Positive over Negative

And the award goes too…."My Nappy ROOTS" for Festival's Choice for Best Documentary. Applause, please! Although we had issues with the Pan African Film Festival's coordination and professionalism during our initial screening, we still received a major award from it. Awards and special recognitions go along way in promoting a film and especially in wooing a distributor. Ideally, we hope to have a limited theatrical release then go to DVD. Wow, the thought of attending and walking down the red carpet to a great film I helped produce makes me smile. But there is still much to do before that idea can become a reality.

The other great thing that came out of the film festival is doing an interview at AOL for AOL Black Voices. The shoot was done at the new LA office in Beverly Hills. The film's co-director and producer, Regie Kimbell, arrived a little late, but got there in time to get hair and make-up done. Figuring out what to do with her hair took a little longer than expected, so I suggested she just wear it the way she did on the red carpet. Once she was "dusted for the balcony", we were led to the set where we met the interviewer. The set was decorated simply with a couple of panels. Each panel had an Afrocentric design that complemented the theme of the festival. At least 4 cameras captured Reggie at various angles.

Fast forward 2 weeks. While surfing AOL Black Voices I came across Reggie's interview on AOL's 2007 PAFF webpage. They edited the interview down to 7 minutes and included some pictures from the film. After watching it, I watched Black Voices coverage of the opening nights red carpet event. Although Regie and Jay did the red carpet, they were not featured in the video. However, if you observe what's going on in the background of the video, you'll see me featured quite prominently. I'm walking, talking, taking pictures, and unknowingly mean mugging. I promise I had no clue I was in the way that much.
If I had been the editor, I would have been pissed that some chick in a tan jacket was walking through so many shots. Truly, the only reason I was on the carpet was to take some pics of Jay and Reggie. Initially my intent was to go home and change into a black outfit, but I just didn't have the time. Traffic leaving the valley was bad, so there was no way I would have made it home and back to Hollywood in time. So I came to the event right after work.
As most of my friends know, I chose my path behind the camera long ago, so to get that much camera time without really trying is ironic to me. I'm not sure whether to happy about it or down right embarrassed. However, one thing is certain; I'm definitely not mad about it.

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Great Expectations!

"My Nappy ROOTS," the film I've been working on as Associate Producer was selected for screening at the Pan African Film Festival. This festival is 15-years-old and held every year in Los Angeles at Magic Johnson's Theater. Typically, it is a FUBU event meaning it's made "for us and by us". By us I'm referring to Black people, African Americans, and Africans. However, don't get it twisted, pro black is NOT synonymous with anti-white or any other anti-racial title. PAFF is open to anyone that wants to see independent films by and about people of African descent.

The film festival began with a grand opening event at the Director's Guild in Hollywood saluting Andrew Young and his documentary about Rwanda. There was red carpet, lots of press, and a few celebrities. While on the carpet taking pictures of the directors, I noticed Wesley Snipes walking towards us. At this point in my career, I've seen most of Hollywood's Black elite actors so it doesn't excite me anymore. Still, when I saw Wesley approach I got star struck for a hot second. Back in college and even some years after, I was so in lust with Wesley. Ever since his memorable scenes in Mo' Better Blues, I had been a major fan. While most women were drooling over Denzel in his tank top, Wesley had my mind on lock. Ladies, check the videotape! If he does all of that while acting just what does he do in a real situation? Yeah, Wesley definitely gave me something to think about. But just a quickly as fan lust came, it went. So for fantasy's sake, I took a picture of my dream Wesley of "Waiting to Exhale" and "Disappearing Acts."

On the carpet, the directors answered questions about the film. Nobody really wanted to talk to the Associate Producer. But that's okay, my time to step into the limelight is coming. I'm being prepared for it through various events and situations. I feel that it in my spirit. But currently, my job lately is to watch and listen. Having worked on an award-winning documentary is good enough for me right now. So I just soaked up all the positive in just being there. Trust, the negativity came a little later. But let's dwell on the good things first. Actresses Ella Joyce, Kerry Washington, and Loretta Devine made appearances on the red carpet as well. Ella is our film and another one at the festival.

