The Day the FLOTUS came to town.

I thought the traffic would be disastrous. So in efforts to prevent any road rage that might sour my gleeful demeanor, I arrived in Corvallis, OR on Saturday, the day before Michelle Obama was scheduled to speak at OSU's 143rd commencement. Surely families would be smothering the town, getting their last minute beaver gear, toasting at watering holes over the sons and daughters that they weren't quite sure were going to make it this year. I envisioned men in dark suits staggered in no apparent pattern around the perimeter of campus occasionally having an intense discussion with their cuff links.

This is not at all the Oregon State campus I was welcomed with.

I cruise into town barely having to stop at any lights. Surely, this was just luck and when I would arrive at the bookstore parking lot, good luck Teela. Again to my surprise, I have a variety of vacant parking spots to choose from and much more shopping elbow room than anticipated. I gather a few shirts for the family and myself and walk through the halls of the Memorial Union to which the bookstore is adjoined. I always loved this place. It had been a meeting spot for lunch, a nap area between classes and a place to have a beverage before battle of the bands. As I walk out the front doors onto the impressive marble staircase, I stare at an empty campus; less than maybe 5 people were scattered across the quad. I almost felt like I had the campus all to myself and this made me weepy.

This was the place where my entire friend community lived within a 2 mile radius of, yet none of them were here anymore. In this beautiful space is where our lives intersected on the various pathways of the quad during the busiest of passing times. In these crossroads we'd hug, share our rage on another dramatic episode with the man or lady of our lives, or high five on a test we knew we had just aced. Then we'd head over to Monroe to discuss the most intricate of party [I mean study] plans for the weekend. The memories are so present as I stand on the MU staircase, but when I open my dampened eyes, none of my faces surround me. The bittersweetness of visiting a town where you have walked mostly every square foot of but you don't reside in any longer...and neither do most of your friends. I remember that it's 2012 and we all graduated from undergraduate six years ago and my other friends from my graduate program, four years ago.

Fast forward 24 hours. It's FLOTUS day. Or for the 4,500ish men and women in black robes and caps with hanging tassels, graduation day...where the First Lady of the United States will deliver their commencement address. Lucky SOB's. 

We find ourselves in our seats about 3 1/2 hours before Mrs. Obama is scheduled to take center stage. Having decent seats is important to us and although we have been lavishing in all shades of excitement all day, sitting down and seeing the podium in place, the thousands of chairs lined up on the field at Reser stadium, and knowing we'd be sharing a common environment with the FLOTUS in a matter of hours is the feeling of feelings. 

Then, 8 cars come cruising in on 35th and into the parking lot. Lights flashing. Corvallis PD. Unmarked suburbans. Motorcycle PD. She is in there somewhere. I pinch/hit Hether on her leg which is currently suffering the wrath of a forming sunburn. She knows how I get when I'm excited, so all is forgiven.

After the bagpipes have played [LOVE bagpipes], the graduates have filed in, and the star-spangled banner has been sung, I fix my eyes on the only entrance it seemed plausible for Michelle to emerge from. And then I see President [of OSU] Ray walking beside a tall beautiful Black woman. It's our First Lady. Erin, Hether and I are on our feet before the announcer can finish the introduction. She is here.

[Far Right, you can see Michelle waving as she enters.]

Her message focuses on living a rich life regardless of the amount of money you may have in your bank account or wallet. Specifically, she emphasizes the importance of (1) Focusing on what you have rather than what you don't, (2) Defining success on your own terms, not others, and finally (3) Being present in the lives of our family and friends. 

While I know the graduates will take something away from the First Lady's speech, I feel overwhelmed with inspiration having been a few years removed from college and having a little of this "real world" experience. In the array of bouquets, cards and checks, what gift the graduates have not yet received is that of hindsight.

I strongly recommend you take 22 minutes to watch her speech in full [, but one of my favorite passages comes from the end of her address where she stresses the important of her 3rd point:

"It means being truly present in the lives of the people you care about. Liking them on Facebook doesn't count. Nor does following them on Twitter. What counts is making the time to be there in person, because I can promise you years from now you will not remember the texts you've exchanged with your friends here at OSU. But you will remember how they cheered you on at your game, right? You will remember how they brought you chocolate and spent hours comforting you after your boyfriend or girlfriend dumped you. What jerks. You will remember all the hours spent diligently studying at the library; that one is for the parents. But seriously, those are the memories you will carry with you through life. Those are the experiences that make you who you are."

