Love/Sad

Happy Monday, guys! I love when "Mondays With Artists" just happens naturally. My boss handed me a letter from a reader, and this post basically writes itself! It's an excellent example of our target audience: handwritten in shaky cursive and and somewhat confrontational while also being self-promoting. As always, the grammar and spelling has been transcribed exactly as it appears in the original.

Did it ever occur to you that maybe 80% or more people you have sent this same letter to will probably die before our prescription expires.

[By "prescription," she means "subscription." This is a common mistake among our audience.]

I am 90 years old. I'm probably the youngest 90 year old person you'll ever know or meet. Still I might die tomorrow, I don't have much time left. or next week or next month or next year. However, I'm a great inspiration to many people. I'm still going strong. If you don't believe me--look me up on inter-net. I'm all over the place!

[This is the most confident/depressing paragraph I've ever read.]

If you are interested I will do a story on myself. It will make good reading. People can find out what makes me "tick."

[Um, what makes her "tick"? Like Ke$ha?]

To be an artist you don't have to be an actor, writer, or musician--just a desire.

[I mean, I guess technically she's not wrong there. You don't have to be a singer to be a painter!]

I've been teaching since 1970--and I still do.

Please don't send me anymore bills until my subscription bill is due.

Sincerely,

[old lady name]

The thing is, guys, her paintings aren't half bad. I kinda want to call her.

Fridays With Artists

Happy Friday, y’all!! The sun is shining, my Jewboo and I made it through our first fight, and my procrastination is in full swing—it feels good to be alive.

Tonight after work is sure to be blogworthy, as I’ll be attending an awards dinner for a watercolor organization. Yes, a watercolor painting organization. For those of you who don’t know, watercolor is the painting medium that’s long been dominated by the Floridian retiree. This is my magazine's target demographic, and as the editor of the mag, it’s now my responsibility to “network with the community.” This means attending events where I’m the only brown person, and the youngest attendee by at least 35 years.

It’s kind of amazing.

After attending the opening-night show three weeks ago, I then went to an artist demonstration, where a rather fatigued old woman leaned over to me and provided color commentary throughout the demo. Her hair was a kind of orange that could only come from a box, and her lipstick was bright as a ripe mango.

I loved her—even when she talked awkwardly loudly.
Throughout the demo, cell phones rang loudly and repeatedly, as the elderly fumbled to find where the noise was coming from, then struggled to silence it. As the artist explained her materials, she mentioned her drawing tool—a negro pencil!! The blacktress bristled, and looked around and realized there were no other negroes around, so no one else seemed to care.

NEGRO PENCIL, Y’ALL!! WTF?!

Tonight’s dinner is sure to be a doozy, seeing as I received a call from one of the planners last week, asking “how you’d like to be introduced….we’ll be announcing attendees of note.” Oh my god, I’m now imagining a debutante-ball-style announcement, with me walking down a center aisle as elderly members of Caucasia provide golf claps.

Guys, I’d like you to know a few things about me:
-I don’t really like my job
(sidebar: just as I was typing the previous sentence, my boss came over to me to give me comments on my editor’s note for the next issue. Awkward Town, population ME!)
-I know very little about art, and even less about watercolor
-I’m a blacktress man, not a watercolorist (said in the voice of Doctor McCoy from Star Trek)

The amount of awkward small talk taking place tonight will be through the roof. It'll be Totes cuckoo bananas. I will try to live tweet it if I can.

How are you doing?

Here's the Good News - Black Love Lasts FOREVER

Sorry, gang, I totally got sidetracked at work and forgot to give you the good news. This heartwarming tidbit was brought to my attention yesterday by Scribe.

Drumroll please.....

The World's Longest Marriage is between a black man and woman!!!

After watching the episode of "Being Bobby Brown" in which Bobby talks about how he stuck his finger up Whitney's bum to help her poop and cites it as an example of "black love," I told myself I wanted no part of it. This, however, is the kind of black love I can get behind. Look at them:



Their names are Herbert and Zelmyra Fisher of New Bern, N.C. He's 104, and she's 101. They've been married 85 years!!!