Fast forward to the first screening day, Sunday. Lot's of people, lots of energy. Of course with so much positivity in the air, negativity had to rear its ugly head. Due to just sheer lack of communication from those that run the festival to those that actually implement the day-to-day activities, we had issues. Those that ran publicity didn't bother to inform us that a media screening was held days in advance. We were pushing for press to come on that Sunday. And since our screening had a sold- out audience, press that did arrive had no seats, despite those seats being reserved in advance, so we thought. Then just as the film ended we expected a Q&A session and an opportunity to invite the audience to our reception close by. Instead, an announcement was made that the Q& A would be held somewhere else. Imagine our surprise when right after the lights went up, festival organizers cleared the theater. Generally, after a screening like this one a Q&A with the filmmakers begins right there in the theater. Not this time! Those that had questions were sent to another building located across the large parking lot. It was not a short distance away, nor was it free. Luckily, through our own word-of-mouth campaign we were able to redirect people to our post-screening event.

Which brings to mind another issue. Since this festival has been happening annually for over a decade, you would think organizers would improve its system of voting for the awards banquet. Where does all the sponsors' money go? Attendants to screenings should not have to write the names of their favorite films on little scraps of paper while trying to leave a crowded theater. And if you're going to ask them to write, could you at least supply a pen? What about a real ballot with the film's name and category already provided. If you can't afford a company to do it for you, damn at least implement a new strategy. Again I ask, where does the sponsor money go?

Great expectations should be had of an organization that's been in existence for 15 years. In fact, you expect more professionalism, more coordination, better everything from top to bottom of an organization that's been showcasing films that long. So because we're black filmmakers, we're suppose to look the other way? NO! Because we ARE Black filmmakers and it IS a Black owned and operated event, our expectations should not be lowered.

Sad to say, but seemingly since integration, too often the Black-owned business has become synonymous with inferior, unprofessional, and always late. But why? When will we stop laughing at ourselves and realize while we are laughing, we must also do what's necessary not to become the joke.

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So Long, Vegas!

Leaving Vegas!

Our last day in Vegas was just as worrisome as our first. Both our flights left around the same time, but through different airlines. We headed out 2 hours before our flights were scheduled to leave. We dropped the car off at Alamo first, then took the shuttle to the airport. My stop at the Southwest terminal was first. The line for baggage check-in was long, but that was to be expected. So I lugged my 2 bags to the back of the line. About 2 minutes later, Perry called and informed me the Southwest line was much longer than it appeared. It was nearly 3 times the length of the terminal and I was at the very back. Just as she informed of this, 2 security officers walked by to inform us the average wait was 5 hours. That meant I was not going to make my flight. If I had had just a carry-on I would have made the flight. Unfortunately, checking in one large duffel bag had me stuck in the middle of Erykah Badu song. "Bag lady, you gone miss your bus, you can't hurry up, cause you got to much stuff!" Then on top of the wait, the weather temperature dropped considerably. Our entire time in Vegas, the weather was really nice. But Monday it was cold and windy. When it began to rain, I cursed aloud. I was cold, hungry, and frustrated…a bad combination for traveling. Not to mention, the wait in line to check-in one bag was longer than the flight itself. A call to Southwest only further frustrated me because there were no more available flights until Tuesday, according to the representative. I would have to fly stand-bye. Of course, the thought of staying a day longer in Vegas and missing work, sent another couple of curse words into air. During my tirade, Perry called. When I told her my dilemma she suggested getting another rental and just driving back to LA. It didn't seem like a bad idea until I saw myself stuck in traffic on the 15 for long hours. But since I had already paid for the flight, flying back was what I was determined to do. So, quietly I had "Just a little talk with Jesus" then called Southwest back. Surprisingly, some flights had miraculously come available. So I booked a later flight. Right when the rep was about to give me the confirmation number, the call dropped. FUKC! Of course, when I called right back and a different rep told me again there were no flights available. As politely as I could, I explained to her that I was just on the phone with them literally a minute before and was going to be given a confirmation number when my cell lost reception. She informed me that flight was now gone and my only option was again to fly stand-bye. Before I began cursing at her, I ended the call. The option to drive back to LA was looking better. When I told Perry—who now was chilling at her gate—how I lost my chance to change my flight she said to call them back. I told her it wasn't going to change anything, but she insisted I call anyway. When I did, another Southwest rep informed me my later flight had actually been booked and that the confirmation number was indeed available. Now, why the last rep couldn't see that I don’t know, but thank God for small miracles. I was to fly out of Vegas at 5:05 pm.

