Now I think I'm legit

You know who there are some things that you've got to experience before you can be authentic. It usually begins like “you ain't had no real knee-grow experience unless ____________.” Things like going south for the summer to stay with relatives, getting your hair fried, cleaning chitlins... the list goes on.

I can now cross an item on that list because last weekend I went to see The Meeting. This may not seem like a big deal unless you knew just how much of an political animal I was back in the day -- I'm talking both of Jesse's presidential campaigns in 1984 & 1988, getting arrested outside of the South African Embassy in D.C. during the anti-apartheid movement (and I've never lived in Washington) – you might scratch your head and wonder how I managed not to see this 27-year old monumental piece of Black theater. ANYWHO...

So I saw a production mounted by New Horizon Theater, one of the oldest continually-running Black ensembles in Pittsburgh. The premise of Jeff Stetson's play is what if... an oft-heard premise these days.

Both men of faith, fathers of young children, assassinated at 39-years old, both prodding the same people -- a slumbering giant – awake. Daring to arouse, inspire, stir Black people, the oppressed, to action. Malcolm X, recently returned from his hajj at Mecca (did he foresee his own death?) and Martin Luther King, Jr. (who said he might not get to the mountain top with us). 

The Meeting is more than a meeting of the minds, it is a moment in time that we were denied. They had a common enemy, but used different descriptors of that enemy, just as the different tactics they'd employ to reach the same goal. Just imagine that great debate; Frederick Douglass must be smiling.

The Meeting is a means to get us beyond the “what ifs.” We hear both sides – non-violence vs. violence; resistance as a weakness and violence as the last result. All three actors-- Jonathan Berry as the personal bodyguard, Art Terry as El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz and Michael Green as MLK – approach and play their roles with a reverence that approaches sacred in their dedication to WHO they portray as well as the messages they bring with the same amount of credibility and responsibility.

The themes in The Meeting don't seem so much “back then” in the 1960s as they do now, a half century later. Few, if any, people of color can honestly say they thought we wouldn't drag this mess in to the new millennium.

Yet here we are in 2015 with the stench of justice via Trayvon, Travis, Eric, et al still stinging our nostrils. The difference is that in 50 years later, we have the benefit of Malcolm and Martin's words in this moment. Thanks to director Eileen J. Morris, we're not allowed to forget the urgency of right now. So yes, this is a teachable moment.

See this with young people and discuss it with them; they are the ones on the front lines. The rest of us need to make sure that they're properly armed.

Another round, please!

So yesterday (Feb. 3) I started another run around the sun. Once my stomach became cooperative I proceeded with the late start on the day. Caught the bus to Squirrel Hill where I made a pit stop at the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh (CLP) and added a pair of waaaaaaay overdue posts to my blog. Then I walked down the street to my therapeutic sanctuary, “home away from home,” The Ultimate Beauty Spa and reported as instructed by my sista-friend, Leslie Arkeneese (it's taken me dang near ten years to remember how to spell her last name *shrug*).

She proceeded to pamper my weary soul. A sho'nuff holistic health practitioner and advocate, she served up some ridiculously yummy piping hot vegetarian chili with a bunch of beans (navy, Great Northern, garbanzo beans, chopped bell peppers, onions, cucumber (?), tomatoes, ginger and other tasty stuff I can't think of, along with a slice of corn bread and steaming mug of ginger tea. After some quality girl talk time, Leslie gave me my life back with a much-needed chair massage.

Leslie is the only person I'll allow to beat on me because its very therapeutic. Her specialty is deep tissue massage and I can honestly say that my massage was knee-deep. At several points during the massage she'd strategically place a knee in the small of my back as she slowly and gradually pull me up  by my hands and arms to gently pull me back. Ahhhhh... that's some good stuff.