Look how cute they are!!! They're over a century, but don't look a day over 8 decades. (I told y'all black don't crack). And even at 101, Zelmyra isn't afraid to wear some spring brights--no stretchy sweatpants for her--she knows how to keep her man at home (accentuate the hips--but not the one that got replaced.)

I want nothing more than to interview them. I bet Zelmyra was in the audience when I first gave my "Ain't I a Woman?" speech (j/k - she's not that old, guys!). Maybe we could sit down over some tea and soft foods and talk about what it takes to make a marriage last. Or maybe I could bring my 93-year-old G-Unit with me and they can shoot the shit about colored-only fountains and The Great Depression. I bet Zelmyra wouldn't want a younger woman around her man, though. I don't want a geriatric catfight on my hands!

So, I hope this tender tale of never-ending black love helps quell the rage-fires that burn in your heart after reading about black women's median income. It gives me just enough boost to keep on truckin'.

xoxo,
blacktress

The Truth Never Gets Old

You know, this time last year, I was smack dab in the middle of Caucasia, where no one even knew was Black History Month was. And now, to be home, able to tell my TRUTH…well, it just warms my heart. I’ve been thinking of important black folks I wanted to share with you today, and I think I’ve come up with one.

She’s not famous.
She’s not on reality TV.
And no, she’s not 16 or pregnant.

She’s…MY GRANDMA.

Yes, my grandmother—or, as I like to call her, G-Unit.

My grandmother is 93 ½ years old, y’all—holla!! And yes, I said 93 ½ (her birthday is in June). I figure when you make it to as old as 93, you get to revert back to kid referral to your age – every second counts! Dudes, 93?! For reals? I think she has an autographed copy of the Bible – for reals.

Ethel Mae was born in Waynesboro, Mississippi in 1916. She currently lives in Detroit, Michigan—also known as “The City That God Forgot.” I used to spend every summer with Ethel until I was 14 years old. Ethel raised 7 kids and worked full time and was not exactly a sugar-and-spice grandmother. I didn’t get baked cookies – I got grits in the morning. There was no knitting and needlepoint, there was tilling the backyard fields. When my cousins and I would play hide-and-seek in her house, she’d always leave us with a warning:

“Be careful, and don’t go in that front room – that’s where I keep my gun.”

Yes, y’all! G-Unit will bust a cap in yo’ ass.

She’s never actually used the alleged gun, which I’ve never actually seen, but she says she had it for protection, because she’s “a lonely old woman living alone and people will prey on me.”

Um, nobody’s preyed on this old broad a day in her life.

“Okay, Sojourner, your grandma’s old--what’s your point?” you’re probably saying to yourself.
Well, gentle reader, this month, we’re honoring those that came before us and re-learning their lessons. As you can imagine, a woman who survived the Great Depression, WW2, and had a 68-year-old bf when she was 86 has pearls of wisdom to impart. Here are some nuggets for you to add to your TRUTH collection:

On preparing for disaster:

“In times of distress, you must be able to wipe yo’ ass.”
--Grandma to me, re: why she had a whole closet full of toilet paper before the year 2000. You know, she was worried about “the Y2K.”

On homosexuality:

“You know how I know she a lezbun? 1: She got that short haircut; B: We was watching a joe boxer commercial and the man was dancing in his underwear and she changed the channel? Why would she do that? I’m an old woman and I want to see it! You know why she changed it? Cause she a lezbun”
--Grandma, re: my cousin’s recent breakup from his gf.

On Michelle Obama:

“She lookin’ like a smiley Grinch. Don’t you just love that smiley Grinch?”
-Grandma, re: Michelle’s Vogue magazine article.

On interracial marriage:

“It’s okay for you, baby, cause you’ll be able to do your daughter’s hair. That Laura [my uncle’s white wife’] leaves her girl looking a mess, and it just breaks my heart.”
--As long as the children’s hair is tight, black-and-white is all right!

“Sojo, I think you should meet Bob, he’s a nice man, got a job. Why don’t y’all go on a date?”
--Bob is my white aunt’s brother. He is a 40-something divorcee who works at the Chrysler plant. My grandmother thinks he’s my type solely because he’s Caucasian.

On aging:

“I’m doing pretty fair for an ol’ lady. You know, I’m just waitin’ to die.”
-Grandma, in response to the always innocuous question, How are you doing?