The extra 2 hour wait in the cold was becoming a hot mess 'cause people were trying to get ahead of others. Airport security caught several of them and sent them back to the end of the line. I was so happy to finally get on the plane for a mere hour flight I could have cried. It was the end to a weekend marked with challenges from the very start. My first NBA All Star Weekend was not all I thought it would be, but I wasn't mad about it. For me, just to get out of LA and see and do something different was good. Although technically, what I saw in Vegas could have easily been witnessed standing on the corner of Slauson and Crenshaw. Still, sometimes you do things in life just for the experience. So fade to black and roll credits. This is the end of my NBA All Star Weekend in Vegas

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Easy Like Sunday Morning

Sunday.Game day. After getting back to the hotel around 5 am, of course we slept through the morning and into the afternoon. By 2 pm we were awake but not officially up. By 3 o'clock we were dressed and ready to hit the strip. From our hotel, the Westin, we walked to Paris Hotel and Casino for a late lunch. As we walked, I noticed most of the usual crowd on the strip had thinned out. Even old people were out and about. Since our arrival Thursday, the Vegas strip had been packed with mostly young loiters dressed to kill in ghetto fabulousness. Not since Freaknic had I seen so many young black people literally take over a place. As we approached the Paris, Perry received an invitation from an associate to watch the game in his suite at the Bellagio Hotel. We weren't going to the game anyway, so after enjoying a good buffet we walked over to his hotel. Our intention was only to stay for minute, then leave. This was our last night in Vegas, so we were determined not to spend it sitting in a hotel room. Once inside the Bellagio lobby, our host greeted us and led us up to his suite. Surprisingly, we were the first guests to arrive. Damn, our plans to hit and run were null and void! The suite was very nice, complete with a flat screen television. A great view overlooking the city took over one side of the living room. Snacks and plenty of alcohol were on a small table on the other side. Dude was a good host, and once we began talking the notion of leaving early left our minds. After about an hour his friends came by and we enjoyed chilling with them. Everybody was from the east coast—Jersey, DC, Baltimore, and of course North Carolina. Once the game was over, we left his hotel and headed back to ours to get dressed. On they way, Perry received another invitation. This time it was to get into club Rum Jungle, one of many hotel clubs on the strip. According to her source, we could get in for free and chill in VIP. Cool!

The set up of the club was really nice—plenty of places to sit in VIP, a large bar, and a sizeable dance floor. A mirror on the back wall gave the impression there was more space than there really was. As her club tradition, Perry checked out the place for exits and then led me back to VIP. While sitting with our new associates, we observed a female dancer being lowered into one of the many cages hanging from ceiling by a rope. Soon after, we were given another show above the bar. Two women performed a trapeze act without a safety net. I tried to get a picture, but of course the batteries were dead and using my cell didn't occur to me. And since I was already looking up, I noticed too there were giant congo drums stationed beside the dancefloor. On the top of one drum was a drummer and on top of the other, a percussionist. No matter the music, they kept up with the beats the DJ was spinning, giving every song a live music feel. Around 2 am, popular rapper, Jim Jones, gave a performance. Since it appeared everybody was up in the club getting tipsy, he had an enthusiastic crowd. He performed on a thin platform above the dance floor surrounded by his boys for about 30 minutes. I had heard his name mentioned on the radio and wondered if he knew about the crazy white preacher with the same name that convinced his flock of nearly 900 followers—most of which were black—to commit a mass murder-suicide in Guyana. It happened in the late 70s and it was one of the most shocking and sad events of my childhood. Does the current Jim Jones have any idea about the history attached to his name? I guess for this generation of Hip-Hoppers it doesn't really matter.

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Here We Go Again!

Saturday morning's sleep-in was interrupted by a 10 am wake-up call. Perry, a publicist, submitted my name as Associate Producer of film, "My Nappy ROOTS," to a show that was being taped by TV One. A representative from the show called to tell us that we were wanted for the taping and that a limo would be picking us up at noon. Production was scheduled to start at 1 pm. Further conversation with the representative led us to believe the show wanted to do an interview of some sort. For a camera shy chick like me, the idea of getting in front of the camera made me a little anxious. But if it meant promoting the film, I’d take one for the team. A limo was to arrive by noon.