She's right. As I stood on the steps of the Memorial Union the previous day, I had only remembered that I signed up for Facebook while living in a tiny ladybug infested dorm room on the top of Bloss Hall with my best friend. I don't remember who liked my status or who friended me on the internet, but I remember walking to classes together, having lunch picnics and sunbathing in that quad on sunny days. I also remember how my usually quick-footed self took slower steps in the fall time when the trees engulfed the campus in an array of stunning orange and yellows. I remembered Thursday walks home where we'd cut through campus with our fourth meal of Pita Pit in hand. But most of all that real space symbolized to me my many friendships that were formed on this campus and how strong they continue to be. They are who I focus on having and they are who who support me when I am defining and redefining what success means for me. 

With my deepest gratitude, thank you Michelle for visiting. Thank you for your words. Thank you for inspiring our community. Thank you for keeping it real.

 

Welcome to Beaver nation, Mrs. Obama. We are thrilled to have you.

What do I know?

I'm standing in my kitchen with a butter knife, carefully scraping the icing that says "28" off of my Helen Bernhard's Birthday cake. Not for vanity, but because I am sharing my cake with one of my classes tomorrow and I never reveal my age to my students. They can guess, but I will never tell. If I'm still teaching at 35, then I might tell them when they ask [which they always do], "I am 35." But 28 somehow seems too young to be doing what I'm doing. I have students on the heels of my age and some that surpass it. Since we equate wisdom and knowledge with the years we have existed according to the calendar, part of me feels not worthy of having my job. It's funny to realize the dissonance between what you know and what other people's perceptions might be of what it is you know. Especially when it comes to age.


"I didn't know any better, I was young."
"Oh, she'll grow out of it."


I'm sure I will refute some of what I think I know now by 35. Or by 29. Better yet, in 6 months. A lot can happen in that time. And when we get busy and sidetracked by life, it's not until we're flipping the calendar to the next month that we realize it's time for yet another BDay. 


Why is it that as we make our ascent up the age ladder, we find that the time it takes us to reach the next rung seems to be much less than the journey to the previous? 

Where will this next year take us? I hope that I find myself with two of my gal pals at the base of the falls of Niagara (or on a hire wire crossing over it?). And who knows where else. If I know anything for sure, I know that plans [for the most part] are pretty much moot. Even with this knowledge, I'm still working on accepting that. How do I know this? Oh, because I've had plans. I had a life written out on a sheet of 8 1/2 x 11 inch college ruled notebook paper that I later converted into a word document. Some of those things indeed did come true, some I'm still working on and I'm certain others are just that... "plans." They look good on paper but may have no place in my story. 


Some lofty plans of the past:


1st grade teacher: And what are your plans for the summer Teela?
1st grade Teela: Hmm...I think I'll write a novel.

I did write some tales that summer, but none that you'll find on the shelves of Powell's or Elliott Bay Books. These are kept hidden in a number of shoe boxes underneath my bed [well now you know the hiding place] for the purposes of memory lane and to not lose sight of my imagination. I find that as we get further away from the ground and the higher up we climb, we become more fearful of the fall we might take. We feel that we have more to lose, more people to let down or disappoint, and that it will be harder to get back up.

What I know at 28 is that these are merely stumbles. If you are lucky enough to have family and friends with unapologetic love for you, it's not so bad to fall. 


And if you're really lucky when you find yourself flat on your back, there will be friendly arms extended down towards you to help you back up but with the expectation you'll choose a different path next time. They have confidence in you.


And if you are ridiculously lucky, you'll have the voice of your beautiful niece in your ear carefully negotiating her sounds and where exactly her tongue placement should be on back of her front teeth to make the sounds "T-T."

What I certainly don't know are the many ways I will be fascinated by her tomorrow and the day after. And the year after that.  