Afterwards, I picked up libations called cab to take me to Homewood. My Cissy greeted by with open arms and a massive hug. We had Riesling and cake and indulged in aromatherapy. Celeste sent me home with a care package that is coming in handy during this cold snap, polar vortex or what ever they call it this week. I felt like I was one of her suns so I grinned profusely.

Bring on the other 364!

Could this be the year?

Thus far (Feb. 24) 2015 is showing signs of potential. Of the positive persuasion.

I'm next on the list for K. Leroy Irvis Hi-rise. They reached my name!

I've yet to fully move into 1014 Sheffield Street #914. As soon as they told me that I could get one of the existing vacancies within two weeks, I picked up the phone to notify Bidwell management. As a follow-up I gave them an overly-worded letter to serve as formal notice. I have to believe the way things were already in motion and I'm just late to the party.

Since I'm not really here in Manchester (still have stuff in storage) I should be ready to bust a move at a few moments' notice. I'll have a balcony. More space. A feline in my future? There's a bus stop next to the building. No more transfers to buy.

Lots of forward motion – writing is picking up; I've already taken a 3-session writing workshop  at City of Asylum titled “Seeking Cain's Perspective.” I'm done a bunch of walking due to the proximity of the T-station (and eliminate the need for transfers - save a buck!). I took a poetry writing class - It Is A Delicious Thing To Write." Had my first theatre review published (Mr. Joy). 

I've been a bit more social – My last-minute nomination submission of Leslie got her named as a Business Women First finalist. I went to Me'chele's grand opening. I also attended  a “Dreamscape” workshop to re-connect with my inner-self via mindfulness (a technique I learned in my 10-week Anxiety IOP). I went to a Capricorn/Aquarius Birthday Soirée at the spa. I've dipped my toe in the water.

And all of this has occurred without a car.

So other than the leakage and no vehicle, I have no real complaints.

I'll just stay out of my way.

  

My review of Mr. Joy by Daniel Beaty

First of all I got to say that Daniel Beaty has become predictable. His plays seem to follow a theme and a formula that showcases his considerable talent. Frankly, in his case, don't fix what ain't broke.

Daniel Beaty is the voice of the anonymous: the faceless, marginalized and unheralded people that we don't acknowledge except if we bump into them, step over or around them as we go about our day-to-day life. We avoid eye contact and render them invisible.

As a playwright, poet, author and performer, Beaty uses his unique gift to  strip away the vestiges of class, religion, ethnicity, gender and race to reveal the hurt, neglect, joy and pain we all experience. If you play attention you'll pick up on a recurring theme woven throughout his work.

“My work speaks about the urgency of issues facing communities of color in our urban centers. I come from a similar environment,” Beaty says.“These communities are not often understood. Part of my goal is to give voice to the people I understand and recognize.”

Beaty has built a productive relationship with City Theatre, a collaboration that has produced a world premiere (Breath & Imagination) and his one man productions, the arrestingly intense Through the Night, Emergency and his poem Knock Knock, still a viral Internet sensation years after his“Def Poetry Jam” appearance.

I first saw Beaty at the August Wilson Center for African Art and Culture as a installment of Mark Southers' 486 Club subscription series. I'd seen a performance on Def Poetry so I already knew I was in for.

Ha! Beaty isn't just a beast, he an effing guerrilla. I had just settled in my seat and leaned back to chill. But this Beaty ninja was having none of that. It's impossible to remain chill during his performance. His prose and poetry will not let you be comfortable. Beaty brings the voice for the aforementioned anonymous to you -all up in your grill- and there's and makes sure that we know them.

Sometimes you across someone with amazing talent that you may think he got your portion. Daniel Beaty is that dude.

Mr. Joy is Beaty's second world premiere in Pittsburgh follows a similar format of Beaty's previous work. Few props, a projector screen for a back wall and a spare stage, except for a covered utility box that doubles as seating and a row of assorted pairs shoes lining the front edge of the stage.