I include this because this shows that grandma is never afraid to tell you the TRUTH, even it will make you uncomfortable and/or depressed.

So, as you go about your day—nay, your LIFE—try to live the Ethel Mae philosophy. Tell the TRUTH, the whole TRUTH, and nothing but the (Sojourner) TRUTH, so help you God! Who knows? You may even live to be 93.

Back In the Saddle/ Dickheads

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 5 January 2009.

Went in to work tonight--had a 6pm- 2am shift. I was walking around with my pimp limp, doing my darndest to serve customers. Luckily, Sunday is relatively quiet, but it was still more than I could handle with my rough foot.

We also had a new girl on a trial shift--a really perky 19-year-old Canadian girl whose optimism and energy offended me in every way. I didn't let it show, though, seeing as since I was last in, we'd lost 5 employees (which puts a monkey wrench into my plan of quitting). Three girls went traveling, one guy quit for visa reasons, and one girl was fired after she left a bag of weed in the handicapped bathroom.

Clearly, we need all the help we can get.

For some reason I keep thinking of the wise words of the nurse who applied my dressing at the medical centre on New Year's day. Perhaps it's the bloody wound that keeps her still so fresh in my mind. Perhaps it's merely the ring of TRUTH that speaks to Sojourner.

Referring to the ambulance that treated me on New Year's Eve, she said:
"Oh, the ambos are great. God bless 'em. And I bet people were being real dickheads, weren't they?"
I said yes, recounting the tale of the drunkards who decided to hop on the back of the ambulance as it attempted to get through the crowd.
"Oh, dickheads," she shouted, as though they were in the room with us. "I just hate dickheads. People come in here and I say to them, 'Are you gonna be a dickhead, or are you gonna be nice? If you're gonna be a dickhead, get out. And you know what they say? 'I'll be nice.'"
We share a laugh, and I wonder what I can do to make sure I can be her when I grow up.

I mean, who does like dickheads (or, as I'm currently calling them, Swedish men)? I can't say she's really taking a renegade stance on that one. What I do admire is the fact that she calls people out and tells them to handle their scandal or to get the hell out of her medical centre. I think I need to adopt this kind of attitude, even if I'm not a surly elderly British woman with a surprisingly soft touch. I may have to start yelling at customers who come in the bar, making sure they're not dickheads before I serve them. And I may have to ask dudes if they're dickheads before...um...serving them--if you know what I mean (and I think you do).

I came home and attempted to wash away the grit and grime of a long hard day of bartending, but it was difficult with one foot hanging out of the shower wrapped in a plastic bag. As I dressed and dried I saw that my foot was bleeding again--this is 4 days later, guys! WTF? I think I'm really going to have to stay off it if I want it to get better. Or, even worse, may have to go back to the medical centre--which my wallet won't really appreciate.

But first, I sleep. it's now 4:09am, and once the birds start chirping, it's hard to nod off.

I've Reached Down Under!!!!!

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 13/10/2008. 

I am writing to you from the future.

Saturday, October 11, 2008, at 10:00 pm, I boarded Quantas Flight 74 to Sydney, Australia. 

I arrive this morning--Monday, October 13, 2008-- at 8:00 am. 

I don't even know what's happening. 

I write to you from the main office of the IEP Program that's helping me make this all happen. I can barely lift my shoulders from carrying over 140 pounds of luggage, but enjoyed the hostel shower far more than I expected to. I'm in a 4-person room, and so far, the only person I've met is a Dutch hippie named Sonya who had dreadlocks and an open heart. She lent me her nail scissors so I could open the plastic that kept me from reaching my padlock.

So, I already managed to lose my IEP program files--luckily I had copies made and hidden in another folder. The Australian SIM card I purchased is not hooking up to my Nokia as planned, and I'm hungry, but unsure of what to eat. But I'm feeling oddly relaxed--perhaps it's because I didn't sleep on the 15-hour flight, and am in a state of delirium. 

I initially had a whole row to myself and thought things were looking up until the flight attendant told me some old broad across the aisle was going to sit in my row, because she'd just had foot surgery. I thought maybe she'd forget, but as soon as that fasten-seat-belt sign went off, she came right over. She quickly removed her boot and put her old-lady foot up on the seat between us.  I tried to make the most of it, and watched Iron Man, Get Smart, and even Arj Barker stand up performance. I even managed to drown out the TWO crying babies sitting parallel to me. After all, it's all in your outlook, you know?

