Wake Up Call

A couple of weeks ago I got a call from a high school friend, Amanda, who wanted to catch up with me after we had been out of touch for several years. We talked about her teenage son and tween-aged daughter, her divorce and my growing toddler. Another life altering, sobering topic came up: our school friend Tisha had passed away in the spring of complications from chronic heart disease, apparently. She was probably 38 years old.

In school, we always knew Tisha had heart problems. She rarely took gym, played no sports, and had a huge scar on her thorax from a surgery to correct the problem. Despite being cursed with a faulty heart, she lived much longer than her doctors expected, and I think she had a couple of children. She certainly had more heart than me, because in high school, Tisha, who was African-American, also had a white boyfriend. He was a Jewish kid named Seth, who seemed to be a couple of years older than her. That relationship aligned with her mature, free-spirited outlook on life. He might have even been a freshman at college when they started “going together.” They didn’t seem to date like ordinary teenagers in our town; instead, they took these urbane bohemian outings to New York City. I envied her on this point, on having the nerve and the know-how to navigate the Big Apple and find her niche there. Talking about cafes, parks and mishaps on the subways gave Tisha an aura of sophistication, and I actually enjoyed hearing more about that stuff than how her relationship with Seth was progressing. She once related a funny story about a conversation between her and Seth. Although he was born Jewish, he believed in Jesus Christ, apparently. He said to her: “We’re waiting for a guy who already came and left!” Just think about the level of conversations they must have had about religion, culture, etc!

It didn’t surprise me that Tisha had a white boyfriend. It seemed like everything about Tisha was matter-of-fact, daring and defied the image of a frail, sickly girl. During a disagreement with our French teacher one day, Tisha abruptly asked her if she had ever read Human Relations. During Fantasy Day one year, our version of dressing up for Halloween, Tisha showed up dressed as a bride—on the wedding night. There was Tisha, marching down the halls in her white lingerie, garter belt and spiky heels. She wore spiky heels a lot, sometimes with black fishnet pantyhose. She told the most hilarious stories about her sisters, too. One of them always had a backup dress for formal occasions because the first dress always seemed to meet disaster, and another had a knack for committing accidental double entendres that came across as suggestive.

Tisha deserved a much, much longer life than her Creator permitted. We all went to a performing arts high school in Paterson, New Jersey, and ours was the first graduating class. We were full of more than our share of teenage bravado and supreme self-confidence. Local newspapers wrote occasional stories about us from our first day of school through graduation. People asked us if we were like the kids on “Fame,” doing Broadway-scale numbers in the school cafeteria. Tisha and I were writing majors, but her vivacity led her to try drama and music, too. She never complained about her illness, was extremely intelligent, savvy beyond her years about the interesting nuances in life that made her writing and her music really interesting. I’ve often thought about Tisha over the years. I expected someone so special, attuned to human nature, and devoted to savoring the delights of life and love, to be a novelist or director or something big.

Want to know the weirdest part about this news? Amanda told me that when she heard the news about Tisha, speculation soon ensued about who might be next. Whose life would be shortened because their body had finally given out from a lifelong struggle with illness? My name came up. Eeeek!

Well, I might not make it to old age—none of us knows when our time is up—but there are a few things I need to do while I’m here. People expect me to do more with my wit and insight into people’s behavior.  I share a lot of laughs with one of my neighborhood friends, and after a tear-filled, rib tickling session of picking apart the foibles of our fellow city folk, she will ask, “where is that book? I want to see chapters!” My brother, who has cut several reggae albums independently, says I should push myself to do more, and not settle for being an employee that cranks out words for my magazine and Web site. Maybe I’ll take their advice one day.

It’s really too bad that Tisha and I never kept in touch all those years after high school. I know she might have made a wonderful guest blogger for the Latte Café!

Of Gardens & Guns

When Hubby and I took the family on vacation last week in the mountains of north Georgia, we stayed a week with his parents at their house in the Big Canoe private community, located in the Blue Ridge mountains there. I brought my September issue of Vanity Fair for poolside reading. I also like to get a sense of local news, politics and lifestyle cues when I travel, so I decided to get a local publication. While we stopped at the IGA supermarket just off of Steve Tate Road in Pickens County, to pick up supplies, I saw something at the newsstand that stopped me cold. There is a magazine there called Garden & Gun.