From her I also know that age doesn't necessarily mean wisdom. I know people 50 times her age that she is much smarter than. [True story]

What I also know? These stiletto's have a lot of cobblestone roads and city sidewalks to stomp through. Anticipating the journey, sore feet and all.

'Girls' isn't racist. But Rupert Murdoch might be.

I get that things will not always go my way. I'm a firm believer in temporarily venting these frustrations and disappointments out to my friends that willingly listen [THANK YOU], writing it down, and moving on in hopes of creating a better scenario later. Not that everything is within the locust of our control [something else I'm slowly but surely realizing], but we can choose how we react.

I am not a fan of people that complain about their circumstances incessantly when for the most part, their existence is not worth complaining about. And what further gets under my bitten nails (or acrylic, really depends on the day), is when people do nothing productive to create a new reality. This is one of the reasons the 'May Day' protesters in Seattle particularly irritated me. Destroying the property of someone else's while wearing their brand is probably not the wisest decision. And if you can afford the shoes of the storefront in which you are currently destroying, my sympathies do not lie with you.

This issue is a bit of a side note [shocker], as my main purpose was to address the issue of a few black folks criticizing the new HBO show "Girls." Lena Dunham, the show's creator, head writer and lead actress, is a white woman in her mid-twenties. Her show "Girls" takes place in Williamsburg in the borough of Brooklyn, NY and in the THREE episodes that have been aired, follow the happenings of her and her three friends whom are also white.

I like the show. Correction, I have loved the first three episodes. As a woman in her mid-twenties, errr late twenties, I can still relate to aspects of the characters. Am I white? No. Do I live in New York? No.

Following the airing of the second episode, there were numerous op-ed columns devoted to ripping Dunham apart. "Why are there no black characters? It's in New York, after all, the most diverse city in the United States! We have a black president, haven't we evolved?!" Ugh. Give me a break.

How many shows have come before Dunham who have aired much more than 3 episodes that consisted of casts of predominantly white people? Friends (10 seasons). Seinfeld (9 seasons). HBO's own, Sex and The City (6 seasons) and Entourage (8 seasons). How I Met Your Mother (still airing; tell us who the damn mom is already). Yes, these shows have had black characters, but never apart of the staple foursome or sixsome that are the consistent make up of the show.

I get it. People want to watch people who look like them and have similar experiences. They want to relate. As I've mentioned, I can relate to what are white characters. I also can relate to black characters and often remember watching shows like, "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air" and "The Cosby Show" and thinking that they resembled my family. Were my parents doctors and lawyers and made of wealth? No. Did we live in a rich suburb of LA or a brownstone in Brooklyn? No.

What I'll admit...

It is annoying when you only see stereotypical portrayals of your race on television. As the homeless man, the prostitute woman, the thug with no father figure who thinks there are no other options but selling heroin. The reason for these stereotypical and frequent portrayals is because of who owns the media. 70% of our media is made up by about 6 companies: Disney, News Corporation, Time Warner, NBC Universal, Viacom and CBS Corporation. Within these companies comes 90% of our television programming (news and entertainment). Who do you think owns these companies?

I met the former CEO of Time Warner while in college and he was a black man. At that time, they fully owned the CW or what used to be called the WB. And guess what was on? Sister, Sister. Smart Guy. Shows with black people. But when Rupert Murdoch owns Fox, don't be surprised that the only black girl on "Glee" is sassy, sports large gold bling around her neck that reads 'Foxy,' is the best singer in the cast, and is full-figured. Or that the Asian girl has different color streaks in her hair from week-to-week and is dating the only other Asian character on the show who is a phenomenal break dancer.

It does disappoint me that our perspective is so limited because of who is control and decides what is worthy of television. It also disappoints me when a student raises his hand in class and says, "Well, there is BET." Oh my. PS - Guess who owns BET? The same fools that allow "Jersey Shore" to air, as MTV, MTV2, VH1, CMT and BET are all owned by Viacom.

What I know...


