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes
Skinny Bitch
Idiot's Guide to Landscaping

Mama Truth is a real mixed bag, y'all. This would explain why our best times together involve eating and watching "The Colbert Report."



*For those of you who are dying to know (all of you, I'm sure):

The simple story of Who Moved My Cheese? reveals profound truths about change that give people and organizations a quick and easy way to succeed in changing times.

Who Moved My Cheese? is an enlightening story of four characters who live in a "Maze" and look for "Cheese" to nourish them and make them happy. Two are mice named Sniff and Scurry, and two are mouse-size people named Hem and Haw.

"Cheese" is a metaphor for what you want to have in life - whether it is a good job, a loving relationship, money, a possession, health, or spiritual peace of mind. And "The Maze" is where you look for what you want - the organization you work in, or the family or community you live in.

Rider Die Chick

Hey gang,

So, ever since I got hazed and rejected by that hedge fund, I’ve been resigned to the fact that I may not be able to get off this plantation anytime soon. I’ve also resigned myself to the fact that my blog will be searchable as long as I sign in using my e-mail account, and even if I did make a change, Google’s like a war widow—IT NEVER FORGETS. In order to prevent future drama (save it for Obama!), I’ve decided I will only post things that I would say in real life—or about people who I know can’t read or don’t have computers.

Guys, I want to care about my job, I really do, but I only live once— and I must give myself over to the blacktress deep within. So when one of our editors tapped me to be in an upcoming “how-to video” on drawing, I said yes—mostly because I liked being referred to as “the talent”, and it’ll mean I’m away from my desk for a whole hour!

Of course, the video’s going to be dull as dishwater, and it’ll mostly be voice-over, but the editor wrote a “script” that basically reads like a book report on drawing. I got the first draft and was directed to “add your flair”—which I took to mean "cut as much of the crap as possible"--and I did. She was hounding me for my edits (um, not my job!) so I sent back the first three pages along with my rider. I mean, if you want to use a blacktress for the screen, you'll have to meet her needs (I heard Bob Ross required 12 afro picks on standby at all times). Please see my requirements below, and make a note in case you'd like to collaborate on any future projects:

Rider for Sojourner “You Can’t Handle The” Truth (who will herein be referred to as “Blacktress”) - 2/15/2011

by Blacktress – dictated, but not read

Requirements

- 2 bottles of Fiji water kept at room temperature

- 4 bananas, 1 of which must be sliced into rounds

- Justin Timberlake playing in the background

- Justin Bieber playing in the foreground

- Online editor (who will be referred to as “Massa”) must respect Blacktress’s dominance and knowledge of the creative process.



At least 4 takes of every medium close up (to be filmed on from Blacktress’ left side)


Blacktress has very specific needs, and body temperature is of the utmost concern. It is mandatory that the internal temperature of the performance space reach no higher than 68 degrees, to prevent sweating and facial shine.



Preferences
Please meet at least 3 of the following:

- Massa wears a dunce cap

- Video guy wears a newsie cap

- Video shoot must be scheduled to take place over 4 hours but only take 1.5, so that Blacktress may run some errands.

- 5 golden rings.

- 1 ring of power, 1 ring to rule them all.



Perfectly reasonable, yes?

Food For Thought

I know that many of you don’t know me IRL, so any talks of physical appearance will probably fall flat. Basically, I have gained about 14 pounds in the last year, largely because I stopped drinking to feel pretty and instead eat to feel social. I’ve been trying to nip it in the bud ever since Thanksgiving, but to no avail. My therapist has advised I keep a food diary, so that I can see what and why I’m eating like a crazy person.
I already know it’s because I’m on FATkins, not Atkins: Last weekend I ate French toast for both brunch and dinner; I’m a hot mess. But I decided to go with the doctor’s orders just to straighten myself out a bit. Here’s an excerpt for all you lovely readers who might know what it’s like to eat your feelings.

February 15, 2011


Dear Food Diary,

How are you doing? I can’t believe it’s been, like, 4 days since I’ve written in you. I’m sorry about all those nasty things I said about you—you know, that you were useless, annoying, and judgmental. I also feel kinda bad about staining your pages with my tears.
Anyway, here’s what I’ve eaten recently. So, last night Jewboo came over for Valentine’s Day, and I made dinner.

We had:
chicken (thinly sliced breasts) in a mushroom and balsamic sauce
with a side of pesto pasta (angel hair)
a mixed green salad
and cheesy garlic bread.
For dessert we had heart-shaped brownies (I know, I know, Diary--I’m such a sap!!) with ice cream.