I had to have a copy. Not only is the name a trip, but the cover also teased an article by Rick Bragg, a very talented writer that I like to follow from time to time. Upscale Southern culture is what Garden & Gun appears to be about. That figures. Nobody wants to see Southerners offensively rendered as ignorant, Confederate flag waving, hayseed Appalachian dwellers, who only aspire to own a full set of teeth. What comes to your mind when you say “the South?” Thanks to popular movies and miniseries like Roots and North & South, I think of shooting, heat, bugs, and snakes. But I also know that the South is very diverse, and there is a lot more to appreciate than good cooking. Garden & Gun did not let me down. It had impressive features on land preservation, a profile on Lexington, Kentucky, plus great articles music and the who’s who among Southern designers. And yes, there were a couple of articles about gun culture, mainly write-ups involving high-end hunting rifles. Garden & Gun reinforced what I already knew about the region after having written about real estate development for several years. There is money in the American South. It drives the region’s higher-tiered architecture, fashion and music, and goes a long way toward supporting its underappreciated artisan culture.

Hubby’s parents live in a private community that defies a lot of those common perceptions about Southerners. High in the Blue Ridge mountains of north Georgia, their community attracts permanent families from all over the U.S. I met retirees who once lived in swanky towns near my hometown in North Jersey, and we ran across several British families who had swapped homes with Americans for their vacations. Almost everyone is educated, well-traveled and seem to be fairly open-minded and friendly people.  Many of them are older Americans whose adult sons and daughters have married outside their culture or are gay and partnered. Whether we are splashing around in Big Canoe’s private pool, lakes and beaches, or out in the local towns, no one gives Hubby, Baby and me daggers. I like to think it’s because everyone is open-minded about our situation, but let’s be honest. Unless these folks strike up a friendly conversation about a recent trip up to Cape May and their son or daughter-in-law from another culture, they probably aren’t interested in being progressive. They’re just minding their Ps and Qs to avoid an unnecessary scrap.

It’s just as well. I’d rather talk about local history. For instance, The Tate family owned the land that makes up Big Canoe today and then some. Stephen Tate, the marble mining industrialist, is probably the best known of the family, because he started the mining that brought attention to that area of Georgia. There is even a 19,000-square-foot mansion called the Pink Marble Mansion, because it uses a lot of pink marble mined from the area.

My father-in-law treated the eight of us to a relaxing afternoon lunch at a restaurant in Monteluce, a new neighborhood built around a vineyard in Dahlonega, Ga. All of the buildings there are rendered in Old World Tuscan architecture. But this is America, where we have a lot of space and we like things big, so a lot of the “cottages” actually looked like Tuscan McMansions. Anyway, Monteluce is another one of those unexpected treats that seem up pop up out of nowhere in Georgia. They serve high-end Bistro style food with Southern touches. I had the shrimp and grits, John had a yummy looking ham and cheese creation, and even Baby took a few nibbles of the pizza they made for her.

My mother-in-law took me shopping at a baby and children’s clothing store in Jasper, called Taylor’s. It’s inside a very unassuming, simple building off of the main road near the high school. But after we went in, I didn’t want to leave. The yummy, dresses, shoes and hair clips were absolutely charming. And I’m going to score Baby one ( or two or three) of those dolls, mark my word.

We took a nature walk in the wilder parts of Big Canoe. We made our way through miles of beautiful woods and ended up at a pretty waterfall. Along the way, some fellow hikers warned us about a nest of Copperhead snakes right near the falls. Those creatures fill me with dread and loathing. When my father-in-law accidentally grazed my heel with his walking stick I shrieked loud enough for all of Big Canoe to hear me, from McElroy to Wet to Sanderlin mountains, and I bet the county patrol down on Steve Tate Road picked it up, too. If I were younger, I would have probably taken off running and not stopped for many yards. But I stayed calm and took a few pictures in front of the waterfall with Hubby and Baby. Even if I were terrified, I couldn’t leave my flesh and blood behind!

I’ve spent time in Louisville, Ky., North Carolina, Florida, New Orleans and I enjoy myself every time I travel to the region. The painful history that Black Americans have had in the South with slavery, the Civil War, the Jim Crow era and the civil rights movement can’t be forgotten, but if I, and other interracially married women didn’t take those things in stride, we wouldn’t have our families now. Doubtless, there are loathsome creatures creeping amidst all that is beautiful about the South, just like that nest of Copperheads near the waterfalls on our nature walk. But I lay all those things aside and focus on getting to know people one by one. I’m always willing to believe that most people are just as curious about me as I am about them.

Wading in with Chris the Aquaman

My interracial relationship has never caused me a lot of angst or anxiety, which makes me think I am either blessed to live in a socially progressive part of the United States, or I am oblivious to cold disapproving stares of strangers might be giving Hubby, Baby and me whenever we are out and about. Usually Baby makes women gush and coo, so I think she would shield us from hard feelings if there were any!