The granny went to sleep for most of the flight, but when she awoke, she wanted to talk to me about the election. Turns out she's a geriatric playa supporting Obama (holla!) and proceeded to tell me about an organization she's a part of that is "all about peace." 

"Are you about peace?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," I said, as though she'd caught me brandishing a firearm and I was caught sheepishly.

"Well, so are we. We go to the conventions, go to DC, make sure maintaining and promoting peace stays on people's minds!" 

She then proceeded to sing me a song she and her group had made up about Sarah Palin. 

If I wasn't so loopy right now, I'd be able to remember it. 

She also told me the name of her organization--and was also very careful to tell me to add the word "Alert" when I was searching for it, or else I'd be brought to a porn site.

"Oh no!" I said, pretending to care.

"Well, it's not so bad, depending on what you like," she said matter-of-factly.

So true, granny--so true. 

Please note, guys: This is the beginning of the blacktress's blog down under. If you don't see a post at least every 4 days, call the authorities--lord knows what could have happened to me down here all alone with no one to care about my whereabouts.

Mondays With Artists

You know, I think I may just miss the cray-cray artists who contact my publication. Here’s the latest letter I got in the mail. It is two pages—SINGLE SPACED—so I’ve chosen to omit certain chunks of her life story, leaving what I think is the best and brightest. Hope you enjoy!

Colors of My Heart

“If you asked me when I first became an artist I would have to say it was when I got my first box of Crayola crayons. I grew up in the 40s. I was spawned in the Edgewater in New Jersey. I remember the first day of kindergarten, I had to draw a picture, when I tried to turn it in too the teacher I was told I write my name on it. I couldn’t write my name, what a shame! That was the beginning of a long torturous journey through public education for me, a child of the 40s without a guardian, on a quest to find the artist in me.”
[I kid you not. Things to note: 1. she was “spawned,” much like a woodland animal, not “born” as we often think of ourselves; 2. she fails to tell us if the drawing she handed in on that first day was good—should she really be saying this is when she first became an artist?]

“…I have a misty watercolor memory of a public park where neighborhood children were taught arts and crafts…I owe a debt of gratitude to the powers that made that park program happen. From there came the spark that illuminated my young soul and ignited that unquenchable fire to express in watercolor what I see and fee. Thanks also to the coloring books and those books that require you to wet the darkened spaces that magically turn to royal blue and magenta. These were the building blocks, the first steps, and the activities that actually made me a visible person.”

[Um, is this some sort of twisted arts-and-crafts acceptance speech? Oh, and she's quoting song lyrics-- "misty watercolored memories..."--get original, lady! Also note the mixed metaphor of using watercolor to cause a fire. This woman is deep, and has a lot to share. Two pages worth, to be exact.]

“There were special people too who pulled me out of my shell by engaging me in that most fascinating of worlds, creativity-making something wonderful out of bits of nothing. I made a puppet out of strips of paper with flour/water glue. I named him Mortimer Snerd; he led to a phenomenal puppet show on the bay window of our first floor bedroom. What an incredible day that was...

“The people in my family are not plant people. Plants seem to be a luxuriant thing during those hard times when putting food on the table and a roof over the head were daily accomplishments. But, my sister was a teenager at last and she had a plant. I’m not sure what kind of a plant it was. I suspect it was some form of ivy in a clay pot. The first time I saw it was riveting; here was something non-essential, something growing-alive, something that needed to be recorded. My first real watercolor was of that plant. Then came a collection of flowers from a picture in a book. But the work that made me credible at last with my family (on my mother’s side, at least) was of a church in British Columbia. That watercolor will outlive me by many years and has been coveted by more than a few of my mothers relatives...

“Today I teach drawing to children. Some kids only want to draw ‘Mr. Underpants’ and they are happy, and I am glad they are happy. But, I look for the quiet one in the corner, the invisible one, and I search my bag of tricks for the right word, line, or color, that will light the spark that will allow the world to see the wonder that they truly are.”

