To escape the madness of spending five consecutive days existing solely on Manhattan island, a couple of friends and I decided we needed a break. Our choice destination would be to none other that Six Flags to relish in a day of cheating death, and plummeting through the sky while our various body parts were thrown in directions by speeds unreasonably fast, but somehow still find this considerably enjoyable and compared to the city, even relaxing. How was it you may wonder? Great! I think as you get older it becomes increasingly more fun to act like a child. I had forgotten how much fun one can have standing in half hour long lines to experience about 35 seconds of terror and joy. Of course, this great adventure of mine, would prove to be quite the learning experience, as all experiences seem to be once you reach the age of intellectual perception. Three extremely interesting observations I have made during my day at six flags, (there were more than three, but these most important) which I feel worthy of sharing as minor notes, or cultural commentaries about this very interesting world we live in, and the complex lives we lead.
I’m not waiting in that line…
Now I know it’s been something like five years since the last time I went to six flags, but I’m pretty sure this is new. At each main attraction roller coaster I approached people were walking out of the line. “Is the ride broken?” I asked. “No, we were just in a line for a while so we thought we would leave,” the riders responded as the hastily exited the ride through the entrance gate. I must preface this account by saying, due to reasons I can’t quite explain, Six Flags was pretty doggone empty yesterday. I waited in no line longer than 30 minutes, the massive maze of passenger waiting areas were mostly roped off and blocked with trash cans, and we were hardly ever in stand still traffic. Also, the weather was quite nice, it was a perfectly beautiful day though not stifling hot by any means. All of this for a normal Six Flagger, or at least the mid-western ones I had grown up with meant, you were going to have a GREAT day at the park. Like, what more could you possibly ask for? But still, for these northeastern riders, the drastically short lines in the shade with private DJ’s and MC’s for your waiting entertainment were just too much. They would not wait. No. Not waiting. Ain’t gonna do it. And so they left the line, and hey, who am I to stop them, it made my wait even shorter.
But honestly, this was the most baffling sight I had ever seen. Have we grown so impatient as a society we won’t even wait to have fun? I mean really, why would you ever go to an amusement park if you weren’t going to stand in line? Does that even sound logical. And furthermore, when the lines are barely 30 minutes long, what could you possibly have to do that’s more important. Perhaps it’s a northeastern thing. I often find that New Yorkers have a sort of innate impatience, I’m assuming that’s why they lean their heads over the edge of the subway every 30 seconds to check and see if they can see the lights from an approaching train. I must admit, that every now in then, I succumb to this train ‘n’ seek behavior, (when I’m in rush, or running late of course). But this wasn’t the subway! We were waiting for death defying drops, and upside loopty loops and stuff--the subway doesn’t do that. You can wait 30 minutes for that, right? I could. Thank God. There’s a lot of ways to realize you might have reached a new level of stress and ridiculously self-destructive behavior, but I suggest, go to Six Flags, and try not to have fun. If you can succeed in doing so, you might want to check yourself in somewhere, or maybe even quit your job because something is truly wrong with you. Trust me, your blackberry is very cool, but it’s definitely not cooler than the Nitro ride at Six Flags Great Adventure.
You have to dance first…
To keep the rowdies and drunkies calm in the line for the Superman (which is the most terrifying and unpleasant ride I’ve ever encountered) a young nerdy white male played a Six Flags trivia game show offering eager riders a chance to win a “don’t wait in line pass” for the ride of their choice. Several contestants played and failed, a few won, it was all in good fun. As the line progressed Jake (we’ll call him since I know not his name) asked if anyone else wanted to play, and any who said yes were welcomed to the booth to play his five question trivia game. As my group of friends approached the booth, Jake asked if anyone else wanted to play and I raised my hand. And then it happened?
Jake: You want to play?
Me: Yes
Jake: You have to come up and dance first.
Me: No
Jake: Sorry, if you don’t dance you can’t play.
Me: (rolling my eyes, preparing to launch in to a fit)
Friends: Why would he ask you to dance? He didn’t ask anyone else to dance.
Me: Do I look like a stripper?
Friend: That’s f***ed up, I’m gonna ask him why he said that when we get to the front of the line.
Other Friend: You should report that to the park, that’s so blatant.
Me: Blatant!!! To us, we’re two black women who graduated from Spelman, it’s not gonna be blatant to them.
Friend: That’s true. I’m really mad about it.
Me: I know.
All: Oh a day in the life.