Six-year old Clarissa bounds on stage in a surge of excitement, she want to share the sketches she made in the hospital. She yells that she be back later on. 70-something Aunt Bessie is upset by the rising number of  gangs in the neighborhood and decides to start her own – the Gangsta Grannies because she worries the streets could consume Clarissa like her addicted parents.

DeShawn is a 15-year old still aglow with his recent spiritual awakening. On the way to church he sees a guy just out of jail. After sharing latest info on the neighborhood he invites his friend to join him. John Lee, Mr. Joy's son, is a real estate developer who just completed a major. Grateful for the benefits afforded him by his father's work, he worries about his father's legacy and the inheritance he has accumulated. Ashton, John's estranged son, used his inheritance for a sex change operation.

Rebecca is a longtime customer of Mr. Joy. She panders this association as proof that she's not a racist (think “Legally Blonde”) along with her Black Republican finance who not doesn't want children and suffers from a identity crisis.

To portray these varied characters (and four more) requires more than heart, strength and stamina, it demands a lot of faith – faith in the playwright, faith in your own talent and the ability to step out on faith. All of this and much more is delivered by the sole actor on the stage and in the spot. The nine separate characters of various age, young, old, male, female, transgender, Black, Asian, white, poor, well-heeled, frightened, hopeful; all played by the same actor with no wardrobe change and no intermission. Who does that?

Meet Tangela Large.

A departure from Beaty's winning formula of performing his own work, the 26-year old actor fearlessly embraces Mr. Joy and it's many challenges. Her pacing and energy adjust to  the character she's playing. From the effervescent enthusiasm of can't-stand-still Clarissa to the old tired indignant Bessie who is feisty and then fearful.

To be able to pull off such thespian feats requires heart and stamina and Tangela has them in spades as she plunges in the depths of  each character to mine each portrayal. Chameleon-like, Large smoothly shifts from a teenager with a angry indictment :

“all of a sudden just out of nowhere there's a generation of lost black boys? /No. The systematic destruction of a people is loud – it makes a lot of noise./ Why don't you hear our screams?” 

to an old woman clinging on to hopes and  dreams of a six year old.

Large makes use each character's nuance to make each transition authentic and complete. And she does it all (and has a very nice singing voice). Her Pittsburgh debut is nothing short of astonishing. Tangela's last name matches perfectly with her last name

“Mr. Joy” speaks to how we are connected to each other in ways we can't even imagine,” says Beaty. “It poses the idea that even in the midst of tragedy and brokenness there is hope and possibility.”

Given what's transpired in the past year, “Mr. Joy” is chock full of teachable moments. Maybe this will spark “The Conversation.”

Feeling some kind of way about Mother Nature

It's my birthday (cue music). The big 5-7 (wonder if Heinz will hook me up with something).  And you know what's on my mind?

Leakage.

I thought I was done. Through. Over it. I finally got around to pitching all accouterments of "the monthlies."

Aunt Flo has pitched me to the curb. Left me to drown in a pool of my own hot flash sweat. But I was done with the "red sea moments." Through with pads & plugs. Over it.

As I gathered all that stuff I thought about not ever needing it again and who I give my wisdom to during the intergenerational rites of passage ceremony.

Then it hit me.

I've been using a lot of liners and the hot flashes back with a vengeance and increased frequency. Those effing commercials..."bladder leakage associated with MENOPAUSE." Such unfathomable depths of cruelty!

This is an even more tenuous predicament because I'm running low on clean panties.

Fortunately, frugalista that I am, I'd amassed enough free samples to equate to a new pack. The Crone version of kotex/always? So maybe I'm not done with the pads but plugs, begone!

A realization. I lived (no, make that) was part of a revolution in feminine hygiene. Seriously.

Back in the late sixties (alongside the sexual revolution) someone discovered or invented disposable pads. Let that sink in.

DISPOSABLE.

DISPOSE.

Now image what life was like... before.

