Run, Mary, Run

It is amazing how little things can place you smack dab in front of
your past. The past that some of us would like to pretend never
happened or hasn't passed its mark down to us like some internal
stain. The past is funny like that, like scars it can fade, but never
really goes away.

Case, in point.

In the 60's and 70's my Grandmother and all four of my Aunties were in
a gospel band, the Angels of Faith. Granddaddy was on the guitar, a

little like Pop Staples of the Staples Singers not Joe Jackson.
Grandma Sadie was lead with a tambourine. Of their entire catalogue

one of their favorite and most requested songs was 'Run, Mary, Run'.

Now, I know this song like some people know 'Sleep Little Baby' or any
other lullaby. It was sung all the time, in the morning, in the
evening, while cooking dinner, while fixin' lunch. It was a musical

staple, like rice and beans in New Mexico, or grits in Charleston.

Every year we'd go to the anniversary of some reverend whose name I
can no longer remember and inevitably someone would request 'Run,

Mary, Run', most likely Miss Monday who everyone assumed was too evil
to die. Anyone who knew how old she truly was was already dead some 20
years before. She had an affinity for polyester pant suits far after
they had gone out of fashion, along with brunetty/grayish synthetic
ill-fitting wigs, as well. We, kids, just stayed out of her way, too
afraid to be caught under her penetrating evil gaze. Miss Monday's
stink eye was the stuff of legend, like a modern day Baptist Medusa.
She was a dark-skinned woman and a lot of dark women of that day hated

little brown children, a product of a painful past of their own, I'm

sure. We did our best not to give her any reason to lash out at us.


Anyway, the song would cue up and Grandma would sing:

Run, Mary, Run
The sun is goin' down (3x)
My Lord is callin'
Going to Galilee

Two White Horses runnin' side by side
My Lord is callin'
Goin' to Galilee (3 x)

The song is simple and the tempo would change depending on how fired
up the audience got, but it was a traditional gospel song that was
always appreciated and played in the background soundtrack of my life.

It's the score that hums low in my mind when I'm folding clothes or
cleaning or doing any of the little everyday things that we do without
thinking. Those repetitious activities that don't require thought and
produce daydreams and reminiscent fantasy.

Now, that my grandparents have passed and I've grown and had an

occasion to think about the song, really turn it over in my mind, I

began to wonder, 'Where was Mary

runnin'?' Honestly, she's been on a marathon to somewhere and I'd
never considered exactly where. And then I think she could be going to

Galilee, but then the question is 'Why is Mary runnin'?'

I called my mother and all my aunts and cousins and no one could

figure it out. No one was exactly sure if my grandparents wrote the

song or if it was gleaned from an old hymnal. It became a mystery,

something seemingly lost forever, buried with my grandparents. I can't
say that it was a surprise, keeping secrets is an old Southern
tradition, like barbecue and porch sittin'. I wracked my brain and for
the life of me I couldn't wrap my head around any possible scenario

that had to do with either of the

Mary's in the Bible- Mary, Mother of Jesus or Mary of Magdalene. After
awhile, I just forgot about it and resigned it to all of the other
things we lose to time. And then while watching PBS's African-American

Lives, a documentary that traces the genealogy of Black celebrities, a
group of gospel singers who specialized in slave songs were featured,
and it hit me. Mary was not running to Galilee. Mary was running to
freedom. 'Run, Mary, Run' is a freedom song.


Freedom songs were sung by American slaves before the Civil War. They
included coded language, sometimes with a biblical narrative that
could give clues about how to escape the plantation on the Underground
Railroad or alert other slaves about a secret meeting, all without the
overseer being any wiser. A crafty skill to have when your every move
was being watched. This was the legacy that was passed down to me. A
legacy of ambition and love of self and family.


Suddenly, that blood memory floods back and I remember, not the Black
History Month remembrance that includes facts and trivia questions

about Frederick Douglas and John Washington Carver or anything that
has to do with the inventor of traffic lights or the Harlem
Renaissance. I remember my Grandma Sadie teaching my sister to read,

even though she only had an 8th grade education. I remember gospel
playing in the background while I played in the yard with my cousins
during summer breaks. I remember that it's not always about who you
are but whose you are, and I know that I am a continuation of a
legacy. That past that seemed like a scar is more like a birthmark. A
reminder that the present is precious and the future, divine.

Sometimes the things that we think were lost forever were just hidden
for a time.