He asked me to dance. Straight up, with a straight face, he looked at me and asked me to dance. He didn’t ask anyone before or after me to dance. He only asked me—the only black female who wanted to play the game, I had to dance. I honestly am so angered by this incident that I’m find explaining it a bit difficult. I guess I feel like I shouldn’t have to. So if you don’t understand the source of my anger and disbelief you should read some black feminist thought, and then come back to my blogger when you're a bit more enlightened.
Human beings are crazy...
Simply. Think about it. Why do we enjoy roller coasters? I think, because for less than a minute or so we cheat death. If we can do it a couple of times in one day, it's worth $50 and a two hour drive. Often when our lives or in chaos, and we are feeling stressed out beyond comprehension we say, "it's just been such a rollercoaster ride," or something of that nature. We may go on to describe the vast ups and downs in life, the quick changes that we don't see coming, the anticipation of slowly making it all the way to the top, and then the steep drops when we've finally made it. Life takes us on a dozens of loops at a quick pace and most often around these times, we feel sorry for ourselves because we're so "stressed out." But maybe not those of us who love going to Six Flags. We, secretly, love the roller coaster ride of life. As long as we're not in one place too long, we can't live with out the ups and downs, the uncertainty, the big risk. It's why we keep going everyday, why we continue to seek out life's biggest thrills..because we know all things eventuallly come to an end. But, before they do, we know you should ride every ride as many times as you can. Nothing is better than the feeling of knowing that you conquered what seems impossible more than once, and nothing is more rewarding than conquering what you might fear the most.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
Be Responsible for your story
Fired. That’s right, and she deserved it. Why Nadine Hoabsh thought it was appropriate to spill her bosses beauty industry business all over the internet via her “anonymous” blog is beyond anyone of reasonable intelligence. Her appearance on MSNBC to parle the drama into a book deal—well, that’s where this chick gets a bit smarter.
JolieinNYC is the notorious beauty blog that’s making this girl famous. Not surprising since bloggers give any moron with a thought instant publishing power, and an international reading audience. What’s better, they’re anonymous (if you choose to make it that way). That’s right, you can become the person you always wished you were as long as you do it via the internet, where no one can see, touch or just make you own up to all the crap you’re posting in cyberspace.
A slap in the face is what they are. Why study and train and learn to be a responsible journalist when you can log on to blogspot and start spewing all kinds of nonsense out in to the atmosphere without ever having to take responsibility for your words. Because, that happens a lot in real life huh? Why don’t we all just start sending anonymous letters to each other cursing each other out and threatening to expose deep dark secrets? Oh because that’s called a) stalking or b)blackmail. But still, some people actually sympathize with Nadine, they support her and love the blog. Hope they can support her jobless behind while she’s writing that book of hers since she’s been fired twice in one week.
It’s something really weird about society nowadays. If we want to know about anything, we have the luxury of simply googling it and see what pops up. But what ever happened to loyalty, integrity, ethics (especially from journalist)? In a society full of cable news and talking heads, now we have blogs, free publishing space for any gutless spineless person who’s too weak to stand by their words, or get a real job and publish them with their named attached. But hey, Judith Miller’s going to jail, and Nadine Hoabsh is Jolie in NYC, and she’s the journalist people are sympathizing with?
Unbelievable.
Perhaps this will be a wake up call to all bloggers out there young and old. Sometimes you don’t know the power of your own words. If you think twice before you say it aloud, maybe you should think again before you publish it on blogspot.
JolieinNYC is the notorious beauty blog that’s making this girl famous. Not surprising since bloggers give any moron with a thought instant publishing power, and an international reading audience. What’s better, they’re anonymous (if you choose to make it that way). That’s right, you can become the person you always wished you were as long as you do it via the internet, where no one can see, touch or just make you own up to all the crap you’re posting in cyberspace.
A slap in the face is what they are. Why study and train and learn to be a responsible journalist when you can log on to blogspot and start spewing all kinds of nonsense out in to the atmosphere without ever having to take responsibility for your words. Because, that happens a lot in real life huh? Why don’t we all just start sending anonymous letters to each other cursing each other out and threatening to expose deep dark secrets? Oh because that’s called a) stalking or b)blackmail. But still, some people actually sympathize with Nadine, they support her and love the blog. Hope they can support her jobless behind while she’s writing that book of hers since she’s been fired twice in one week.
It’s something really weird about society nowadays. If we want to know about anything, we have the luxury of simply googling it and see what pops up. But what ever happened to loyalty, integrity, ethics (especially from journalist)? In a society full of cable news and talking heads, now we have blogs, free publishing space for any gutless spineless person who’s too weak to stand by their words, or get a real job and publish them with their named attached. But hey, Judith Miller’s going to jail, and Nadine Hoabsh is Jolie in NYC, and she’s the journalist people are sympathizing with?