When it was my turn to attend the special school assembly with all of the other fifth and sixth grade girls the facilitator, in the front of classroom not built to accommodate all of us at one time, showed us a belt She said it was a sanitary belt. It looked like a check generic g-string.

The belt had clasps like the ones on garter belts or girdles but instead of holding up shiny sheer nylon stockings, it held up either end of a sanitary napkin, doomed be suspended between the thighs. A paper napkin. Up high.

Did I mention it's made of paper and paper byproduct? And it was alleged to be absorbent enough to eliminate even the possibility of public humiliation? That's why we wore dark colors during that time of the month.

This helps me stay mindful because, in this situation, it could be worse. Grossly worse.

 

Standing on shaky ground

The state of Black arts in Pittsburgh is at best rocky – there is no solid ground. When funders underwrite  studies that barely touch on the fragile status of Black arts organizations (not including the life or death soap opera of the August Wilson Center for African American Culture), it signals that our institutions are in at best a tenuous position.

Aside from the obvious funding issues, what can be done? I offer these suggestions (not be confused with solutions – those aren't my call):

Show the eff up. Empty seats at performances are trifling. White folks outnumbering black folks in the audience is humiliating to presenters and performers because they create their art for Black people (you and me) – in a unending quest to give our voices life. If we don't show up, it sends a very cold message that doesn't inspire faith. It says “I care more about my weave, my nails and rims than I do about the  well-being and vibrancy of my neighborhood and community.”

Priorities. If we don't speak our truth or share our truth we cease to count. Another reason why we gotta show up – everywhere. Show up at the performances and presenters have a better shot of funding (see above). Show up at the voting booth (on a regular basis) ensures that there are people of color in positions of influence and power when budget and funding decisions are made.

Accountability. Our tax dollars are used to fund the arts. If we want to share and preserve our truths, our culture, our voices, we must participate beyond Black History Month, because we have art, culture, truths, history, voice and points of view that shouldn't be relegated to the shortest damn month of the year (there, I said it).

When we become a persistent presence, when we show up, we become secure in standing our ground.

#blackartmatters

2015 is off to an impressive start

This new year started out with a bang and if the events of the first month are any indication, its gonna be vivid.

Culture wars and censorship have set a tone for circumspection and introspection. A heretofore barely known (in the US) newspaper is bombed in protest of a continuing disregard of religious sensibilities. Why does freedom of speech trump deliberate provocation  to inflame and result in a loss of life?

On the same day as the Charlie Hobad bombing, a local NAACP office was bombed in Oklahoma amidst the background of an emerging dialog on race in America that the nation goes to extraordinary lengths to avoid and a history of law enforcement penchant for killing unarmed people of color. Due to the mantra of mainstream news - “if it bleeds, it leads” - because there was no carnage in Oklahoma, it received next to no news coverage.

Sounds like homegrown-terrorism to me.

Ten years ago, before Facebook and Twitter, this routine disparity in news coverage would barely raise an eyebrow. Today we are in a radically different paradigm. And yes, Gil Scott Heron was correct, the revolution was tweeted, meme'd and hash-tagged.

Millennials, raised in an evolving world of technology and telecommunication, have significantly changed the game. While flipping the script, they've set new rules and agendas through unity and a common cause without old-guard Civil Rights leadership. They've established a new paradigm evidenced by the on-line grassroots movement that put Trayvon Martin's murder on the national radar.

Due to the immediacy of new media, behaviors of mainstream media are thrust in the spotlight by virtue of the raw, unfiltered first-hand dispatches, direct from ground zero. Recall Eric Garner. The conversations surrounding #Icantbreathe, #handsupdontshot and #blacklivesmatter occur because Black millennials bum-rushed it front and center.

They aren't waiting for permission from perennial civil rights leadership. And they aren't asking for it either. Read your Bible “and a little child shall lead them;” that kid has grown up.

The brave new world has arrived. Deal with it and get out of the way.