Better Than Keepin' It Real... Keepin' It Right

My 2012 Curriculum for the School of Life

2012-01-06T16:32:00.010-05:00

At the start of every New Year, I develop my curriculum for the School of Life. After I have reflecting on my previous year and setting goals for the upcoming one, I make a list of books, films, software, workshops and other media that might help me toward achieving them. Finally, I prioritize about ten to twelve and aim to complete them at a pace of one per month. Although I’m particularly fond of self-help/workbooks – those that assign tasks, contain questionnaires, etc. – I sometimes include novels, sacred texts and other kinds of literature that might be inspirational. Some books might be holdovers from the previous year, and some books I occasionally reread. Here are some additions to my SOL curriculum for 2012.

Improvisation For The Spirit: Live A More Creative, Spontaneous, And Courageous Life Using The Tools Of Improv Comedy by Katie Goodman

Once upon a time, I use to perform standup comedy. I often miss it and hope one day to give it another whirl. While that’s not a priority for me in 2012, becoming better at staying the present and saying, “Yes,” more frequently are. I can’t imagine a more fun way to do that than through the practice of improvisation. Plus, I get to build my comedic chops and lay the groundwork for my return to standup.

What You Really, Really Want by Jaclyn Friedman

One of the books on my 2011 curriculum was a guided journal called Exploring Your Sexual Self by Joan Mazza. I made some discoveries that lead to more questions. Which of my desires were authentic? What can I do to fulfill them in ways that feel safe? And why the hell is this so hard anyway? In the nick of time, Jaclyn Friedman has written an affirming and interactive book that will motivate me to answer these questions and take (not to mention get) action on my terms whatever they may be.

The Spark Kit by Danielle La Porte

This is a holdover from last year’s curriculum. Formerly known as The Fire Starter Sessions, this is more than a book. It’s a multimedia course for creative entrepreneurs who want the work that feeds the soul to also pay the rent. I recruited two friends to complete The Spark Kit with me. Every week we complete a worksheet and share our discoveries with each other. Because of its holistic approach, my friends and I have also grown closer from doing this together.

The Right-Brain Business Plan: A Creative, Visual Map for Success by Jennifer Lee

As a person who is most comfortable with words, I have been pushing myself to explore other means of creative expression. Wanting to expand my visual sense and satisfy my craving for more physical and tactile activities, I have rediscovered paper crafting and taken up mixed-media art journaling. Enter The Right-Brain Business Plan, a guide to creatively process and document the insights and plans that come to light after I finish The Spark Kit.

Spirit Junkie: A Radical Love to Self-Love and Miracles by Gabrielle Bernstein

Last year I tried to read A Course in Miracles, attempting to do one lesson each day. I didn’t make through January, and whatever I had done, I didn’t grasp at all. But for some reason, the Course keeps calling me. Perhaps an introduction to its principles from an author described as a mix between Carrie Bradshaw and Marianne Williamson is just what the Ivy League homegirl needs. Whether or not A Course in Miracles suits me, after almost a year of not attending to my spiritual development, I hope reading about Bernstein’s journey will inspire me to get back on track.

Perfect Health: The Complete Mind/Body Guide by Deepak Chopra

Several years ago Suparna Bhasin, creator of She Creates Change, introduced me to a simple practice that improved my life immediately and tremendously: rise at 6AM and bed by 10PM. (I have advocated so much for following circadian rhythms, my MFA classmates sometimes refer to them as Sofia cycles.) Suparna also recommended Deepak Chopra’s Perfect Health, an accessible and practical introduction to Ayurvedic medicine. I learned in 2011 not to take my health granted; 2012 is the time to apply the lessons and develop new, healthy habits.

The Generosity Plan: Sharing Your Time, Treasure and Talent to Shape the World by Kathy LeMay

There was a very long time when I believed that striving to be a social change agent necessitated eschewing material wealth. In recent years I have discarded that thinking, and while I never wanted to be affluent for its own sake, I do keep a mental list of progressive organizations and causes that I fantasize about supporting as a philanthropist.