Race isn't the only way we connect and relate with one another. And on the contrary, I often watch shows in which I have absolutely nothing at all in common with the characters. I love "Dexter" and you'll be happy to know that I'm not a serial killer. "Breaking Bad" is one of my addictions, but I don't share the plot line addiction of doing or cooking meth. And "True Blood?" My girlfriends and I used to plan Sunday dinners around this show and none of us will melt in the sun's light. I also DVR "The View" on the regular and I have absolutely nothing in common with Sherri Shepherd, except the fact that we are both...black.

If you want your story told, share it. WRITE IT. Pitch it. But don't pick on a 24 year old woman for honestly telling her own in a clever, funny and relatable way. Don't expect someone else to write what your experience is and is perhaps something that they have no real knowledge about. That's where stereotypes are created, where they grow and where they get comfy cozy and manifest itself within our popular culture.

But this is only my humble opinion. And contrary to popular belief, I am not speaking for all of "us."

This American Holiday.

In the nature of most of my blogspiration, I was having a conversation the other day with a friend and we were discussing St. Patrick's Day plans. This obviously lent itself into a general questioning of the phenomenon of the American holiday tradition and why and how we celebrate what we do. We concluded the following: The holidays that Americans choose to celebrate reflect a collective set of St. Values de Americana. The values that seem to be most prevalent throughout these holidays are the following:

-A lack of cultural knowledge and thus, a misinterpretation (St. Patrick's Day, Easter, Cinco de Mayo, Thanksgiving and Christmas)

that leads us to celebrate with...


-Greed and Consumerism (Valentine's Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas)

and typically, we find ourselves in a world of

-Overconsumption (St. Patrick's Day, Cinco De Mayo, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas)

I can't possibly discuss what is ludicrous in the American interpretation of each of these days. Instead, I've narrowed my focus to the fascination of St. Patrick's Day, May 5th and that Thursday before Black Friday (another blog entirely based on nomenclature alone).

St. Patrick's Day
A day to celebrate our Irish brethren, right? Somehow we equate celebrate with violating another's person by inflicting a pinch of pain if they refused to incorporate green into their wardrobe. Then we laugh, boast, "But you're not wearing green!" and raise our glass to toast with a beer that has been dyed an awful murky green color that looks less than appetizing. Which in retrospect, I guess makes sense, because a lot of Irish food is unappetizing to look at. Note: Don't claim you are wearing green underwear because now you are turning this into more of a Mardi Gras holiday. Let's stick to some good clean fun of chasing Leprechauns around double rainbows to steal their pot o' gold.

Cinco de Mayo
For those of you who believed high school Spanish class was synonymous with nap time, I'm referring to the 5th of May. You know, that day where you leave work early to catch Happy Hour at oba! (PDX reference), break out that sombrero Chevy's gifted you on your last BDay and indulge in margs. All in the name of Mexico's independence...since we love and treat our southernly neighbor during non-5th of May days with adoration and care.

Americans, if we're so bent on commemorating Mexico's independence, try diez y seis de septiembre....if you've returned from your Labor Day weekend, that is.

Thanksgiving
Remember cutting out goldenrod sheets of construction paper shaped as buckles and attaching them to Abe Lincoln looking hats, all by way of your handy Elmer's glue stick? I do. The thought of it alone makes me want to order one from Amazon just to have one around to glue nothing in particular together, but just to inhale the scents of childhood.

Well, that smell is also one of ignorance.

How many 3rd grade teachers told the real story of Thanksgiving? Since I can't be sure that you were the recipient of false rhetoric emphasizing the blossoming friendship between the natives and the White people that "discovered" the new world and slaughtered a group of people in order to claim it as their own, I'll just account this as my own teaching. Imagine my bewilderment years later when I realized we revered this holiday as one to be thankful. I'm sure that is exactly what the Native's sentiment was. Thankful. They also probably saw it as a day where sometime in the distant future, a department store named Macy's would create enormous balloons and fly them in between skyscrapers of an imminent city called New York. Yes, that would be the epitome of symbolizing this occasion. Screw you mylar balloons, we made Shrek look like a real ogre.

[The parade is still awesome, don't get me wrong. My view on Thanksgiving 2008]

If we really wanted to honor Thanksgiving for what it were, then we'd take note from my favorite man, Jon Stewart:

"I celebrated Thanksgiving the old-fashioned way. I invited everyone in my neighborhood to my house, we had an enormous feast, and then I killed them and took their land."

