This morning I happily drove to pick up copies of The New York Times featuring an article about Amandla’s friendship with fellow actor Rowan Blanchard. Ahead of me was a very large man – in height and girth – who purchased half a dozen magazines.
“Would you like a bag with that?” asked the newsstand man.
“No, thanks,” replied the customer.
I placed my five hefty issues of the Sunday Times on the counter and handed him my credit card. He rang up my purchase. Silence. “May I have a bag please?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, reaching for a white plastic bag behind him and placing the papers inside.
I immediately launched into my default way of being and interacting in the world, a tactic I think I learned, perhaps unconsciously, from my mother. I engaged him.
She found her way to me, courtesy of my daughter, three days ago, and only now am I realizing why she struck such a chord.
1. Heading out the door to Agape the last Sunday in February aka Black History Month.
2. The inspiration for the jewelry? This Spanish-language film. “Watch!" said Spirit as I channel-surfed two days earlier. I noticed the actress was wearing traditional Mexican earrings and remembered I own a pair. Ah! #godismystyleguru
It's been confirmed. A Sex and the City reboot, And Just Like That, is coming to HBO Max. It’s time to throw our Manolos into the air. Let there be bottomless Cosmos and lounging on beds in restaurants called Bed.
Scratch that. More than likely the show will feature combat boots and green smoothies and designer face masks. After all, it’s the 21st century and we’re muddling our way out of a global pandemic.
Nevertheless, I’m really hoping Corona won’t make an appearance because right now, I want escapism, This Is Us being the sole exception. I have binged Bridgerton exactly one-and-a-half times. Once I’m finished, I may go in for a third viewing. It’s that frothy.
My expectations for the new series are low. Perhaps I just don’t want to be disappointed. I do know one thing: I will dissect every single episode, and I will have a blast doing so. After all, I’ve had over two decades of practice. Not only did I watch Sex and the City the series (I regularly dance to “You Got the Love” from the finale), I saw both movies. In the theater.
Just how obsessed am I?
Black Mamba’s death one year ago today prepared the world for the pandemic
I was sitting in a crowded coffee shop in Providence, R.I., when my baby brother texted me the news. Kobe Bryant, his daughter Gianna, and seven others, had died in a helicopter crash on a foggy Sunday morning.
My reaction was immediate, visceral...
After Trump’s tirades, taunts and tyranny, it feels good to laugh again.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock or are sulking in the sunshine state after a recent demotion, you’ve probably noticed that the Vermont senator has been keeping really good company as of late. We’re talking A-listers and Forest Gump-like historical figures. Among my favorite situations and stars...
I had no idea when I traveled to Washington, D.C. with Agape's choir to sing at various inaugural balls to celebrate our very first black president that twelve years later, we'd be celebrating our very first black vice-president — and that I would have a role in honoring her in a very special way.
This excerpt from Sacred Landscapes of the Soul resonates with me right now.
I imagine the time Harry Belafonte sat in for Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show was as anticipated as the latest episode of the webcast series Verzuz showcasing Patti Labelle and Gladys Knight.
The two Black culture events converged for me last weekend when I watched the documentary about the historic Woke Week, The Sit-In: Harry Belafonte Hosts The Tonight Show, and the so-called battle of the R&B divas on the same day.
As soon as that preposterous photo of President Trump brandishing the bible hit the stratosphere, I intuitively sensed who was behind his pilgrimage from the White House to St. John’s Episcopal Church.
“This reeks of the First Daughter,” I shared with a friend. I sat up straight in my chair, threw my shoulders back, thrust out my chin and cheekbones (mine are natural, without benefit of a plastic surgeon’s scalpel) and delivered my best Ivanka.
“Daddy, this is an important moment,” I tittered, lips pursed. “It will be like Moses and the Ten Commandments.”
My friend laughed. “Is she like the girls you attended school with?”
“Oh no! She went to Chapin. Brearley girls are not like that.”
Three decades later, I’m embarrassed to admit it remains etched in my consciousness that Chapin girls are blonde and snooty whereas Brearley girls are brighter, better, more magnanimous.
The truth is much more complicated.
I like to make stuff...and think about stuff.