Either way, I think this blogtalkradio show from host “Chris the Aquaman,” is worth listening to, so I’m passing on a link. In this program, Chris plays host to Black women guests who discuss interracial dating from their different points of view. There is Latoya, who is in an interracial marriage; Stephanie, who shared her experiences from that season in her life; and Jordan, a Black woman who prefers not to date outside her race.

Here are some highlights from their conversation:

• Latoya says American society has put a premium on the white standard of beauty, which creates insecurity among Black women and spurs competition between us and white women for male attention.

• Jordan says those who date within their respective cultures are not racist or biased in any way. She also thinks there is a potential match for everyone.

• Stephanie says Black women get offended by interracial dating mainly when Black men who have dated outside their race openly say that other types of women are superior to Black women. If they didn’t cut Black women down that way, the issue might be benign.

Chris deserves kudos for providing a civil and friendly forum for women to discuss an issue that has a lot of emotional nuances. I couldn’t help notice that, for whatever reason, no Black men ended up on that guest list! It would have been interesting to hear what they think about the issue, or if they care at all.

This is a one-hour episode, so make sure you shut out all distractions if you want to listen to the whole program in one sitting. By the time I posted this, I had only listened to half of the presentation. Also, it is an amateur program. You’ll have to overlook production snafus like poor phone connections and train whistles in the background.

Listen to internet radio with chris the aquaman on Blog Talk Radio

Swaddling Elmo

Baby’s toys are mainly learning-driven: a half-dozen puzzles, lots of books, musical toys and a few sets of blocks. I’ve occasionally wondered whether I should add dolls and trucks to the mix. She might enjoy doting on a chubby little doll with long eyelashes, or filling a brightly painted steel Tonka truck with pebbles and then dumping them out. I decided to wait for a sign, a natural inclination to emerge from her, as to what I should get from the toy aisle on my next shopping trip.

On Monday I got my answer. While I curled my hair that morning, I noticed that Baby took one of her plush toys and began playing with it like it was a doll. She fed it from her sippy cup, carried it around gingerly and prepared to dress it in one of her bloomers. It was such a hoot to watch her intently pick up her garment and shake it out first. Later on in the week, Hubby told me that Baby got one of her burp cloths and wrapped it around Elmo, as if to swaddle him. And if all of that were not enough evidence, she took her plush macaw from Monday and she set it on her training potty this morning.

So I nabbed Little Sister to come with me on my after-breakfast errands, with Baby in tow. First I stopped at Babies R Us to get the right wipes, portable potty training seat for our upcoming vacation, and other supplies for a baby transitioning to a full-fledged toddler. After that, we went to Target, just across the way. We wheeled into one of the toy aisles , where a lot of the dolls must have had motion sensors in them, because whenever we moved this way or that, they would either coo, laugh or bounce up and down on their legs. I wondered whether we were in a robotic daycare, or if these creatures were all vying for our attention so we could take one of them home. Little Sister really got into it, a bit too much if you ask me, saying ‘I like this one,’ or ‘Look at that.’ I told her to focus. (We’ll have to deal with the gaps in her childhood experiences at another time.) We ended up getting a baby doll that had its own bottle. It laughs, snores softly while ‘asleep’, and whenever Baby puts the bottle to its mouth, its whole face scrunches up and it blinks its eyes, just like an enthusiastic eater. Baby seemed to be really into it, so I thought it would make a good starter doll.

After we got home and I attempted to feed her lunch, I settled Baby for a nap. That was almost three hours ago. I decided to get some shuteye too, after a bout of insomnia last night. About halfway through Baby’s nap, she woke up crying, and I brought her into my room, hoping to soothe her and maybe get her to sleep next to me for an hour. It didn’t work, because I (and my closed laptop) were distractions for her. So I brought her back to her crib and planted her there, ignoring her shrieks of protest until she settled back in.

There was an outdoor concert going on, with traditional-sounding Spanish music. It sounded a lot better than the garish forms of bachata and reggaeton that a lot of our neighbors typically prefer. The weather was (and still is) outstanding for late summer, with clear skies and a breeze that renders our ceiling fans unnecessary. I settled back down, hoping to squeeze in a restful 30 or 40 minutes before resuming chores. Summer seems to be getting ready to transition to fall, and Baby is changing too. I close my eyes and hope to get the most out of both.