After hearing her speak at the New York Women’s Foundation luncheon in 2010, Kathy LeMay has become my role model of socially conscious giving and reminded me that no matter what net worth, I always have “time, treasure and talent” to offer. Rather than just donate some dollars here, volunteer a few hours there, this book is a guide toward creating a strategic plan in leveraging my giving so that it truly makes a difference and is aligned with my deepest values.

These are just a few of the resources on my curriculum for this year. These rank high in priority because they are most aligned with the things I have decided to pursue in 2012 at this time. Like any good curriculum, however, it is subject to change according to my needs. Life hands out challenges and opportunities, and as a result, some of my priorities are sure to change. As such I’ll surely discover and add more books, films, classes, coaches, etc. as well as change my mind and remove others as I grow into sharper clarity about what I want and need to be happy.

What’s on your SOL curriculum in 2012?

They're Going to Laugh at You: White Women, Betrayal and the N-Word

2011-10-11T11:21:00.014-04:00

Who spiked the Evian? Lately, there’s been a rash of White women using the n-word – including self-professed liberals and progressives. As if that were not bad enough, they act shocked, defensive and even downright nasty when told by women of all races that they should cut that shit out.

First example: a few White women made and carried signs that stated Woman Is the N***** of the World for Slut Walk in New York City on October 1^st.

While some White women including those among Slut Walk NYC's organizers and participants have stepped up to condemn these actions, there are too many who have come to their defense, ranging from the naively privileged to the unapologetically hostile. I’m talking Facebook posts such as, “It is NOT racist, and anybody who thinks so is a fucking idiot” to a White woman telling an African American woman to go fuck herself. (I’d post links, but in no surprise to me, the posts have conveniently disappeared.)

A few days later, Barbara Walters used the word and then played victim when told by her The View co-host Sherri Shepherd that she was hurt by it. Acting as if her journalistic integrity was called into question instead of hearing the pain of her so-called friend, Walters exploited Shepherd’s struggle to concretize her discomfort with Walters’s use of the word and attempted to make Shepherd feel unreasonable for taking offense. (I’ll save my musings on why Walters will never have a woman of color – least of all a woman of African descent – who is capable and willing to hand her ass to her on The View for another time.)

Then last night I learned that at Occupy Philadelphia, two Black women were called n****** by volunteers. Now the actual details of the incident remain sketchy, but from what I understand, the fact that these women were slurred is not in dispute. Apparently, charges of racism against the organizing group predated the incident.

Many women of all races such as Stephanie Gilmore, Sydette Clark and the Crunk Feminist Collective have issued thorough, incisive and poignant analyses as to why it is never appropriate for a self-proclaimed White feminist ally to use this racial slur. There is little more I can add to the substance of these and other responses already made. Still I have a compelling desire (which I will hereinto unapologetically indulge) to contribute to the discussion by making an attempt to make White women perpetrators and their apologists viscerally understand what exactly is the impact of their use of the n-word.

Warning: it ain’t going to be diplomatic or pretty because we’re already far past that.

So to all the White women who think it’s cool to use the n-word, y’all seen the movie Carrie, right? Recall the pivotal scene where Carrie White’s nemesis Chris and her boyfriend Billy dump a bucket of pig’s blood on her. Before Carrie telekinetically wrecks shop, she stands there drenched in blood and humiliation as people laugh at her.

That’s how that shit feels when you use the n-word.

We’re Carrie White and you’re Chris Hargensen except Chris never fronted like she was Carrie’s friend.

A few of your apologists are Sue Snell, perhaps well-meaning but ultimately ineffectual and forever haunted by the damaged to feminist solidarity that you have caused.

But your most virulent apologists are bunch of Billy Nolans who pick up the havoc where you left.

Your use of the n-word is a huge bucket of pig's blood. When you use it and defend yourself, you’re Chris licking her lips as she pulls the cord. It’s a betrayal, plain and simple.