Unbelievable.
Perhaps this will be a wake up call to all bloggers out there young and old. Sometimes you don’t know the power of your own words. If you think twice before you say it aloud, maybe you should think again before you publish it on blogspot.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Has Tourism Gone Too Far?
“This church is members only,” said the elderly black man who was strategically standing in the middle as the door as to not let any one in around him. He was speaking to a mixed group of white faces and when I approached the door looking utterly confused as he ushered my brown face in no question. “Maybe being a ‘member’ means you’re black?” I thought, a bit confused because I had never seen anyone turn someone away from a church before. “Can he do that?”
Yes. He can. Or at least he can try.
Unknown to the guard of the gates, down the block and around the corner of the church stood a group of at least 50 more people, all white, all intent on attending service at Abyssinian Baptist Church at 11 o’clock service on Sunday morning. Soon, it became very clear, this wasn’t about the race of the intended guests -- no, not at all. These people were not fellow Baptists seeking to attend a good Baptist church service. These people were not even dressed for church. This was a tourist group. A bus load of people touring the city, sight seeing in Harlem. And as if they were standing in the tickets line for a last minute Broadway show, this group of tourists lined up around the corner and in small groups walked up to the church doors seeking entrance to Sunday morning’s main attraction, a group of black Baptist worshippers praying and rejoicing in the lord.
It wasn’t just distracting to see to look up and see tourists walking in and out of the church throughout the service, it was outright disrespectful. More so, because these people modeled their finest t-shits, tank tops, cargo shorts, flip-flops and backpacks. They came in with big smiles on their faces looking at us as if we were props on a set, not people in prayer communing in a house of God.
It’s no wonder that a church founded and erected in 1808 by three black preachers who were rebelling against segregated seating in Baptist congregations draws admirers from around the country. The beauty of the sanctuary beams as the choir of elderly black men and women sing the eldest of negro spirituals. The community of the church is true as the good Rev. Calvin Butts can joke throughout the sermon at the expense of an embarrassed parishioner. This rich history and spirit that has filled the halls of this building is palpable and powerful. With such a rich legacy, of course, people from around the world seek to see the inside of Abyssinian Baptist Church, the same way they desire to see St. Patrick’s Cathedral or even the Vatican.
I’ve never been to catholic mass, though I have visited numerous cathedrals. Each time I have visited I have been on a weekday when tourists are allowed to walk through and observe. I have always been careful not to touch anything, and to make sure to keep my voice down and be respectful of the place of worship. As a black woman I have never even imagined that I could enter into a place of worship with a bus load of my friends like we were going to a concert. I just can’t possibly grasp what could make anyone think that type of behavior is acceptable.
I, too, was a first time visitor to Abyssinian on Sunday. When I awoke to get ready, I took great care in picking my outfit. I wanted to be conservative, not to bright, not to revealing. I tried on several outfits before deciding on a navy blazer and white pants, and I worried about the pants.
But unlike me, these people were disruptive, they entered and exited throughout the entire church service, they were improperly dressed and appeared much more like eager spectators than people in search of prayer. It was all just too much, too inappropriate, way too out of control.
So what to do? I, like the man guarding the door, would never begrudge anyone the opportunity to come worship in a house of God. But I don’t think Jesus is a stop on the Big Apple Tour Bus, and certainly don’t think I praying is a spectator sport. And while I don’t suppose a church can shut its doors to the public, I do suppose if the public is planning on stopping through, they could dress for the occasion.
Living in New York City, brings about unpleasant tourist experiences on a daily basis. You can’t even walk in Times Square in the summer unless you want to get mixed in with a bunch of 15 year old kids in orange t-shirts from Ohio. But there in an area so brightly lit it feels like daytime at 3 a.m., it’s understandable and therefore tolerable. Tourists in my church home—that I just can’t tolerate.
Yes. He can. Or at least he can try.
Unknown to the guard of the gates, down the block and around the corner of the church stood a group of at least 50 more people, all white, all intent on attending service at Abyssinian Baptist Church at 11 o’clock service on Sunday morning. Soon, it became very clear, this wasn’t about the race of the intended guests -- no, not at all. These people were not fellow Baptists seeking to attend a good Baptist church service. These people were not even dressed for church. This was a tourist group. A bus load of people touring the city, sight seeing in Harlem. And as if they were standing in the tickets line for a last minute Broadway show, this group of tourists lined up around the corner and in small groups walked up to the church doors seeking entrance to Sunday morning’s main attraction, a group of black Baptist worshippers praying and rejoicing in the lord.