Hiatus

I've been on hiatus for a bit, and hopefully I'll return soon, but I've been focusing on keeping my spirit clear of negativity and reading and writing the blog has been on the back burner. Sometimes the state of the Nation is just sensory overload and I need to channel that Divine Light within until I'm a bit stronger.

Luscious Lady- Zora Neale Hurston

I haven’t placed the spotlight on a luscious lady in a while. The monthly basis was a little taxing on me, because of my schedule. This month we will look into the life and works of Zora Neale Hurston, author, folklorist, Guggenheim fellow, anthropologist, and playwright. I find it quite fitting as April is the month chosen for Zora fest in her hometown of Eatonville.

Ms. Hurston is best known for her seminal work, Their Eyes Were Watching God, but many people don’t know that she was one of the most, if not the most successful African-American women writers of her day. The author of several books, essays, plays, and short stories she highlighted the lives of everyday black folk, using their own vernacular to illustrate their stories. Her ability to seamlessly mix high brow literary speech with de backwoods talk is nothing short of phenomenal.

She is sometimes considered to be the literary grandmother of authors like Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, and Bebe Moore Campbell, but many people have no idea who she is or what her ‘legacy’ means to so many women. She is and was often overlooked when authors of the Harlem Renaissance were studied, often overshadowed by her male counterpart Richard Wright. Some argue that this has more to do with politics than talent. A staunch conservative, Hurston, didn’t feel the need to write about the ‘race problem’. Her stories were life stories about black people and not necessarily in relation to white people (something I view as conceding defeat, accepting your oppressed position), but by no means was she, what some would call an ‘Uncle Tom’. She wrote to the Orlando Sentinel in opposition to the Brown v. Board of Education Ruling:

“It is well known that I have no sympathy nor respect for the "Tragedy of color" school of thought among us, whose fountain-head is the pressure group concerned in this court ruling. I can see no tragedy in being too dark to be invited to a white school social affair…

Thems my sentiments and I am sticking by them. Growth from within. Ethical and cultural desegregation. It is a contradiction in terms to scream race pride and equality while at the same time spurning Negro teachers and self-association. That old white mare business can go racking down the road for all I care.”

She believed that forced integration could only hurt Negro schools and teachers, and seeing the sad state of our schools today may be some indication that she was right.

Born in 1891 in Eatonville, Florida (some dispute this), one of the first, if not the first all-black incorporated towns in the United States, Hurston had a unique upbringing in which the sting of racism seemed not to touch her until adolescence. I posit that this had a lot to do with her conservative politics of self-reliance. Without the soul crushing weight of oppression from birth that many black folks took for granted as an ever present and unbeatable force was unknown to her. In Dust Tracks on a Road, her memoir, she goes on to explain that she views people as people and race conciousness, and solidarity are useless, as the interests of black people are multivariate as they are among all other races, a sentiment that ultimately affected her popularity, especially in the 30’s and 40’s where racism was running through the Nation like an unstoppable plague.

To further the point, she wrote Seraph on the Suwanee, a tale of poor white folks in Florida. You can imagine how well it was received by both black and white, alike. The blacks felt she should be telling stories about black people and the whites did not disagree.

As an anthropologist she collected stories from all across the South and the Caribbean. They inspired her book Of Mules and Men, as well as Moses, Man of the Mountain, and Their Eyes Were Watching God, which she wrote in an astonishing seven weeks while running from a lover.

Some find her lust for life and feminist outlook to be inspiring. She did what she felt and followed her heart in direct opposition to any conditioning that would be imposed by patriarchy, religion, or racism and for that she is April’s Luscious Lady.

Ode to the Angry Brother

This is my ode to the angry brother.

Oh, Angry Brother I thought I knew you, your preoccupation with Farrakhan your sentences punctuated with ‘ya unnerstand’, but I know now that I don’t know you at all. I misinterpreted your balled fists and pursed lips as symptoms of a burning fire in your belly, a fire that reason nor progress could quell. I assumed that your black shirt, black pants, black shoes were your soldiers uniform, shielding you from all of the evil whiteness that America had born from the blinding white cotton fields to the crisp white sheets of klansmen, the button down shirts of politicians and blood streaked American flag. I felt that anger burning hot in your veins, spilling out in an aura of glowing red. Caution! Black man. Beware! I thought this fever had made you blind, sickened your spirit and turned your heart to ash. I thought you had forgotten to be human and all that was left of yourself was the burnt black inside of a man, burnt black to match his politics, but I was wrong.