Stop with the defensiveness and rationalizations for just a minute and sit with that. If you're really 'bout it, just accept that already. Recognize that the mere ability to dig your heels in - telling us we don't get it, defending your honor like some damsel in distress (by the way, how are you OK with pulling the most anti-feminist of anti-feminist shticks), etc. - wouldn't exist without the racial privilege you think is somehow neatly tucked away in the folds of your gender identity. You really can’t get whiter than that.

And guess what? Recasting Black women who call you out as the threat to whatever image you have constructed of yourself got you looking really patriarchal right about now. You’re doing to Black women what men of all races to do to us all the time.

It’s a betrayal when you act as if you have no clue in 2011 about what feminists of color endure within our own community when we make the decision to trust in and build with White feminists. Patriarchal men and women of color are like Piper Laurie, doing everything to derail us whenever we align ourselves with you. When we throw on our jackets to head out to the meeting, they stand at the top of the stairs yelling, “They’re going to laugh at you.”

We have faith and show up anyway only for you to pull the cord on prom night.

(Side note to those anti-feminist people of color: now isn’t the time for you to say, “I told you so.” That’s when you go from acting like Carrie’s mother to making like her gym teacher. Instead of joining the laughter, you should be standing with us as we call out the racism rather than using it as an opportunity to gut check us on our feminism. Don’t bother if for no other reason than it’s just not going to work for you. All you do when you attempt to discredit feminism by throwing an instance of racist arrogance of certain White women in our face is play yourself. We’re just not that fickle. With few exception, we’re not going to come “home” like the prodigal Carrie White because, as you'll recall, her mother pretended to comfort her only to literally stabbed her in the back. Yeah, we're not playin' that.)

Now back to you n-word loving White women. You want to show how hip you are? Stop listening to Yoko Ono and Kreayshawn and read a book, read a book, read a MF book. Preferably one by a Black feminist such as Audre Lorde or bell hooks. One course in an entire women’s studies program doesn’t cut it.

What to show how down you are? Quit with the silly references to hip hop culture as some kind of permission. As mad as we may be at you, even we don’t believe you’re that dumb. You especially denigrate yourself with that one so stop it.

To all you Sue Snells, when women associated with your movements ('cause that's what it's looking like right about now - YOUR movements -- now matter how many invitations you extend) tell women of color to go fuck themselves, call us idiots for taking offense, say they’re sorry if we’re offended as if our feelings are the problem and not the actions that triggered them and other such nonsense, how 'bout You. Just. Check. Them. Despite all the historic and ongoing treatment of men of color as menaces to White womanhood, feminists of color usually have no problem pulling a brother’s coattails when he comes for you, but y’all kinda drag your feet when a White woman does the same to us or our men. And that high school tactic of pleading, “It wasn’t me” doesn’t suffice. I don’t mean to get all vanguardist on y’all, but how about you bench these chicks when they come out of pocket? Seriously, where is the discipline in this movement? I’m not saying to immediately show her the door (although that just might be appropriate on occasion.) Struggle with her if you must, but there has to be serious and immediate consequences for racist behavior even if it’s sending homegirl to an intersectionality boot camp.

Stop confusing the fact that the n-word is still used by some black folks as license for you to use it. Many women including White feminists still use the word bitch, but I don't see you abiding for one second any man thinking he can do the same. In fact, if a man who identified as a feminist and/or ally still had the audacity to roll up to Slut Walk with a sign that read Rape is for Pussies, all his professions to solidarity, insistence that we focus on the “real” issue and the like wouldn’t have zilch currency for you so don’t act brand new.

And while we’re on the subject of Black folks who embrace the n-word, I don’t give a damn how many Black friends you have who don’t blink an eye or even think it’s cute when that word comes out of your mouth. You still don’t and never will have license to use that word. Accept that. If you can't stop insisting that you be allowed to use the n-word on philosophical grounds, how 'bout you just let it go on the simple fact that you will never win this one. Trust me on that. If any woman of color - friend, comrade, stranger -- tells you it is offensive to her, the only right answer of a true ally is to knock it off. This mounting any never mind excessive defense of the use of the n-word by you or any other White person then turning around and complaining that our expressing our hurt and anger is a distraction from the "real" issue at hand... how's that working for you? It isn't, and you know it.