After going downstairs to print some info about the documentary, we headed outside to wait for the limo pick-up. We waited 30 minutes and called our show contact again. She told us to call the limo company, which is a task she should've handled as a rep from the show. We called and left a message. When an hour passed we called the show rep again and got directions to the taping location, the Red Rock Hotel and Casino. It was nowhere close and required getting on the highway to get there. Supposedly, it was 20 minutes away from the strip. At this point, I suspected another PAFF experience but tried to remain hopeful.

With traffic, the 20-minute drive time was debatable. The Red Rock was a very modern hotel, drastically different in layout and design from the other hotels/casinos on the strip. Large glass red doors that greeted you at the entrance and lots of interesting art and furniture made from rocks complemented its décor. We were greeted by the show representative and led to the set. During the walk through the lobby area, Perry handed her the film's production notes and bio. When she gave it back and informed her to give it to someone else, another red flag when up in my mind. The entrance to the set was a mirrored tunnel drenched in red. Truly, it looked like a set piece of a music video. The representative then walked us outside to the waiting area and told us it wouldn't start until 2:30pm. What happened to the 1 pm we were told previously? Then we were instructed to just make ourselves comfortable on the patio and wait to be called. Instead of sitting in the heat we grabbed a bite to eat from the food court. We got back just in time to see an interview in progress. Sheila Johnson, America’s first Black female billionaire, was on the set. She and former husband, Robert Johnson, split the profits of the sell of BET. The shoot was a typical 3 camera set up and live to tape. Once her interview ended, I heard the name, "Nappy Roots" being called so I told the PA I was ready. She looked confused. "Are you a group?" She asked. I informed her I was there representing the film, not a group. To my surprise, the rap group, Nappy Roots, was actually there for an interview and proceeded to the set. Obviously, there was some major confusion going on. Why would they need both a film and a rap group with a similar name for a show? That question went unanswered. So we waited in the wings. As we watched the interview in progress, I gestured for the show's publicist to come over to us. Upon asking about my interview, we were informed there would not be one. We were welcome to continue wasting time watching the production, but I was not to be interviewed. There was no way to squeeze me in she said…the shoot schedule was set. She then walked away. What the hell? Before I could say anything that would truly reveal my frustration, I headed for the exit. Once again, we had experienced an unexcusable lack of professionalism by our own. How the hell could a show call us at 10 am for an interview, inform us of limo pick-up, then treat us like spectators when we get there? Truly, I had to get out of there fast before I acted like a DMX song. As we exited, Perry--always the professional--dealt with the niceties of saying goodbye to the chick that called us there to begin with. Having nothing positive to say, I angrily waited by the door. Our whole damn morning and part of the afternoon was wasted for nothing! The more I thought about it, the more pissed I became. But according to Perry the shoot was not a total waste because we talked briefly with Sheila Johnson and her assistant about "My Nappy ROOTS". Only time will tell if anything results from our brief meeting.

Saturday night was a bust too, but I wasn't mad about it. We got dressed, explored our options, and came back. We dropped by the NBA League party, but without tickets it was a no go. So we went back to Empire, Friday night's spot. It was dead in comparison to the night before. So, the highlight of the night for me was going to Sonic to get something to eat. To Perry’s surprise, I had never been there before. But now I’ve experienced one of their delicious fruit slushies, you can trust I’ll be back.

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Ghetto Fabulous Friday

After getting in around 3 am the night before, getting up early was out the question! But my biological clock woke me up around 7am anyway. So I got some blogging done, watched some tv, and then headed to the strip around 1pm. It was such a beautiful day I decided to walk. Walking gave me the opportunity to observe people and get some much needed exercise. While moving through crowds of loiters it came to my attention that most of the people on the strip were young and Black. I swear at every turn there appeared to be a Hip Hop video audition. Young men dawned sagging jeans, oversized t-shirts, Tims or sneakers. Girls' attire ranged from ghetto fabulous to bootilicious to just plain stank. Basically, the Vegas strip became a bucket of chicken. Breasts, thighs, and ass were on outlandish display for the world to consume, and it was all dark meat. Which brought to mind another question. If most of the Black people were on the strip, where were the White people that came to enjoy NBA All Star weekend? They weren't at the malls nor at the clubs, so where were they gathering in large numbers? Where ever they were, I'm sure there were not armed police officers lining the street.