Note: I am not condoning or encouraging murder. I'm just being authentic.

---

We really shouldn't have the audacity to complain and furthermore should feel slightly embarrassed when we publicly complain about the climbing numbers of childhood obesity or our doctors give us the "shocking" news of developing Type 2 diabetes (come on Paula, were you really surprised? You eat sticks of butta for breakfast), when we look at what we value. I mean, we chaperone our children on a pilgrimage of begging for candy from strangers while wearing a weird disguise around the neighborhood in the middle of the night. And what about the spring outdoor 'hunt' where we taunt and put them in competition with one another to find boiled food products and other chocolate candies scattered in the yard? "Tommy found the most eggs (chicken & cadbury), he wins! Now go inside and wash up for our Easter feast that we'll begin at 2 and end around 7."

The American girl in me does love to celebrate and in fact, I have been unsuccessfully pushing my friends to begin commemorating Flag Day (::crossing fingers:: Twenty-Twelve could be the year!). But I also feel shamed when we seem to have completely diluted any cultural meaning within a holiday. However, we are a young nation...as another friend of mine put it, "we are the teenagers of the world." If that's the case, rest assured. By our twenties we'll have it all figured out, right?

A Story of Speech, Seuss & Self-Esteem

My education in psychology is limited to Psych 201, which was literally the first class I ever took in college. Fall 2002, 9AM. That was almost 10 years ago. Oddly enough, I often find myself offering advice to friends when solicited [and sometimes unsolicited]. Recently, this has shifted into my professional life where I was faced with a student with an overwhelmingly low state of self-esteem and therefore is terrified of speaking in front of her classmates. Let's pause; I need to preface the nature of the class and how I approach this cruel mistress we call fear.

The apprehension in a public speaking class is palpable. Usually a good 80% of the class is completely petrified of the thought of standing in front of 30 of their peers, let alone having to share their ideas with them. So they look to me as a source of comfort and instead, before they make that long journey to the front of the class, this evil teacher greets them to the classroom with these words written on the board:

What is your biggest fear?

I'm sure a large number of them want to reply, "This class, you asshole," but I ask them to set aside the distress that the current class is causing them and to reach outside of that. The board ends up looking something like this:

Spiders

Rejection

Snakes

Failure

Heights

Disappointing Loved Ones

Clowns

Death

Escalators [true story]

I quickly assure them they will not die, this I am only 70% sure of, no clowns will be making cameos on speech day, our classroom will stay at the same altitude and I will pull the fire alarm if any spiders dare to invade our room. What I can't promise them are the two things they are most concerned about: Rejection and Failure.

So back to my student. We'll call her Lacy. Lacy told me very early in the term that she had incredibly low self-esteem. We've had a semi-ongoing conversation about it, but given the absence of a psychology degree and the limitation of only having 10 weeks to work-out much greater issues, I'm at a loss. Yesterday, she was in tears about her speech next week. Even with her best friend sitting right there assuring Lacy of her worth, she continued to shake her head and counter every positive statement with a negative.

"I don't like the things I say. I'm not funny. I'm not good at anything. I hate my voice, it's too deep."

I had to laugh at this last one. "Lacy, do you hear my voice? You know who else has a deep voice? My friend Oprah." 

I told Lacy that we all have our fears, yet she sees her fear as my strength. My fears are plenty. Some of them are rational and others I'm reminded I'm crazy for harboring, but they are real nonetheless. Lacy is afraid of being vulnerable and being exposed. I suffer from a similar affliction and this space allows me to work on that.

Negativity is only effective if you allow it to be; this is something I'm still learning. Unfavorable experiences give birth to the confines of a comfort zone and death to positive thought, when we really should be following those foolish aspirations we had as children before "can't," "never," and "won't" became regulars in our vocabulary bar. The only think we can speak in absolute certainty of is death. We will all die [probably not in front of your Public Speaking class], but our story has the promise to live on.

I have an obsession with stories. Both the telling and consuming, and the language that is used to share them. My friend Dr. Seuss and I were similar in that way. Today our calendars mark what would have been his 108th birthday. See how his stories are still being told? That's exquisite.