And you know why despite your Cool White Chick status you weren’t at the meeting when your Black BFF was elected representative-at-large for the United Black Diaspora? It's because the election never took place and that organization doesn’t exist. They never did and even if they ever were to, despite your CWC bona fides, you still wouldn’t be invited. Trust me on that one, too. Until we make some meaningful progress in defeating racism, White anti-racists have their own lane. You truly want to be an ally? Stay in it.

Yes, this is harsh, but in addition to being furious at the recent number of White women who think they can use this word and still front like they are our friends, I’ve been spoiled. I have meaningful relationships with White feminists who get it, and they have set the bar high. Are they perfect? No. But unlike you, they listen. Perhaps that’s why you avoid them like the plague. If you were genuinely interested in dismantling racism and forgoing the white privilege that would require, you would spend less time on Facebook defending the indefensible and more live time with them.

And for God’s sake, stop watching propaganda like The Help.

All I Still Have

2011-09-11T14:00:00.003-04:00

Funny Women Are Dangerous: Rape Culture and American Comedy

2011-09-02T12:18:00.015-04:00

Sometimes I miss doing standup. Women who are funny are powerful, and therefore dangerous. But this is the first time I ever regretted not pursuing standup because I missed an opportunity to hand some predator’s ass to him.

Summary: in pursuit of shits and giggles, a man admitted before a live audience that he aggressively pursued sex with a woman who told him repeatedly that she didn’t want him in her home never mind her body. The purpose of said revelation: to inspire other men to improvise a sketch based on this event for even more shits and giggles.

Let someone suggest, however, that rape culture in the United States is alive and well, and heads rush to spew conspiracy theories about humorless feminists.

Yet this occurred in a nation where, according to our own justice department, one in four women will be the victim of a rape or an attempted rape. Where violent words like smash, pound, beat, and hit have become synonymous with have sex. Where a female pop singer can’t even imagine being raped and fantasize revenge without getting several advocacy groups on her case while no one blinks an eye as one male recording artist after the next makes the top twenty by packaging rape carols as love songs.

This happened at an improv festival in New York City. Not in Congo, Iran, Nicaragua or anyone of “those places” we like to turn up our noses and wag our finger at for the atrocious way women are treated. Nope, it happened right here in the good ol’ US of A where a sexual assault survivor has to be damned near perfect if she stands a snowball’s chance in hell of seeing her perpetrator tried by a jury of his peers. Between the acquittal of two police officers for sexual assault (one with a history of being abusive toward women while in uniform) and the dismissal of the rape charges against Dominique Strauss-Kahn (who suspiciously leaves a trail of rape allegations wherever he goes), this damned city is turning into Club Med for predators.

The thing that disturbs me the most about this incident is that the male comics on stage were astute enough to crack jokes about the ethical and legal ramifications of this knucklehead’s behavior, but not a damn one of them was brave enough to call it out explicitly and shut him down. Then again, evidence abounds that violence against women is regular fodder for our entertainment, especially comedy. From Ralph Kramden’s threats to send his wife Alice to the moon to Twitter hashtags such as #reasonstobeatyourgirlfriend our society has a long history of laughing at threats and assaults against women.

If you came of age in the 80s, you probably remember Eddie Murphy's 1983 set on singers in Delirious where he imitated Teddy Pendergrast's aggressive style and joked that he "scared the bitches into liking him."

I admit that I laughed at this even though something inside me quivered. At the age of 13, I already knew that no boy or man could ever scare me into liking him. But I wasn't informed enough to know that my instincts were on point and that my age or gender was not a reason to dismiss them. And so I laughed along and repeated the joke like everyone else.

Thirteen years later, I had mixed feelings when Chris Rock insisted vehemently that he'd never hit a woman. On the one hand, I had embraced feminism and knew that his set about relationship violence resonated with audiences because of his deft interweaving of real observable relationship dynamics with frighteningly oversimplified explanations. And yet I chuckled because at the time it seemed like progress.