A (Pre) Celebrity Sighting

Manhattan is the sort of place where celebrity sightings are commonplace. I once almost ran straight into Isaac Mizrahi when I was hoofing it up 48th Street toward Times Square; Matthew Broderick was averting my quizzical double take when I saw him, on his Vespa, stopped at a light on the Avenue of the Americas and staring straight uptown; I think I shared a subway car with Peter Sarsgaard on the R/W line one evening. He was so unassuming that I almost missed him, with his head down in a book. But he couldn’t hide that clear complexion and sharp nose. When he lifted his head and looked straight at me, I thought: That’s his face, alright.

On Friday evening I saw Kendall Ferguson, or I think I saw her, rounding Bowling Green with her gaggle of girly friends. Kendall is the teenage daughter of Ms. Tracey Ferguson, the editor in chief of Jones magazine. I’ve written about Ms. Ferguson and her magazine on this blog before.

Just before the girl who looked like Kendall and her friends passed me on my way uptown, I saw a camera crew getting a shot of Beaver Street, which heads into the warrens of the Financial District. It’s very “old New York” back there, with its narrow streets and old buildings, so you all should explore the area if the chance ever arises.

It makes sense that Kendall would be in that part of town, because North Star Group, which published Jones and The Source, has an office on the Broadway side of Bowling Green. Maybe her mother was in town to deal with the September issue of Jones, and Kendall tagged along. Also, Kendall is apparently a talented young actress, with an impressive resume for someone her age and a talent rep. Maybe she was in New York City for a gig.

I know this sighting is not even on the same planet as that of Isaac Mizrahi or the other guys earlier in this blog, but it just reinforces how much New York City is brimming with sights and sounds every single day. Maybe the African-American ‘tween crowd will be lighting up Twitter and Facebook and all kinds of things tonight, as Miss Kendall makes her way through town. LOL.

Well, there you have it folks: A pre-celebrity sighting to kick off a weekend of gorgeous summer weather. As for me, I’m keeping a sharp eye out for the Fall edition of Jones when it hits the newsstands. I love the Web site, but I need to have a print copy, too!

Horror Show

I’ve heard of kiddie pageants, baby pageants and some of the extreme, over-the-top measures that mothers take to make their girls competitive. But I’ve never heard of putting a weave into a three-year-old’s hair until this evening, when I found this video.

This is shocking and appalling. How could this woman’s priorities get so severely screwed up that she proceeds to program a toddler to favor something alien, unnatural and debasing over her natural, God-given beauty? This is a blatant case of unfit parenting (and in this case, unfit grand parenting), to spread heavy makeup on a little wee one and perm, braid and weave that baby to an inch of their life. It doesn’t matter if this sort of artifice and PSYCHOTIC MATERNAL VANITY is repeated throughout the pageant circuit or has been for years and years. It is sick.

Come on, my sisters. Wake up! Do not teach our babies that natural black hair is not becoming on a black woman. Fake white hair doesn’t do it, and neither does over perming. If you teach girls how to handle their hair properly, their hair will look healthy and they will feel pretty. They won’t go overboard with the soul-sucking weaves and other crap. And don’t let them wear any makeup or flattering outfits at all until they can clock some Romeo who might try to take these enhancements as permission to be forward with her.

I know I get into a huff when little boys approach Baby and touch her face, hair or try to follow her around. I can’t imagine deliberately putting her through all this nonsense just to put her on display for adults. It’s creepy.

More importantly, someone needs to shut these pageants down and avert creating a generation of lost, confused and self-destructive women. And as African-American women, we don’t need anymore of that stuff. We need these girls to reach their potential as great doctors, teachers, moms and writers or whatever other calling and profession they like. They need to love themselves as God made them. Instead, these girls are being steered toward long lifetimes of disappointments and rude awakenings. They’ll all hit a peak when they are young, probably, and spend the rest of their lives either reliving glory days or pursuing unsustainable hopes of marrying rich and living glamorous, care-free lives.

Hailing Halle

This is how you know it’s a slow news month: World-famous and stunningly beautiful actresses like Halle Berry are photographed and put on the news wires for … looking gorgeous in public. The professional journalist in me says this is not news. Next! But I understand that publicists must continue to work during the summer, as well as agents, paparazzi and entertainment news editors who need to fill space during the summer slump. Therefore, if Ms. Berry is having a particularly good hair, face and body day, then post/publish/broadcast an item about her. That’ll give us everyday folk something to lift our spirits after reading the latest bizarre financial news.

Also, I could never resent Ms. Berry for all the overwhelming advantages she has racked up in life. She has obviously worked very diligently over the last 20 years or so to secure her place among Hollywood’s glitterati. To keep generating headlines at an age when Tinseltown likes to put women out to pasture just shows that she knows what to do with her show-biz savvy! And be honest: Wouldn’t we all like to have a figure as lovely as that?