Oh, and did I mention that for V-Day Jewboo got me a pint of red velvet cheesecake ice cream? Yeah, um, that happened. Look, Diary, it’s not my fault! It was really thoughtful of him and I had to at least try it! I mean, what kind of gf would I be if I was like, “I can’t eat this. I’m on a diet”?

This is why you’re single, diary.

So, I was all set to be good today, but the RED DRAGON is upon me, and my uterus is aching. You know when the dragon comes he must be placated with sugar. And I would have been fine, but then my coworker brought in cookies. So today’s food has been:
1 biscotti
2 cups of tea
FOUR frosted cookies

I haven’t had anything else. I swear I’ll get a salad for lunch. Or maybe I’ll just have some more Advil. I don’t know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, mmmkay?

From Blacktress, With Love!

Hey Gang,

Sorry for my lack of bloggery of late—it’s been a busy black history month. In the last 7 days I’ve written 4 articles, put together a 96-page magazine, gone on my first commercial audition, hosted a Black History Month-themed sketch show, shared my tales of OKCupid dating with the hippest of hipsters, told an embarrassing story in Williamsburg, and finally performed with some black people. I decided it was time to blog when my boss came up to me on Friday and said I looked like Black Barbie (remember, massa’s a former drag queen). I believe his exact words were:

“Look at you in this sparkly sweater, it’s so Black Barbie. With the bangs and the pony. You are just cute today.”

I was ready to break it down and then got bombarded with actual work and am only now just resuming this post!!! I hope that you’ll forgive me on this day of lovers.

Oh, and I also got an e-mail from a stand-up booker asking, “Can you do a clean set with some Christian material for a March 19th gig?”

Um, what? Is he looking for something Tyler Perry-esque? I have nothing of the sort. But for reals—I don’t know even think I have a clean set. The last time I had to do something clean was at an office party in Australia, and I left known as the woman who said “Vagina” in the workplace.

I’ve been at work less than an hour and am already looking for ways to procrastinate. Perhaps it’s because the one toilet that the 10 of us share is clogged, and our “doorman” is plunging it as we speak. I feel like I’m in a late-80s sitcom.


It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m actually not all that excited—weird, right? Jewboo has an improv show tonight, and we’re going to make dinner afterwards, which will be cute and domestic. I think that after years of being single, I have drained the power out of this godforsaken “holiday”. It no longer takes me over and makes me feel bad about myself. I mean, after all:

I choose to focus instead on the African-American struggle and perseverance all month long, and make February 15 my new day of celebration, as I rejoice in the discounting of all heart-shaped chocolate items.

For those of you with lovers, here are some fun V-Day Suggestions from Women’s Magazines:

CosmoGirl on gifts:
You Should Get Him A Teddy Bear!

Your guy is sweet and cuddly, just like the little fuzzy creature you should suprise him with! No need to get your down-to-earth dude something over the top- stick with a present that can join in on the cuddling and that will remind him of you whenever you're apart.

Glamour on dates:
DO Plan a Date That’s Outside the Box
Remember when Dylan took Brenda to donate blood in the original 90210? Now that was a heartfelt idea.

[what?]

Marie Claire on finding love in unexpected places:
Feature article: I Fell in Love With a Terrorist
[Who hasn’t been there, girls??]

For those without:

Read the list above and remember that this whole thing is a sham!

It Was a Dark and Stormy Black History Month.....

What up Blossoms and Joeys? I’m poking my head out of a pile of work to remind y’all to celebrate the young, gifted, and black.
Except for me.

"Why so self-loathing, Sojo?" Well, I found out yesterday that I didn’t get the job I applied for. Even though I was sorta on the fence about working for a company that would haze a prospective employee with crazy-ass MacGuyver questions, the rejection stings—especially since it means I’m no closer to getting off of this plantation. This is not what BHM is about!!

I did have my meeting with the agent on Tuesday, though, and it’s amazing how simple it was. I basically went in, read some copy (and sounded a bit too “serious” for Zyrtec eye drops—what is with me and allergy-med commercials?), and she said she’d start sending me out! I wasn’t amazing or anything, but she’s gonna give me a shot and see how I go. In business lingo, I’m “freelancing” with her, which she described as, “we’re dating. We’re getting to know each other, and if we like each other we’ll get engaged and get married.”
If only all of my relationships were so simple.

She did suggest I get new headshots, which made my wallet start to cry, but at least I’ll know what I’m aiming for. She’s really funny and motherly, and was very impressed by my put-togetherness (I have a feeling being employed in the real, non-actor world will really give me a leg up when it comes to the details). Crossing my fingers (for luck) AND my legs (for black Jesus)!