[That is the very end of the letter. Some things to note in the last three paragraphs: (1) Mortimer Snerd, homemade hand puppet and actor, who debuted on the bay window for one night only, was an actual puppet in the 50s, popular among kids and adults alike. here he is:

How creepy is he?

(2) Perhaps the ellipsis from the hand-puppet to the plant seems jarring, and you’re wondering why I would have eliminated the transition sentence. Well, I didn’t. There was absolutely nothing that led from the good ol’ days of puppetry to plant people; (3) Note the bitter tone that exudes from the phrase “made me credible at last with my family (on my mother’s side, at least)—lord knows what dad’s side thinks of her wayward lifestyle; (4) Who is “Mr. Underpants”? Does she mean Spongebob SquarePants?; (5) That is the end of the letter. There is no request for an article to be written, no comments on our magazine and how it’s influenced her, no questions about our publishing process or recent issues. She just seemed to, you know, want to let us know a little bit about her. I really hope she has fellow artist elderly friends to share her stories with.]

The Blacktress Does It Again

Guys, this is getting ridiculous.

I was walking across 12th street during my lunch hour, and I was stopped on the corner of 6th avenue, waiting for the light to change. As I stared off into space, enjoying the taste of summer weather, a voice called to the blacktress.
"Excuse me, miss, could you help me cross the street?"
I look down and to my left and see the tiniest, most precious old White lady.
"Yes, of course," I say.
Then, there's an awkward moment, cause the light doesn't say "WALK" yet, but we've already established a relationship. So, I make some small talk.
"It's such a nice day, isn't it?"
"Yes. I had a hip replacement, and my balance isn't what it used to be."
She says this as my attempt at small talk was actually a probe into her personal health.
The light changed and we crossed.

Dude, how does this keep happening to me? Old ladies see me and just want me to help them get across the street.

And, just like last time, I think this a get-out-of-jail-free card for the next week or so.

I guess I don't need to worry about all that unprotected sex anymore--JK (rowling), guys!!!!

Birthdays With Artists

Below is an excerpt from a call I received on Friday, 12/7/07-- the day of my birth. I was too busy not working and being lazy to post this at the time, but I've decided it still deserves to be shared. After all, my pain is nothing more than your reason for laughter. And for that I am proud.

OldMan: Are you in the editorial department?

SoTru: Yes, I am.

OM: Well, I want to talk to you about a problem I had and how I solved it. (yay for me!)
Okay, what was that?

OM: Well, my wife and I live in an apartment house, and we have a patio. A lot of people put plants on their patios for decoration, and it’s very nice. Well, we don’t have any water on our patio. (um, who does?)

SoTru: Oh, I see. (I’m still unclear on the problem)

OM: My wife and I would literally have to drag water from the kitchen onto the patio to water plants. (He says this really slowly, annunciating every syllable, so I can understand the magnitude of his problem. I say nothing. I still don’t get it.) So, I came up with this—are you listening?

SoTru: Yes, I am sir. How did you solve this problem?

OM: Well, you know plasticize board? Well, it’s that thick board you see politicians’ signs on—you know, like, on lawns saying “VOTE FOR KERRY!”

SoTru: Ah, yes. That.

OM: Well, I covered it with waterproof paint and I placed cardboard cutouts on it. I have an animal series, and I took horses, cows, reindeer* and pasted them onto the board. I mean, this board lasts for forever and a day. And I put them out on our patio, and it really solved a big problem for us. So, what I’m wondering is this: would this be something that would be interesting to your readers?

(Wait, is he drunk? Is he serious? First of all, I don’t see how not having water on a patio was cured by cardboard cutouts on a board. And even if so, doesn’t he have a grandchild who could make him cutouts of horses? I’m confused.)

SoTru:Um, no I don’t think so. I think that would be better suited to a crafts magazine; we normally focus on traditional realism.

The lessons to be gleaned from this conversational nugget are threefold:

1. Always screen calls in the workplace. Unless you work in the field of organ harvesting and donation, or late-breaking news, there is nothing that can't wait until you decide to call back.
2. The elderly have a lot of free time on their hands, and are too weak to carry water. Please be nice to the next geriatric you see, and offer to carry their goods.
3. No problem in life can't be solved with a little plasticize board.