In between both these blockbuster concert tours, I remember watching another African American male standup comic on TV say of Keith Sweat's Make You Sweat, "You say no, I say yes, girl, I bet I can make you sweat? That sounds like rape!" The audience didn't laugh too hard at that one. Come to think of it, he himself delivered the punch line angrily. It was a joke the comic himself didn't find all that funny. I yelled, "Oh, shit, he's right!" and appreciated him for nevertheless having the guts to say that. To this day I can't recall his name.

I haven't forgotten the revelry that ensued when What's Love Got To Do With It was released in 1993 and dudes on the block fell over themselves to imitate Ike beating Tina (to this day I walk out of the room during the scene where he rapes her in the recording booth.) Nor have I forgotten how I ran scared from the movie theater during the closing credits of Baby Boy in 2001 because I had yelled, "What the fuck is so funny about that?" when the audience laughed at Tyrese's Jody hitting Taraji P. Henson's Yvette.

Spare me talk of humor is subjective and comedy is pain and all the other clichés. The ability to evoke subjectivity when one is not the target is a function of power and privilege. Think it’s so gutsy to make light of trauma? Then have the guts to poke fun of your own pain before you crack jokes at anyone else's.

As I watched the male comics on the stage react to this monologue, I eventually wondered What if a woman had been up there? Then I asked Why are there no women there? And that quickly lead me to conclude Of course, there are no women there!

Women who are funny are powerful, and therefore dangerous.

I made a New Year’s resolution in 1999 to become fearless. This didn’t entail delivering a speech or jumping out of a plane. It meant enrolling in a stand-up comedy workshop. At the time, I simply rationalized that even if I failed to make a roomful of strangers laugh at jokes that I myself had written, I still would become untouchable. “If I hear crickets for five minutes, what could you possibly do to humiliate me after that?” I’d joke. “You can’t do shit to me.”

And failure was likely for me not because I wasn’t funny, but because I came to standup, as I do most of my creative projects, with my activist lens. That means there were certain kinds of jokes I decided to never tell. The sweetest spot for every standup comic is earning that laugh while being who you authentically are and speaking the truth as you see it. For me that meant steering clear of topics that usually guarantee female performers comic gold. I wasn’t the chick who, for example, cracked about her weight, complained about being single or put her mama on blast. Although I had no problem playing up my attractiveness by wearing heels and makeup, I drew the line at discussing my sexual interests and experiences never mind mimicking any of it on stage. And while I have no problems clowning myself from time to time, deprecating myself to make an audience like me was a non-starter.

As if I - a woman, a person of color, a leftist -- already wasn’t stepping into an aggressive form of entertainment on my own terms, I dared to address the most male-dominated subjects of all: politics. That’s Lenny Bruce territory. George Carlin territory. Paul Muthafuckin’ Mooney territory. Nor was I aiming for obvious political targets like elected officials and current events. On the contrary, I wrote jokes pinpointing the politics of things that people like to believe are apolitical -- sports, music, film and other forms of entertainment. I called bullshit on the so-called Latin pop explosion and pretended to be an agent brokering trades between races before Dave Chappelle introduced us to the term “racial draft.” I was coming for the Starfucker’s Zagat Survey of Usual Suspects. Amateur or professional, that’s permissible for men who are deemed courageous for trying and incisive if they hit the mark. A woman who does it risks being dismissed as a catty hater. She must be jealous of the female celebrities or pissed at the fact that none of the male ones would screw her.

I was going to succeed at becoming fearless even if I failed, but I didn’t fail. Nothing makes you understand the power of comedy like succeeding at it. This is especially true when you belong to communities that are usually the butt of the joke. Standup is another way of reclaiming your story, taking space and seizing control over your image. When you deliberately make someone laugh as you speak your truth, you at once build a bridge to your world without handing over the keys to your kingdom. This is a lesson I learned firsthand, and one of my life's regrets is not pursuing the opportunity to go pro (another story for another time.)