It wasn’t just distracting to see to look up and see tourists walking in and out of the church throughout the service, it was outright disrespectful. More so, because these people modeled their finest t-shits, tank tops, cargo shorts, flip-flops and backpacks. They came in with big smiles on their faces looking at us as if we were props on a set, not people in prayer communing in a house of God.
It’s no wonder that a church founded and erected in 1808 by three black preachers who were rebelling against segregated seating in Baptist congregations draws admirers from around the country. The beauty of the sanctuary beams as the choir of elderly black men and women sing the eldest of negro spirituals. The community of the church is true as the good Rev. Calvin Butts can joke throughout the sermon at the expense of an embarrassed parishioner. This rich history and spirit that has filled the halls of this building is palpable and powerful. With such a rich legacy, of course, people from around the world seek to see the inside of Abyssinian Baptist Church, the same way they desire to see St. Patrick’s Cathedral or even the Vatican.
I’ve never been to catholic mass, though I have visited numerous cathedrals. Each time I have visited I have been on a weekday when tourists are allowed to walk through and observe. I have always been careful not to touch anything, and to make sure to keep my voice down and be respectful of the place of worship. As a black woman I have never even imagined that I could enter into a place of worship with a bus load of my friends like we were going to a concert. I just can’t possibly grasp what could make anyone think that type of behavior is acceptable.
I, too, was a first time visitor to Abyssinian on Sunday. When I awoke to get ready, I took great care in picking my outfit. I wanted to be conservative, not to bright, not to revealing. I tried on several outfits before deciding on a navy blazer and white pants, and I worried about the pants.
But unlike me, these people were disruptive, they entered and exited throughout the entire church service, they were improperly dressed and appeared much more like eager spectators than people in search of prayer. It was all just too much, too inappropriate, way too out of control.
So what to do? I, like the man guarding the door, would never begrudge anyone the opportunity to come worship in a house of God. But I don’t think Jesus is a stop on the Big Apple Tour Bus, and certainly don’t think I praying is a spectator sport. And while I don’t suppose a church can shut its doors to the public, I do suppose if the public is planning on stopping through, they could dress for the occasion.
Living in New York City, brings about unpleasant tourist experiences on a daily basis. You can’t even walk in Times Square in the summer unless you want to get mixed in with a bunch of 15 year old kids in orange t-shirts from Ohio. But there in an area so brightly lit it feels like daytime at 3 a.m., it’s understandable and therefore tolerable. Tourists in my church home—that I just can’t tolerate.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Hustle & Flow: A Commentary from below
If you’ve never lived in the south, visited Memphis, (and by that I don’t mean Germantown) you might dismiss Hustle & Flow as a silly film that glorifies pimping and the objectification of women at the expense of achieving stardom. You might even think that the rags to riches story is far fetched and overly exaggerated. But if you lived in the south and felt the infectious pulse of southern rap music penetrate your body as you sit in the club trying not to bounce your head to lyrics that say “bitch, bend over let me see it,” then you know and understand just how important this movie is, and just how much truth lies in the story of D’Jay and his hoes.
Ask most successful people born in smaller southern cities about home, and they will mostly likely say something to the effect of “I made it out.” That’s the answer across the board in small towns or even southern metropolis’ where people are either rich or poor and there is very little in between. In a region where men still open the door for women, and offer to carry your bags, it shouldn’t be far fetched to imagine that other “old school” mentalities are pervasive as well. Many of those may be sexist, and in fact misogynistic and degrading to women, a truth that comes through in the music of southern artists such as the Ying Yang Twins, Project Pat and UGK just to name a few. This coupled with failing economies and a pervasive racist culture is why you may find a D’Jay, Shug, Lexus and Nolan living together in a whore house in Memphis trying to make it the best way that they can.
Hustle & Flow follows D’Jay, (Terrence Howard) as he strives to make it as a rapper before his age catches up with him. An unsuccessful pimp, D’Jay sells weed on the side for extra cash and plays pimp to Lexus (Paula Jai Parker), a stripper-prostitute with a son, Nolan, (Taryn Manning) a prostitute who’s the major source of income for the house, and Shug (Taraji P. Henson) D’Jay’s bottom bitch, a sweet faced prostitute who is currently pregnant. Facing a mid-life crises, D’Jay enlists the help of an old high school buddy to help him cut a demo for hometown rapper Skinny Black who is coming back to Memphis for the holiday. If they can just get Skinny a demo, D’Jay knows he’s gonna make it to stardom.