At first glance, they reminded me of images from the Civil Rights movement when riot policemen lined up in front of business to keep Blacks out. In 2007, that was not the case. Instead, this was a case of perception. What this generation of young Black kids doesn't seem to realize is that a reputation of bad behavior precedes them. I'm pretty sure when Vegas businesses were informed that mobs of Black kids were about to descend upon them, they didn't see it as a positive financial opportunity. Instead, they equated it with a money-loosing opportunity due to theft and possibly violence.

Anyway, Friday night we hit the strip to see what parties were really jumping. First stop was MGM, aka chocolate city. It was overcrowded with predominantly Black people loitering in the casino, the lobby, and at the entrance of the club inside the hotel. We left there to observe people going in to an "invitation only" Micheal Jordan event. There was no chance of getting in that party so we ended up at a party at Empire, hosted by Kenny Smith. The cover charge was $100. VIP $200. The line to get in was long but we managed to squeeze in ahead of most of the people in it. We entered the club and headed upstairs to the VIP area. Of course, there was no place to stand or sit, so the patio was our only option. Unfortunately, it was also the smoking section. Soon as we sat down I said to Perry that coming there was a waste of money. It was overly crowded on the dance floor, not to mention hot as hell, and the only space available was populated by smokers. Truly, I was ready to go but since the money was already spent we continued to sit outside. When it became cold, we ventured to the dance floor. DJ Jazzy Jeff was working hard on the ones and twos. You couldn't help but move to the music. After dancing in our spot for about 15 minutes, Perry decided to cool off on the patio. I stayed. Of course, now that I was alone, some fool behind me decided to get a little familiar. An arm snaked around my waist from behind. Dude was all in my ear, pulling me close to his body. Definitely, wrong move. Drunkenly, he asked my name. I told him "Tina".as I pulled myself out of his embrace. He then told me he liked me, and I informed him he didn't know me to like me. That was not the response he was expecting but it sobered him up enough to leave me alone. The man next to me must have observed me pulling away from the drunk guy. He said in my ear, "Don't let him ruin your night." Turning slightly I told him I would not and started dancing again. I took off my leather jacket and draped it over my shoulder. Brotha man beside me took it from me and put it over his arm. Wow, what a nice gesture I thought. Only old skool players did things like that. I thanked him and we began to dance together. Almost an hour later, Jazzy Jeff left the turntables and the music took a bad turn. It was my cue to end the dance, get my coat, and find Perry. And no, I didn't bother to get my jacket holder's number. I thanked him for the dance, embraced him and left.

On our way back to the car, which was several blocks away, we stopped in Walgreens. Perry's feet hurt so bad she had to get a pair of flip flops. Posted outside the store was that line of policeman mentioned before. I found it interesting that they were standing relatively close together, like in riot mode. The potential for some shit to pop was ever present, but I didn't want to dwell on that. Instead, I followed Perry into the store to the flip flop aisle. It was packed with black women looking for comfort for their feet. One drunken woman was literally sitting in the floor with a huge toy penis in her hand complaining about her feet. Think she got that toy from Walgreens? LOL. My feet hurt too, but not so bad I needed to replace my shoes. Perry bought a pair of bright pink slippers that ended up being too small. For several blocks she flip-flopped her way to the car, stopping only to readjust them to keep them on. She was not alone, though. The strip was full of women walking with their heels in hand, and not so flattering slippers on their feet. By the time we made it to the hotel it was after 4 am in the morning.