I was realized I was wrong when I saw you cry. I saw your heart fill with emotion and spill out onto your cheeks. I saw that the pain you kept in check was a pain that I’d numbed myself. Angry Brother, why you’re not angry at all you’re just in mourning. In mourning for your people who are still asleep. In mourning for your country who continues to slumber, even as bombs, pollution, and internal strife threaten to destroy it. In mourning for babies you one day hope to teach who you fear you may not have the tools to learn. Oh, Angry Brother, you still my brother and though I can’t comfort you I want you to know…..

I understand.

Big- The Atlanta Ballet and Big Boi

On Friday night I had the opportunity to see Big, a collaborative production between Antoine ‘Big Boi’ Patterson and the Atlanta Ballet. In a word it was….mesmerizing.
The Atlanta Ballet really is a dance company to be reckoned with both in sheer talent and innovation. Tara Lee, the lead dancer, was phenomenal; she blended modern dance with classical movements that resulted in a sort of articulated flow that’s reminiscent of an emerging butterfly, a little awkward a little ethereal.

The high points were Tara’s opening, a piece choreographed to Church, a pas de duex where one dancer was suspended from the ceiling, a double pas de duex with a balance bar (outrageous), and the amazing and show stopping performance with Janelle Monae singing ‘Sincerely Jane’. Wearing a silver lame’ jacket, tutu and ballet slippers, Janelle fluttered, hopped, glided and moonwalked along with another dancer while she belted out the tune. The crowd loved it. It was awesome, and not in the California dude way, but awesome in the way that you notice the sun turning a burning orange before it plunges into the horizon.

There were low points as well. The performance was cut short, very short. According to the program there should have been at least 4 or more choreographed pieces, including another performance by Janelle. There was also a terrible clash of the different ends of the spectrum on ‘Kryptonite’ which seemed to just be too loud and out of place with the movements of the dancers, something that was indeed a struggle on many of the pieces. There was so much to take in you were sometimes distracted by one art form at the expense of the other.

Big Boi seemed completely out of place whenever he was on stage and his need to interact with the audience seemed desperate. I was grateful the performance didn’t turn into a concert, where the dancers were drowned out by loud whistling and dancing in the aisles, though some of the ‘cousins’ were acting up. Even if food is served in a venue, it is the ballet, popcorn and chips are not appropriate.

It was a limited engagement so I doubt one will be able to experience it again. I do know that it has inspired me to dance again and seek out more performances by the company.

Big Girl Love- Chloe Marshall vs. the Haters

A role model for ordinary women? No, Miss England finalist is fat, lazy and a poster girl for ill health
By MONICA GRENFELL - More by this author » Last updated at 08:37am on 4th April 2008

Chloe Marshall has caused a storm by becoming the first size 16 beauty queen to reach the finals of the Miss England contest.

Feted and fawned over for her courage in daring to break the mould, Chloe boasts she wants to be an "ambassador for curves".

Who on earth does she think she's kidding? What she's demonstrating isn't bravery but a shocking lack of self-control.

It seems that the size 16 Miss England finalist, Chloe Marshall, has ignited a firestorm just by being her fabulous self, and the hate is pouring down in waves. In general black cultural terms she looks damn good, but there is something in the WASP beauty Nazi mind that hates all things that represent life- good food, good sex, the results of bearing and suckling your own children. It is a travesty and a shame that this beautiful girl is having to justify herself to the brainwashed masses.

I salute you Chloe, hold your head high and show them what class and beauty really looks like. When you make it through you can say you did it without taking an eating disorder or a pair of silicone death bags along with you for the duration. Godspeed!

Top 5 Myths about Natural Hair

There are a lot of things that are said about natural hair and those who choose to turn their backs on conventional (WASP)standards of beauty.

1. Black men don't like natural hair. Completely untrue. I was fly with a perm and turn ed more than a few heads day to day, and that, I'm glad to say, has not changed. What has changed is the kind of man that is vocal about his attraction. I don't get the 'psst baby, baby' reactions anymore. That is truly a blessing. More often than not I'll get a greeting to the tune of 'Hey Sista' 'Good Morning' etc. Upgrade.

2. Natural hair is hard to care for. Complete bullshit, shoveled out by Pantene, Loreal and our grandmothers who were taught to hate the texture of their hair. I spend 5 minutes or less doing my hair every morning and it takes only 30 to wash it, and I let it air dry cutting my styling down to the barest of the bare. Upgrade.