Huslte & Flow’s greatest success is showing peoples lives without forcing them to be apologetic, condemning or unbelievably politically correct. Because, as you may find out if you ask a stripper or two, they’re not all feeling sorry for themselves everyday and lamenting the misogynistic treatment from their pimps. Which, makes sense, because if they were, they probably wouldn’t be doing what they’re doing in the first place.
Yes prostitution, and pimping is repulsive and for many completely unjustifiable, but when you walk into a strip club in the south and look around, the women inside are making it, “by any means necessary,” Hustle & Flows defining principle. And that is what makes Hustle & Flow such a phenomenal film. Everyday each of us choose how we are going to make it. Some of us clean houses, work jobs we’re not passionate about, even go on reality TV and make an ass of ourselves--anything to make it. To us, no one ever has much to say. But the strippers, drug dealers, prostitutes and pimps -- they are condemned for their lewd behavior regardless of how many mouths they have to feed at home, without consideration of what may have driven them to this path.
This is a story for people who understand that some people don’t see a better way out. They don’t see the other side of tracks, and if they do, it’s only as they ride back to their desolate and hopeless side of town that we like to pretend doesn’t exist because it makes us feel better.
D’Jay writes songs called “it’s hard out there for a pimp,” and “whoop that trick” because that is what he lives everyday. The same way Tupac talked about thug life, and Jay-Z raps about balling, D’Jay writes a bout pimpin. This is real in the south, the pimpin, the hustling, the standing outside in the parking lots flossin, and the angry desire to cause trouble with anybody that tests your manhood. Because of course, when a man can barely provide for himself, his manhood becomes an entirely created persona. Perhaps this is why choosing to become a pimp seems all the more enticing—somebody will look at you as a provider and that somebody will validate you as a man.
One of the most honest moments in the film occurs when Shug looks into D’Jay’s eyes and says, “this meant the world to me,” referring to her being allowed to sing the hook for the demo. As sad as it may be, this moment captures the true essence of the film. People see and experience the world in completely different ways, and what may seem to trivial to some may be others defining moments.
When D’Jay meets Skinny and manages to sweet talk his demo tape into Skinny’s hands, the feel good movie begins to reek of disruption brewing. Moments later when D’Jay finds his demo in the toilet with a drunken Skinny Black sitting beside, D’Jay can’t control his rage and begins to beat skinny to unconsciousness, resulting in an outbreak of violence in the club that leaves D’Jay facing 12 months. Some might say this was an unnecessary but convenient plot change, but for those of us who have grown up in the hip-hop generation, we know that things like that happen over silliness like that all the time. And the next day we call the radio stations to gossip about it.
A lot of people probably aren’t going to like Hustle and Flow, it will seem too distant, too imperfect and therefore unbelievable. But many people will walk away thinking, I’m not that guy, but I know that guy and I definitely know that music. That’s where the movie will become a classic.
Ask most successful people born in smaller southern cities about home, and they will mostly likely say something to the effect of “I made it out.” That’s the answer across the board in small towns or even southern metropolis’ where people are either rich or poor and there is very little in between. In a region where men still open the door for women, and offer to carry your bags, it shouldn’t be far fetched to imagine that other “old school” mentalities are pervasive as well. Many of those may be sexist, and in fact misogynistic and degrading to women, a truth that comes through in the music of southern artists such as the Ying Yang Twins, Project Pat and UGK just to name a few. This coupled with failing economies and a pervasive racist culture is why you may find a D’Jay, Shug, Lexus and Nolan living together in a whore house in Memphis trying to make it the best way that they can.
Hustle & Flow follows D’Jay, (Terrence Howard) as he strives to make it as a rapper before his age catches up with him. An unsuccessful pimp, D’Jay sells weed on the side for extra cash and plays pimp to Lexus (Paula Jai Parker), a stripper-prostitute with a son, Nolan, (Taryn Manning) a prostitute who’s the major source of income for the house, and Shug (Taraji P. Henson) D’Jay’s bottom bitch, a sweet faced prostitute who is currently pregnant. Facing a mid-life crises, D’Jay enlists the help of an old high school buddy to help him cut a demo for hometown rapper Skinny Black who is coming back to Memphis for the holiday. If they can just get Skinny a demo, D’Jay knows he’s gonna make it to stardom.
Huslte & Flow’s greatest success is showing peoples lives without forcing them to be apologetic, condemning or unbelievably politically correct. Because, as you may find out if you ask a stripper or two, they’re not all feeling sorry for themselves everyday and lamenting the misogynistic treatment from their pimps. Which, makes sense, because if they were, they probably wouldn’t be doing what they’re doing in the first place.