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Outside Looking In

The night was young, and so were we. LIES, ALL LIES! Yes, the night was young but Perry and I aren't as young as we used to be. It was around 9pm. After dinner at Hard Rock Café and some celebrity sightings (Questlove, 50 cent, and Katt Williams) it was time to check-in at the hotel. The plan was to get dressed and head to a couple of parties. But I knew if I got within a couple of feet of a bed, it was going to be lights out! It had been a long day. So we checked in at the Westin Hotel only to be told our room was not ready. WTF? The room was supposed to be available at 3pm. We had at least an hour wait before the room would be ready we were informed. What the hell were we going to do for an hour? We had already eaten. We weren't dressed to go to out, and my energy was fading FAST. On the radio, a party hosted by fine azz actor Edris Elba, Big Tigga from BET, and Biz Markie was being promoted. With nothing but time to waste, we decided to roll through. Of course, neither one of us knew how to get there. So, while sitting in an intersection, we asked for directions downtown from a driver next to us. After a couple of wrong turns, we somehow ended up on the right street! By this time the music was sounding really good. So good, my energy level rose enough to start grooving in my seat as Perry drove. No dis to new school, but old school Hip-Hop is where it’s at. When a song brings you right back to the time and place you first heard it or reminds you of a special event you know you’ve got a classic. Whoever was DJ-ing the party we were listening to, was definitely an old head from the east coast.

Driving through downtown Vegas at night was like touring the inside of a 100 watt light bulb. It’s so bright you don’t need headlights and street lamps to see the street. Which brought to mind one question. Who they hell pays Vegas' electric bill? The city must have the ultimate hook up with power companies or do the residents carry the burden ? Ain’t enough prostitution and gambling in Vegas to pay for all that electricity the city soaks up!

Eventually, we arrive at the spot. Red carpet, search lights, and eager clubbers waiting to enter building made for a great spectacle. It was also a great people watching opportunity. So we parked the rental right at a corner to do just that. You know how we, as women, do. Perry and I criticized errthang from hair to shoes and everything in between. We also noticed if the cops thought a female was hot, they’d stop traffic for her to cross the street. Some girls crossed without assistance. LOL. Unfortunately, the po-po rolled up behind us and made us move. The car was angled so it appeared we were going to make a turn. Of course, we never did. So we drove around the block several times and parked damn near where we were before to continue being nosy. The view wasn’t as a good as before but we could still see people entering the club. For nearly 2 hours we sat in the car doing nothing but people-watching, dancing to music on the radio, and laughing. During our stake-out Cedric the Entertainer and Big Tigga did arrive. After a couple of pictures on the red carpet the entered the club. Once inside Tigga interrupted the music to talk to the crowd. You could have bought Perry and I for a penny when he addressed the crowd with several “motherfuckers”. Obviously, nobody told him the radio station was broadcasting live from the club. It was after midnight, but to the FCC it would not matter. He continued talking and cursing until the station must have turned his mic off. We listened to dead air for minute then an Isley Brother’s tune started playing. That signaled the end of the live show and the beginning of our trip back to the hotel to check-in for real this time. Though chillin’ in the car like teenagers was fun, my old ass was more than ready to go to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a full day of adventures.

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Viva Las Vegas!

It's day one of my NBA All Star weekend. The day began as it usually does. Get up, get dressed, and get out. All the airport check-ins went without any problems. As I wait with other travelers to board, my road-dog for the weekend, Perry, informs me she's getting to Vegas late, real late. Originally, there was only an hour difference between our arrival times. But somehow "p" in pm looked like an "a" so she booked the wrong flight. Long story short, she arranged to fly out on the next thing smoking. So here I sit in an internet café waiting for her arrival, with some dude that's in a t-shirt and shorts. In about 2 hours his azz is gonna regret that wardrobe decision. Vegas nights can be cold I'm told. And since I've got time to waste let me give you a play by play of my surroundings. First, dude I just mentioned could use a pedicure. People, if your heels looked like they're still in white socks, don't wear flip flops! Loud Hip Hop music is playing through speakers above my head. The DJ's sound like some old-head Rick Dees types. As Biggie Smalls says "if you don't know now you know" more people come in off the street. A female sits beside me and begins quoting Biggie breath for breath. Naw, she ain't a sista. A quick glance reveals she's possibly Indian (not Native American) or middle-eastern. Another quick glance at the clock says, my partner in crime should be arriving soon. Of course, I have no idea how to get to the airport to pick her up. But there's potentially thousands in town that can give me directions.