3. Natural hair makes you spiritual. Some people think that natural hair makes you conscious and people tend to treat you as such. As if you've drunk from a river so deep that the water left you forever changed. Ludicrous. I too, though that cutting my hair would do something, open up a door in my heart but not so. I was still the girl I was before I went to the salon. It really is just hair.

4. Natural hair doesn't grow. Not so. Not so. It's been growing like wildfire and I have seen far too many bald headed women with straight hair to believe that lie.

5. Natural hair isn't for everybody. I can't tell you how many times I've heard "See, now you look good with natural hair, but I don't have the face for it." Now that makes as much sense as saying "you know dark skin looks good on you, but I like my skin light I just couldn't pull off that darkie look."

Tyler Perry reaching into the mainstream?

Can Tyler Perry’s piece of the pie get bigger?By Bob Longino | Wednesday, April 2, 2008, 08:08 AM
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Can Tyler Perry grow his audience?
That’s the question posed today in the Hollywood Reporter, which while acknowledging the Atlanta filmmaker’s box office power and fan base, wonders if his material can be tweaked to attract the mainstream.
“Perry finds himself at a good news-bad news crossroads,” the Hollywood Reporter story says.
He can be counted on to bring in black audiences and millions of dollars. To date, his latest comedy “Tyler Perry’s Meet the Browns” has earned more than $33 million. But mainstream audiences have yet to really embrace Perry’s films.

Ok. Why is this even a question? Has anyone asked Francis Ford Coppola why his films don’t highlight Black American life? Has anyone gotten on Mel Brooks for keeping his comedies decidedly light on minority content? No, because they are allowed to make the films that they feel tell the stories that they want to see told.

It is really disheartening to see how seemingly ‘liberal’ and ‘well meaning’ journalists and writers stick their pens in their mouths and let their bigotry hang out. While Tyler is heavy on the faith and light on subtlety he happens to be a storyteller whose characters happen to be black. His last film ‘Why Did I Get Married’ didn’t have one appearance by Madea and had a very accessible storyline focusing on love and marriage in the new millennium. The only thing about the film that could have been construed as unconventional or unbelievable was that the characters were Black.

And for all those who are asking the question, you can be racist and not know it.

Pre-conceived notions and the expectation of the minority as an ‘other’ or background character is what motivates these articles. It’s still racism, if only on a smaller scale. It’s the same motivation that made the producers of 21 change the all-Asian characters of the book into White characters in the film (I’m protesting).

Tyler has Hollywood scratching their heads wondering how they can formulize what he does, but you would have to look at people as they are to really understand it and I don’t think mainstream Hollywood is good at doing that.

To suggest that Tyler change anything that he does to fit the mainstream, makes as much sense as an all-White re-casting of the Joy Luck Club, starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Blythe Danner.

Giving a Damn

It has long been a tool of the self-help genre to propose this question to all of those who seem to suffer from a little bit of insecurity, “What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?” Well, on the surface it seems like pretty good advice. It’s supposed to make your re-examine your dreams and goals and step out on faith, but ultimately I think it fails in its objective to remove the thorn of insecurity and fear that all but debilitates people like me.

It forces one to move through their fear rather than dealing with it head on, and that’s like treating the symptoms without finding a cure. The treatment of the disease becomes laborious and more trouble than its worth, possibly causing a relapse.

I think the better question is, “What would you do if you didn’t give a damn what other people thought.” Now that’s more to the point, because I don’t believe people really fear failure, but what people will think or say of them when they fail.

So if I ask myself that question I come up with these:

• I’d wear push up bras with my DD self, and dare to look ‘too sexy’
• I’d start my own business
• I’d submit my writing to the literary review
• I’d have nude photos taken and hang them on my bedroom walls
• I’d wear red more often and buy a pair of leopard heels
• I’d write about being a child of divorce and use my real name
• I’d rock one of those sparkly House of Dereon dresses
• I’d learn how to do the Souljah Boy
• I’d learn how to Salsa dance and show up at one of the clubs alone and rock dat shit!
• I’d say ‘Good Morning’ to strangers
• I’d say ‘Good Morning’ to people I know
• I’d let my Aunties know I stopped going to church
• I’d use my elementary Spanish when I’m at Mexican restaurants
• I’d finally learn conversational Spanish
• I’d learn how to play the guitar and compose my own songs based on my poetry
• I’d write more poetry
• I’d invite my White friends to a bbq with my Black ones
• I’d wear an Obama ’08 t-shirt to work on casual Friday

I’d live.

Good Music- Zap Mama

My musical palate includes that which is not home grown. Enjoy.