Yes prostitution, and pimping is repulsive and for many completely unjustifiable, but when you walk into a strip club in the south and look around, the women inside are making it, “by any means necessary,” Hustle & Flows defining principle. And that is what makes Hustle & Flow such a phenomenal film. Everyday each of us choose how we are going to make it. Some of us clean houses, work jobs we’re not passionate about, even go on reality TV and make an ass of ourselves--anything to make it. To us, no one ever has much to say. But the strippers, drug dealers, prostitutes and pimps -- they are condemned for their lewd behavior regardless of how many mouths they have to feed at home, without consideration of what may have driven them to this path.
This is a story for people who understand that some people don’t see a better way out. They don’t see the other side of tracks, and if they do, it’s only as they ride back to their desolate and hopeless side of town that we like to pretend doesn’t exist because it makes us feel better.
D’Jay writes songs called “it’s hard out there for a pimp,” and “whoop that trick” because that is what he lives everyday. The same way Tupac talked about thug life, and Jay-Z raps about balling, D’Jay writes a bout pimpin. This is real in the south, the pimpin, the hustling, the standing outside in the parking lots flossin, and the angry desire to cause trouble with anybody that tests your manhood. Because of course, when a man can barely provide for himself, his manhood becomes an entirely created persona. Perhaps this is why choosing to become a pimp seems all the more enticing—somebody will look at you as a provider and that somebody will validate you as a man.
One of the most honest moments in the film occurs when Shug looks into D’Jay’s eyes and says, “this meant the world to me,” referring to her being allowed to sing the hook for the demo. As sad as it may be, this moment captures the true essence of the film. People see and experience the world in completely different ways, and what may seem to trivial to some may be others defining moments.
When D’Jay meets Skinny and manages to sweet talk his demo tape into Skinny’s hands, the feel good movie begins to reek of disruption brewing. Moments later when D’Jay finds his demo in the toilet with a drunken Skinny Black sitting beside, D’Jay can’t control his rage and begins to beat skinny to unconsciousness, resulting in an outbreak of violence in the club that leaves D’Jay facing 12 months. Some might say this was an unnecessary but convenient plot change, but for those of us who have grown up in the hip-hop generation, we know that things like that happen over silliness like that all the time. And the next day we call the radio stations to gossip about it.
A lot of people probably aren’t going to like Hustle and Flow, it will seem too distant, too imperfect and therefore unbelievable. But many people will walk away thinking, I’m not that guy, but I know that guy and I definitely know that music. That’s where the movie will become a classic.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Teairra Mari
At the tender age of 17, most would safely assume life hasn’t dealt a cute girl with a sweet voice too many hard knocks. Safe would be incorrect when it comes to Teairra Mari, pretty princess of the Roc, whose first single, “Make Her Feel Good,” proves that the new teen queen won’t be singing about bubble gum and puppy love. The yet-to-be titled debut album features songs true to the style Teairra’s hometown Detroit --- a bit street, a bit loud and undeniably attention grabbing.
“Can’t a girl from the hood find a homey,” asks Teairra in her hit single, “Make Her Feel Good,” which samples Eric B. and Rakim’s classic hit “My Melody.” The infectious song is definitely a club hit and sure to be a favorite for the ladies who want to know, “is there any boys around who know how to make a girl feel good?”
Another track introduces Teairra’s desire to bring a harder edge to R&B. She tells the story of growing up with an absentee father over a rocking track reminiscent of Jay’s “99 problems.” An indignant Teairra says, “I ain’t had no daddy around when I was growing up that’s why I’m wild and I don’t give a (fill your choice of profanity here).” This princess is not exactly going for dainty, but Teairra’s sultry young voice makes the no holds bar lyrics of the song that much more intriguing.
Other songs on the album prove to have the same radio play potential with Teairra’s sexy vocals accompanied by clearly identifiable rockafella-esque club bangin’ beats. Somehow it comes together to give Teairra a pretty unique sound, maybe even picking up a bit where Aaliyah left off.
Teairra Mari makes an impressive debut at seventeen but it may be a bit much for an artist who can barely get in to see R-Rated movies. One fact is undisputable--this girl doesn’t take mess from anybody.
“Can’t a girl from the hood find a homey,” asks Teairra in her hit single, “Make Her Feel Good,” which samples Eric B. and Rakim’s classic hit “My Melody.” The infectious song is definitely a club hit and sure to be a favorite for the ladies who want to know, “is there any boys around who know how to make a girl feel good?”