I spent the first two hours of today confined to my infatuation. I read for awhile. I wrote for awhile. Then I found myself here, writing more. I think Dr. Seuss would appreciate this type of morning. I wish I had more like it.

"You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.

Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked.

A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!

Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?

How much can you lose? How much can you win?"

-'Oh, the Places You'll Go!' -Dr. Seuss

Thanks for the fearlessness in your stories, Seuss.

When I realized I was Black.

A few weeks back I was doing my daily morning routine of reading headlines on NPR, when I came across a review for a book called, 'How To be Black' by Baratunde Thurston. Before I read a word, I knew I needed this book in my life. I may not judge books by their covers, but I do by the words on that cover. After reading the synopsis, I was mad that I didn't write this book first. So out of spite but mostly out of curiosity, I put myself on the hold list for it at the Seattle Public Library and as luck would have it [or just by being one of seven black people in Seattle], I was the first one to check it out. I started reading it the other day and found myself laughing aloud and nodding to no one but myself. The white people congregated in  Starbucks were probably both frightened and amused by the large print title and the crazy woman behind the cover. At least I wasn't yelling, "I heard that" like my mom often does in movies. [I love you mom].

The two parts that I have appreciated reading most thus far are the "name-calling" section and the accounts from Thurston and some of his friends about the first time they realized they were black.

Through my 27.75 years, I have been called 'white washed,' 'a sellout' and on more than one occassion, have received the shocked look on the face of someone I've only corresponded with over the phone when they meet me face-to-face for the first time. I call this the, 'she's  b l a c k?' look. I always thought it was a bit silly that I was called these names. What does it mean to be white washed anyway? Being smart is only a trait that white people are capable of attaining? If we're being stereotypical, then I should've really been called Asian washed. Having the ability to speak in non-broken English is a white person trait? Weird, because I'm pretty sure most of my white friends hate me for correcting their grammatical blunders all the time. My favorite might be the protest of, "you're not really black!" Then I just look down at my arm in astonishment and back at my friend. Then down at my arm again.

These names came after I made the discovery that I was indeed black [amidst the protest]. So here's my story:

There are three specific times in my young life that I came to the realization that I was in fact black. This may seem like a weird 'revelation'...to suddenly notice the shade of skin that envelopes your entire body that you spend all of your time in. No I wasn't slow or late to the party, but with the exception of my family, I was surrounded by [mostly] white people. I grew up in Oregon. And those friends that I had weren't really concerned that their friend Teela had a year round tan, they just wanted to play barbies and blade around the block with her. So given my non racist social circle, I had three very vivid instances where it was brought to my attention that I wasn't just different, but that I was less than because of this distinction. I was utterly confused why this darkened pigmentation warranted negativity.

1. The first instance finds a young Teela in Kindergarten. Back then, I was not much different than who I am now. I know [a little] more now, still sang every chance I got, and one of my most favorite times to test my high notes was during nap time. I refused to sleep [still do, different reasons].

One day a little [white] girl came up to me. I don't remember what we were doing and she told me I had a really big nose and that hers was smaller and cuter. She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and walked away. Picture Dumbo's insecurities about his ears. Or Pinocchio about, well, his nose. That day I started to examine the noses of all my white classmates and did realize that mine seemed to be taking up a larger portion of my face. I'm sure this was exacerbated by embarassment, but I went home upset and told my mom what the kindergarten nose police had said while she was giving me a bath. I will never forget what my mom's big comeback was: "Tell her that you can breathe better."

Years later, I would pierce my nose.

2. The second time I realized I was black, I was in the third grade and I had a crush. Possibly my first...followed by another first-rejection. And oh was Nathan a looker! [Note: Names have not been changed. This douchebag deserves to be called out.] His face was covered in freckles, his skin detested the sun and refused to surrender to its tanning efforts and instead, turned as red as his hair when exposed to it. Hey, they say opposites attract.

It was Valentine's day and we had these heart-shaped books to pass around the room to write nice notes to our friends and classmates in. I think I still have my book. When I got Nathan's book, I wrote "I like you." My girlfriends and I giggled over it and later during recess, one of my friends asked while I was standing a few feet away, if he liked me. He said he didn't like Negroes "like that." It was 1992.