Although my day job is still rough,* at least I have some blackting opportunities coming up.

For those in the NYC area, here’s the info:
TONIGHT (2/3), 8:30pm – The Grisly Pear (107 MacDougal Street)
Wednesday, 2/9, 9pm – Under St. Marks Theater – hosting a sketch show! (8th ave btw. 1st Ave and Ave A)
Friday, 2/11, 8:30pm – ABC No Rio, Lower East Side – It’s an OK Cupid-themed comedy show, where hilarious NYC performers share there online dating horror stories.
Saturday, 2/12, 8pm – The Cove, in Williamsburg – NY Confidential storytelling show, with the unimitable Eugene Ashton! It’s very 1920s, speakeasy-style--but without the racial tensions.

* my boss actually compared himself to Hugh Heffner yesterday
Massa: I was reading The First 10 Years of Playboy and, you know, he was a revolutionary. And he never backed down. He did what he wanted to do, even when people told him he was wrong, and look at him now!
Me: So that means you don’t want me to respond to this subscriber’s e-mail?

B(l)ack by Popular Demand

Happy BHM, y'all!!!

Yes, today is the first of what will be 28 days of celebrating the young, gifted, and the black! Last night I was all in a tizzy because of today's agent meeting. I then realized that there was no better day for a blacktress to meet with potential representation than the first day of Black History Month.

Perhaps fate created last week’s storm just so that my meeting could take place on a day when no member of Caucasia could say no to a negress. Either way, I’m rocking a form-fitting bright top and slimming denim, and just used my anti-puff eye roller to help handle my baggy-eyed scandal (I got more bags than a Whole Foods right now, y’all. I look wearier than a woman of Brewster Place).

As I got dressed this morning, the snow and icy rain (aka “wintry mix”) had me stressed. We all know rain is the black woman’s kryptonite, and today is no time for a hairdon't. As I wrapped my hair up and hid it under my hat, I thought about how silly the whole process is. Coming off of last week’s viewing of “Good Hair,” where I saw the disintegrating effects of a chemical relaxer on an aluminum can I realized just how enslaved (and possibly brain-cancer-ridden) I still am--by norms of beauty, my own laziness, and my own tenderheaded-ness.

But of course, I’m not alone in this. Black women have been struggling with handling a hair scandal since the dawn of time (when neander-negros were heating up smooth rocks and using them as a flat iron--you didn’t see that NatGeo special?).
So today I just want to kick-off BHM with brilliant black mind who worked to make looking fine just a bit easier--without chemicals.

Name: Marjorie Joyner

Quick Facts: Marjorie, the granddaughter of a slave and a slave-owner (yes, y’all!), was born in 1896, and in 1912 she moved to Chicago to attend cosmetology school. Upon graduation she worked under Madame C. J. “Thanks for the Relaxer” Walker.

A page from her biography reads:

A dilemma existed for Black women in the 1920's.
[You mean Jim Crow laws? The inability to vote until damn-near the end of the decade? The need to provide for their families with little options besides serving members of Caucasia?]

In order to straighten tightly-curled hair, they could so so only by using a stove-heated curling iron. This was very time-consuming and frustrating as only one iron could be used at a time.
[Ah, yes, the real dilemma.]

Joyner… imagined that if a number of curling irons could be arranged above a women's head, they could work at the same time to straighten her hair all at once. “It all came to me in the kitchen when I was making a pot roast one day, looking at these long, thin rods that held the pot roast together and heated it up from the inside. I figured you could use them like hair rollers, then heat them up to cook a permanent curl into the hair.”

WHAT?! Y’all, for reals! Although black hair care doesn’t seem like a major innovation, let’s look at the genius: Marjorie was just in the kitchen making a roast for her man, and was like, “wait a second…” That’s some straight-up MacGuyver-type ingenuity. When I’m cooking in the kitchen, all I’m thinking about is whether I really have to pre-heat the oven. In 1926, Marjorie turned dinnertime into into breadwinner-time!

Joyner developed her concept by connecting 16 rods to a single electric cord inside of a standard drying hood. A woman would wear the hood for the prescribed period of time and her hair would be straightened or curled. After two years Joyner completed her invention and patented it in 1928, calling it the "Permanent Waving Machine."

Look at Marjorie with that man! She was 98 when this pic was taken, and it looks like she's telling him about himself. She is my (s)hero.

So, as you make tonight's pot roast or soy chicken nuggets, look inside that oven. Think of Marjorie--and think of the possibilities.