Another track introduces Teairra’s desire to bring a harder edge to R&B. She tells the story of growing up with an absentee father over a rocking track reminiscent of Jay’s “99 problems.” An indignant Teairra says, “I ain’t had no daddy around when I was growing up that’s why I’m wild and I don’t give a (fill your choice of profanity here).” This princess is not exactly going for dainty, but Teairra’s sultry young voice makes the no holds bar lyrics of the song that much more intriguing.
Other songs on the album prove to have the same radio play potential with Teairra’s sexy vocals accompanied by clearly identifiable rockafella-esque club bangin’ beats. Somehow it comes together to give Teairra a pretty unique sound, maybe even picking up a bit where Aaliyah left off.
Teairra Mari makes an impressive debut at seventeen but it may be a bit much for an artist who can barely get in to see R-Rated movies. One fact is undisputable--this girl doesn’t take mess from anybody.
Is Bill Cosby Right? Or has the black middle class lost its mind?
Bill Cosby has successfully pissed off a lot of people since his first introductory rant against lower class black America at the NAACP Brown v. Board of Education anniversary dinner in April 2004. But perhaps he has pissed off no one more than self titled “hip-hop intellectual” Michael Eric Dyson who has dedicated his latest book, Is Bill Cosby Right: or has the black middle class lost it's mind? to crucifying Cosby as a rich, ignorant, race traitor-sellout, which is all a bit much to bear in reference to America's favorite TV dad.
As can be inferred from the title, this book is about as surface as it's eye-catching cover work which features Bill Cosby's head cut out and used for the “o” in Cosby. Clearly, Dyson is cashing in on the controversy and doesn't make much of an attempt in the 240 pages to ever truly address or intellectually discuss any of the issues of self-sabotage, anti-intellectualism and underachievement that undeniably face black America. Instead Dyson spends the majority of the text personally attacking Cosby calling him “mean-spirited” and “hurtful” and nearly suggesting he be cast-away in to black American exile (to join the likes of Clarence Thomas and Marion Barry, of course).
After a brief introduction in which Dyson recaps Cosby's speech, he’s off taking on Cosby word for word. It can only be described as childish taunting the way Dyson continuously assaults Cosby throughout the book.
“Perhaps Cosby has forgotten what it was like to be young, black, and poor, or to be hungry for even more capital in the wake of a real first taste of money and then comforts it can bring.” (p. 83).
Take that Cosby, you just don't understand cause you're rich. Or at least that seems to be Dyson's point as he whole-heartedly defends every criticism of Black America Cosby makes. One for one, Dyson goes through Cosby's speech and attempts to clear it all up for us.
Dyson vehemently defends Black English as a legitimate dialect, which should not be undervalued against some supposed white “standard” citing the great Ebonics debate as proof. “The Oakland teachers realized, as do most black folk, that we must code-switch, or as Cosby phrased it, speak one variety of English on the streets and another in the home, on the job and the like.” (p.77)
However true this may or may not be, Dyson makes no room for the possibility that many children who speak Black English are not code-switching. They know only the dialect they speak and are unable to fluently switch between to benefit themselves in school or on a job. This type of blind defense goes on as Dyson explains away baggy pants as over policed black bodies hiding in their clothes, cites eccentric names as remnants of African cultural retention, combats academic gaps by twisting statistics of one sociological study, and excuses poor parenting by a completely unnecessary attack on Cosby's personal life.
“Despite his landmark television show, and despite writing the best-selling book Father hood, Cosby's relationship to his daughter reflected the tensions that beset millions of other families, rich and poor, suburban and inner-city, and black and white-and brown, red and yellow, too” (p.151). And Dyson doesn't spare the details as he diligently chronicles Cosby's troubles with his daughter Erinn, the murder of his son Ennis and the allegations that he bore an illegitimate child. Dyson has done his homework, he has found and dug up every aspect of public and at one time private life that Bill Cosby ever had. Unfortunately when it comes to solid and convincing research on the issues, the book is severely lacking.
Because Dyson chooses to address only Cosby's remarks and none of the surrounding discussion from the intellectual black community, the book is a sad case of attacking the messenger and missing the message. As an ordained minister with a PhD in religion, one would think Dyson would be the first to acknowledge that the messenger often falls short of the glory (hence Moses and the many other prostitutes, thieves and murderers Jesus walked with in the bible).