Before I log off, I have to tell how this trip to Vegas almost ended before it began. Truly, I've got a testimony to tell. I know you weren't expecting to get into that right about now. But if God hadn't granted me favor, I wouldn't be typing this story. So, let me start at the beginning. I arrived in Vegas with no problems. Took the shuttle to Alamo to pick up our chariot for the weekend. And that's where things almost went bad, real bad. While talking to Perry who was on her way, I informed her of our car options. A silver Corolla seemed to be a good choice. So with luggage in tow, I walked towards it to get a better look. Placing my computer on the driver's seat, I leaned in and inspected the car's interior. Then while looking through the passenger window a pretty maroon Hyndai Sonata caught my attention. This car was me all day. So I put my luggage in the trunk of the Sonata and headed to the Vegas Strip. First stop, CVS drug store to pick up liquids prohibited on the plane. While in the check out line, an internal voice asked clearly. "Where's your computer totebag? What would happen if you left it?" "Nothing," I responded, thinking it was in the trunk. Of course, when I opened the trunk to confirm this, my heart dropped. I had left my beloved computer and friend, Tyrone Powers, IV, at Alamo. All I could think to do was drive and pray repeatedly,"Lord, please don't let me lose my baby!". Alamo was only a few miles away so I sped back toward the "Welcome to Vegas" sign and continued to pray out loud. When I looked at my cell phone, I noticed the battery indicator glaring at me. This call was going be my last 'cause I didn't pack a car charger. Still, with the little power it had left, I called Alamo. Of course, no one had returned a computer. Like a mad woman, I pulled into Alamo and told the attendant my story. No one had reported anything to him. So, I went inside to Lost and Found, only to become more anxious and frustrated. Then just as I was about to go back to the rental car, the outside attendant approached me. "A guy just reported a black computer bag in one of the cars on the lot," he informed me. Before he could say another word, I was out the door. The informant had almost driven away! Just a few seconds after I pounced on him, the attendant asked him to repeat we had said before. "There's a bag on the seat in that Corolla," he said quickly and drove away. I sprinted in the direction he pointed with the attendant right behind me, telling me which silver Corolla to run to. Slightly tented windows kept me from seeing inside so I quickly yanked open the door. And there was Tyrone, sitting on the driver's seat, as if he had been waiting for me to come back. With the attendant as my witness, I thanked God repeatedly aloud, while holding my computer to me. You would have thought I had been reunited with a kidnapped child. To think, I came so close to loosing hundreds of files, costly software, and an even greater expensive computer. Truly, gratitude doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. The only way to somewhat express it was with an embrace. I couldn't wrap my arms around God, so I tightly hugged the attendant like we were long lost siblings. He totally didn't see it coming. Then with computer in hand, I walked to back to my rental still thanking God. The end. Fade to black and roll credits.

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Better to Give than Receive


I was on my to way work--a typical hour drive from LA's south side into the valley, or more specifically, North Hollywood. It was about 7:30 in the morning. Though I didn't have to be there until 9, only early birds get the worm or in this case, a parking space. So, I headed out early and got some gas. As I drove into the station, a woman, dressed in an oversized coat, appeared out of nowhere. She stood right by the pump that I was going to use. Of course, in LA and other big cities, this is a common practice of drug addicts and homeless people looking to hit you up for money. When I got out the car, I had already decided to ignore her. But I reminded myself that it was only by the grace of God I was not in the position she was. This thought led me to make eye contact with her. "Can I pump your gas for you?" She asked. "No," I responded and quickly looked away. Then without begging or creating a scene, she stepped away from the pump and stood near the gas station's busy mini-market. I continued watching her. Usually when someone is desperate for money, they continue to beg and sometimes harass anyone close by. She did not. The more I observed her, the more I thought about my own life. I've hit rock bottom financially, but never did I have to beg for money from strangers. I have, however, relied on friends. Thank God for good friends. When I returned to the car to put my ATM card back in my purse, the corner of a five dollar bill caught my attention. Without another thought I pulled it from my wallet and proceeded to look for the woman. It took a minute to find her amongst the customers entering the store. I didn't want to blow my horn, so began waving instead. That caught the attention of a man standing near her. I pointed at her and he motioned for her to look in my direction. She began walking towards the car. Once she was close enough, I handed her the five dollar bill. Quietly, she said, "thank you" and walked away again. There was no questioning of what she would do with money. Frankly, I didn't care. The important thing to me was doing what I felt was right to do in that moment. While driving out the station, I noticed her waiting to cross the street. When traffic lessened she ran across and entered a little restaurant. Seeing that made me feel good. It felt good to be a blessing to someone. And if even she hadn't entered the restaurant, I would have felt the same way. Truly, if you want to be blessed, then be a blessing to someone else. It doesn't have to be anything grand, even small gestures of kindness can be greatly appreciated. God smiles on these acts, and when you need a helping hand He returns the favor to you when you least expect it.