But just in case you have not been paying attention, there are a couple of other major news flashes circulating the globe about one of our favorites here at the Latte Cafe. Ms. Berry has landed a cameo role on the long-running hit comedy series “The Simpsons”. She also recently arrived in South Africa for a 90-day stint to work on the film “Dark Tide“. It seems like that work itinerary will keep her in the region during her birthday, August 14, when she turns 44.

Ms. Berry will also be the cover model for the September issue of Vogue. Now that is a very big deal! This one caught my eye, as magazines will always be a favorite source of refinement, information and entertainment for me. As you know, Vogue‘s September issue kicks off the fall fashion season in New York, and effectively the world. It’s books are famously huge, and hit a gargantuan 840 pages in September 2007! The book has slimmed considerably in recent years, of course, but there is some reason to hope that its page count will bulge once again in 2010. Conde Nast must think pretty highly of her, hoping that she’ll quite carry away their September newsstand sales.

Taming the Leppard

Phil Collen, lead guitarist for the legendard rock band Def Leppard, got married (again) recently. The New York Times has the skinny on how he met and became enchanted with Helen Simmons. I’d like to think he searched the world until he found the one woman to spend the rest of his life with. Helen seemed to be smitten, too.

Mr. Collen, a follower of Sant Mat, an Eastern philosophy, said his attraction to Ms. Simmons was instant and undeniable. “Sant Mat teaches that we are all connected by the same energy,” he said. “It was like we had known each other for years, but had to wait until that time to meet.” He added, “You don’t question what was meant to be.”

Their communication is effortless, Mr. Collen said. “I haven’t talked to anybody that easily since Steve.” He was referring to the Def Leppard guitarist Steve Clark, who died in 1991 from alcoholism and drug addiction and who had been Mr. Collen’s other half when they were known as the Terror Twins.

Ms. Simmons, too, finds something mystical in their match. “When I was younger, I imagined the kind of man I could love,” she said. “I couldn’t see his face or hear his voice, but I felt his essence.

“I’ve never been in love, but I always knew how it would feel,” she said. “And this is how it feels.”

Ms. Simmons said something in the Times’ story that was very interesting and which will make a topic for a future post. She adopted a vegetarian diet and abandoned alcohol, so her lifestyle would align closely with her future husband’s. She said: “I believe a wife should be a true complement to her husband, that their lifestyles should be as close to each other’s as possible.” Black women marry men outside their race because they have enough in common to make an attempt at building a life and raising a family together. It is simple and complicated at the same time, but it is the truth.

Meanwhile, wish them all the best!

Interracial Family Album

Someone put together this creative musical slide show of interracial families. All of the women are Black, and are shown with their white, Latino and Asian husbands and boyfriends. Enjoy. Unless I compile a new batch of emails concerning Duncan and Paulette, this will be the last post this weekend.

I don’t know about conditions where you are, gentle readers, but the Northeast is expecting temperatures to get neat a sizzling 100 Fahrenheit on Saturday!  Wooo!  If those temperatures are going to sweep through your area, then crank up the AC, or set yourself up near a pool with your Wi-Fi and enjoy. And don’t forget to leave a comment!

Underground in Memphis

This year’s Broadway season blew past me and left me coughing in a plume of smoke. It was only after the Tony Awards, the New York City theater community’s highest honor, had been handed out in June that I noticed a vibrant new production that I should share with you all. The show, Memphis, is about an ambitious young black singer who makes her way through underground clubs in Memphis in the 1950s, and who falls for a white DJ. Here is a preview clip from the show’s own Web site.

I only realized what a big impact this musical was having on Broadway after I read a business article in The New York Times about how productions with black casts, producers and investors were helping prop up ticket sales in the district. I went to a fine and performing arts high school, a magnet school, so I’m used to visiting major and minor artistic venues, and I knew Phylicia Rashad was a seasoned a regal stage actress way before the all black revival “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” for the 2008-2009 season. Hubby and I (and Baby in the womb, kicking) had the pleasure of watching Ms. Rashad, James Earl Jones and Terrence Howard in that production. Anika Noni Rose, who played Maggie, did not perform the night we saw it. I was disappointed, because the critics said she pretty much ran the show whenever she took the stage. Marja Harmon, her understudy, performed instead. Harmon was amazing in her Broadway debut and more than held up her part of the stage considering who her cast mates were!

Maybe Hubby and I will check out Memphis, because I love a musical as much as a play. And if you all ever find yourselves on vacation in New York City, pop in and see what the fuss is about.