Dyson's most compelling point to Cosby is essentially don't just blame the poor people --a point that many of his contemporaries would agree with. The biggest flaw in Cosby's arguments is that he fails to recognize that the under achievement of black Americans is certainly no longer just an issue facing the lower class, and, in fact, many studies show that more middle and upper class black are underachieving regardless of the opportunities provided them by their economic status. That acknowledgement would make quite an interesting topic for a book, but sadly, Dyson merely mentions this at all, probably because he is too busy denying that underachievement really exists and instead wastes countless pages chronicling Bill Cosby's every word making sure to prove him an old and sadly-mistaken hypocrite.
The good news, this book is probably one of Dyson's most well-written and substantiated books which is disappointing since it falls short of being a gossip ridden memoir with an occasional scholarly quote strategically placed to make you think that you are reading a somewhat academic text. You will certainly learn a lot about Bill Cosby from this read, as to whether he is right or not, you may have to wait for another author to answer that.
Leigh Davenport
As can be inferred from the title, this book is about as surface as it's eye-catching cover work which features Bill Cosby's head cut out and used for the “o” in Cosby. Clearly, Dyson is cashing in on the controversy and doesn't make much of an attempt in the 240 pages to ever truly address or intellectually discuss any of the issues of self-sabotage, anti-intellectualism and underachievement that undeniably face black America. Instead Dyson spends the majority of the text personally attacking Cosby calling him “mean-spirited” and “hurtful” and nearly suggesting he be cast-away in to black American exile (to join the likes of Clarence Thomas and Marion Barry, of course).
After a brief introduction in which Dyson recaps Cosby's speech, he’s off taking on Cosby word for word. It can only be described as childish taunting the way Dyson continuously assaults Cosby throughout the book.
“Perhaps Cosby has forgotten what it was like to be young, black, and poor, or to be hungry for even more capital in the wake of a real first taste of money and then comforts it can bring.” (p. 83).
Take that Cosby, you just don't understand cause you're rich. Or at least that seems to be Dyson's point as he whole-heartedly defends every criticism of Black America Cosby makes. One for one, Dyson goes through Cosby's speech and attempts to clear it all up for us.
Dyson vehemently defends Black English as a legitimate dialect, which should not be undervalued against some supposed white “standard” citing the great Ebonics debate as proof. “The Oakland teachers realized, as do most black folk, that we must code-switch, or as Cosby phrased it, speak one variety of English on the streets and another in the home, on the job and the like.” (p.77)
However true this may or may not be, Dyson makes no room for the possibility that many children who speak Black English are not code-switching. They know only the dialect they speak and are unable to fluently switch between to benefit themselves in school or on a job. This type of blind defense goes on as Dyson explains away baggy pants as over policed black bodies hiding in their clothes, cites eccentric names as remnants of African cultural retention, combats academic gaps by twisting statistics of one sociological study, and excuses poor parenting by a completely unnecessary attack on Cosby's personal life.
“Despite his landmark television show, and despite writing the best-selling book Father hood, Cosby's relationship to his daughter reflected the tensions that beset millions of other families, rich and poor, suburban and inner-city, and black and white-and brown, red and yellow, too” (p.151). And Dyson doesn't spare the details as he diligently chronicles Cosby's troubles with his daughter Erinn, the murder of his son Ennis and the allegations that he bore an illegitimate child. Dyson has done his homework, he has found and dug up every aspect of public and at one time private life that Bill Cosby ever had. Unfortunately when it comes to solid and convincing research on the issues, the book is severely lacking.
Because Dyson chooses to address only Cosby's remarks and none of the surrounding discussion from the intellectual black community, the book is a sad case of attacking the messenger and missing the message. As an ordained minister with a PhD in religion, one would think Dyson would be the first to acknowledge that the messenger often falls short of the glory (hence Moses and the many other prostitutes, thieves and murderers Jesus walked with in the bible).
Dyson's most compelling point to Cosby is essentially don't just blame the poor people --a point that many of his contemporaries would agree with. The biggest flaw in Cosby's arguments is that he fails to recognize that the under achievement of black Americans is certainly no longer just an issue facing the lower class, and, in fact, many studies show that more middle and upper class black are underachieving regardless of the opportunities provided them by their economic status. That acknowledgement would make quite an interesting topic for a book, but sadly, Dyson merely mentions this at all, probably because he is too busy denying that underachievement really exists and instead wastes countless pages chronicling Bill Cosby's every word making sure to prove him an old and sadly-mistaken hypocrite.
The good news, this book is probably one of Dyson's most well-written and substantiated books which is disappointing since it falls short of being a gossip ridden memoir with an occasional scholarly quote strategically placed to make you think that you are reading a somewhat academic text. You will certainly learn a lot about Bill Cosby from this read, as to whether he is right or not, you may have to wait for another author to answer that.
Leigh Davenport
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