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Lift Every Voice And Sing: The Black National Anthem Revisited

January 15th, 2007. It's Martin Luther King's birthday, a celebratory time marked with long parades and spirited speeches in predominantly black communities, but I'm in no mood for singing Negro Spirituals and "We Shall Overcome." So I turn on the car radio. Stevie Wonder, Whitney Houston, and several of their musical peers sing the classic King Holiday song. Singing along puts me in a good mood. As I drive along MLK Boulevard in a black neighborhood rich with what went wrong with integration, another song plays. This time a local choir's rendition of Lift Every Voice and Sing, the Negro National Anthem, fills the car. I again sing along until the words don't come to me anymore, which isn’t a long time at all. I can’t even make it to the chorus. Damn, what a shame or is it? Should I be expected to know it word for word? Lift Every Voice is a part of our history, but is it relevant in the present or to our future?

Many of our parents and grandparents learned Lift Every Voice as children in the south’s segregated schools, according to my Big Mama. Her generation knew it like they knew their names and taught it to their children. They understood the relevance of each stanza because they lived it and knew some that died in the process. Lift Every Voice was their Star Spangled Banner, sung while standing and with sincere emotion during special occasions. And now nearly seventy years after learning it, some still know every word.

But in 2007, I wonder how many African-American teens and young children even know this song exists? How many know the importance of it? We get all choked up watching Nay Nay and Raheem sing "I Believe I Can Fly" at family reunions, but don't bother to teach them who paved the way so R. Kelly could freely take flight in his heart and mind. If we don’t care, why should the kids? And if we don't properly teach our rich history to them, who will? Hollywood? I think not!


The year was 1900. In his hometown of Jacksonville, Florida, school principal and attorney, James Weldon Johnson, was asked to speak before an audience at an Abraham Lincoln celebration. Opting not to give a typical speech, he decided to do a poem instead. When he became pressed for time, James asked his brother, music teacher, John Rosamond for help. James created the words and John, the music. In a short amount of time, the brothers crafted a timeless song that spoke to the spirit and struggles of a proud people ready to fully explore “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”.

Performed originally by a children's choir, the song became a tradition in black churches across the country. And after James Weldon Johnson became Executive Secretary of the NAACP in 1920, Lift Every Voice was adopted as the organization's official song.

So, that's the song's history. In 2007 does it still apply?

Lift ev'ry voice and sing,
Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the list'ning skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

(Here's the part where most of us get amnesia!)
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
(Who's willing to turn off the radio for just one day and sing a new song of hope and faith? No lyrics of violence, disrespect, wasted riches, drug abuse, nor empty sex. Is this generation ready to reset its mental iPods?)

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod; bitter the chast'ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

We have come over a way that with tears has been watered.
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered;
Out from the gloomy past,
Till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

(Chattel slavery, Jim Crow, lynchings, murder…inhumane tools used to kill our ancestor's spirit, kill their hopes before they could be born. Yet, they managed to survive. Not only survive but surpassed America's expectations. What's our excuse now?)

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who hast by Thy might; Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.

Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand, May we forever stand,
True to our God,
True to our native land.

(Just where have our feet strayed especially in poor black neighborhoods? The liquor house, crack house, or the ho' house—one block after another of escapisms and distractions from fulfilling God's true purpose. But even in the church house we seem distracted.

And how do you stay true to a land that sold your ancestors into captivity and continues to destroy it's own for European profit, yet faithful to a land that failed you when the levy broke? Does the heart of the African-American qualify for dual citizenship? Maybe it’s time for a new Black national anthem, or have we already overcome? Really, have we progressed so far in this country that songs Lift Every Voice are no longer needed?

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