3. And of course, we all remember the first time we were called a 'Nigger.' I was probably 10 years old, so two years after this Negro was rejected by the monkey bars, and on a soccer road trip with my team. My mom came along to chaperone. This soccer trip was in Medford, OR which if any of you are familiar, well we aren't surprised that it took place here.

We had pulled up late to our hotel and were going to check-in. We were collecting our things out of the trunk when we heard the loud talking of some nearby men outside of their pick-up. I like to imagine them drinking Hamm's or Natty Ice [something classy], wearing overalls sans undershirts letting their beer bellies spill out of the sides of the denim, and probably mourning the loss of a few of their late teeth. Truth is, I remember nothing about what they look like. I just remember what they called my mom and me in that awful Medford parking lot.

This is why I don't use the N word. Because of how disgusting those men meant to make me feel, did make me feel and do make me feel even now 17 years later just thinking about it. They knew nothing about me and used this word to encompass my existence. There is never a time I would deem this appropriate to refer to my friends with this language and mean it as "brother" or "sister." There's already words that mean the same thing...look, I just used them. Right there ^  ^. 

I think this is one of the reasons I hate Tyler Perry so much [yes, we're back there]. He makes a career off of putting people in boxes like these men put me in. And being in boxes is no fun. That's why mimes are constantly trying to get out of them.

I'm not done with Baratunde's book yet, but I already know it's one I'll be recommending to you regardless of what color you discovered you were 15 or 20 years ago. On that note, I turn to Baratunde:

"My version of being black adheres as much to the stereotypes as it dramatically breaks from them, and that's probably true for most of you reading this-if not about blackness itself, then about something else related to your identity." -How to Be Black, Baratunde Thurston


Happy Black History Month.

Why Tyler Perry isn't Funny

I have a long standing disdain for Mr. Perry. Simply put, he's not funny and it continues to baffle me that he has such a following and is making so much cash over dressing in drag as an elderly black woman while perpetuating racial stereotypes.

Before I continue it must be noted that I like racial humor. Like is an understatement. I LOVE racial humor. I devoted an entire year researching and analyzing it and was able to snag myself a Masters because of it. The difference between what I researched and what Tyler Perry creates is that he isn't funny.

Humor is obviously subjective. I appreciate when comedians who use racial humor point out the ludicrous nature of stereotypes in clever ways or use self-deprecating humor to make light of a discussion of an otherwise difficult to discuss topic. Of course we have some of those 'it's-funny-because-it's-true' moments, but the overall purpose of racial humor is to shed light on topics that we don't necessarily talk about around the water cooler because we are terrified at the possibility of offending someone and coming off as racist.

I like the dark, non-laugh track, intuitive humor that makes me think about a joke further. I realize that not everyone is like this but when you are the creator of racial humor, I think it is your responsibility to not make buffoon caricatures based on race. Why? Because people that have limited to no experience with that group of people will begin to sketch a picture in their mind that represents what they believe that group of people to be like. Unfortunately, a lot of minority groups haven't been traditionally cast in a variety of roles. On the contrary, we can see a white male playing many different parts and therefore, it is much more difficult to categorize them as representing just one thing. You can turn on Showtime and see him as a serial killer; flip to NBC and see him as a stay-at-home dad; change over to ABC and see him as a lawyer; finishing off the night by spending an hour on AMC and see him as an ad man. Or a maker of methamphetamines.

When you lack this variety, it's very easy to create stereotypes and I believe Tyler Perry to be a master of this. Just turn to TBS. I think he does his entire race a disservice when he continually puts a certain number of unchanging characters in his casts.

Why the Cosby show was revolutionary in the 1980's was because here we finally saw a well to do black family where Claire and Cliff were working as a lawyer and doctor respectively, while successfully raising their large family. Their kids were even going to college. It gave America a new perception of the black family. And guess what? It was still funny.

Tyler Perry, you've set us back. Take notes from the 1980's and maybe you can start moving forward in 2012. Preferably off any TV or movie screen. To that, I would say 'hallelujer.'