No wonder there’s so much ado about whether or not women can be funny, whether or not funny women are attractive, and whether or not men are threatened by funny women, ad infinitum. You know that belief of how men and women alike appreciate a sense of humor in a romantic partner? It turns out that women generally appreciate men they find funny whereas men appreciate women who find them funny. Pursuing laughter is a form of assertion, and assertiveness is deemed a masculine trait. Therefore, a woman who goes for your funny bone is violating gender norms and stepping out patriarchal bounds. Perhaps that's why too much of male comedy is devoted to going for her jugular and putting her back in her place.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that if a woman had been on that stage, she would’ve checked Eric D. Angell. Some women who enter male-dominated arenas do yield to the sexism and misogyny. They play to the male gaze, embrace the limited roles that men deem acceptable for a women (the ride-or-die chick or always sexually available and dexterous dime piece to name two) and emulate and even outdo the men in their vices. But let’s be clear. Such women do that because they’re fully aware that their insider status doesn't make them that much safer.

And frankly the maleness of the comics on stage during Angell’s confession does not excuse them from not taking a stand.

All of this is what makes this monologue, the weak response of the male comics, and the absence of female comics on that stage so damned unsettling. To quote comedian Katie Halper, “It's like an experiment that people will point back to as an example of how socially acceptable rape is.” Funny women are powerful and therefore dangerous. Looks like the world of standup needs more “humorless feminists” to take the stage, wreck shop and put this culture of rape and other violence against women in check.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a rape to report.

For further reading: Revolutionary Laughter: The World of Women Comics by Rosalind Warren

The Tragic Irony of the Feminist Revenge Fantasy

2011-06-09T11:48:00.004-04:00

Feminist revenge fantasies are aptly named because they are indeed fantasies. While rapists and batterers have a good probability of evading punishment for their crimes, the women who fight them back are not.  The number of women in U.S. prisons is increasing at an alarming rate, and the vast majority of them who are incarcerated for violent crimes are there for killing their abusers or the abusers of their children. So the criminal justice system that fails to protect women is very swift in regulating them when they attempt to protect themselves.  Hence, media that portrays women avenging their assaults and evading prosecution are rightly called fantasies.  Our fantasies allows us to have the needs met that the world denies us.  So just how entrenched and damaging is patriarchy that even in our fantasies, women acknowledge the inevitably of sexual assault.  So deeply entrenched is misogyny that our deepest fantasies involve avenging rape and other violence rather than just being safe.  So for everyone outraged with Rihanna for Man Down, when there is no more rape and assault culture, there'll be no more revenge fantasies. 

Woman Up: 5 Revenge Films to Watch and Discuss

2011-06-06T11:20:00.017-04:00

Because Rihanna’s Man Down is only the latest depiction in popular media of a victim turning vigilante, I find the controversy it has generated almost laughable. The vigilante trope is as American as running pigskin down a field. It made Clint Eastwood and Charles Bronson movies stars in the 70s and now keeps Nicolas Cage on top of his IRS installment agreement. Regardless of where we stand on the morality or effectiveness of vigilantism, we generally accept that violence begets violence.

That is, until the victim-become-perpetrator is a woman.

Even though we cannot get our fill of the steady buffet at the Cineplex of men wrecking havoc in the name of vengeance, let a woman bring wreck, and controversy ensues. Meanwhile, the men in these narratives are rarely themselves targets of the crime in question never mind survivors of sexual assault.* Rather they seek revenge for a crime committed against someone they love -- almost always an adult female relative (most likely a love interest) or minor child.

Apparently, Hollywood realizes that we are not ready to see a man go HAM because someone fucked with his brother, male lover or even adult child. This is because we cling to a clusterfuck of patriarchal beliefs that insist:

1. A man can possess a woman or child.
2. A man cannot be possessed by anyone else but himself.
3. A man who fails to protect his human possessions should be able to redeem himself by regulating those who violate him by messing with his "property."

It then goes to reason that, despite our taste for tales of vigilantism, any narrative in which a woman crime victim takes justice into her own hands will prove unsettling. Where does she come off regulating anyone’s behavior as if she owns anything including her own body?

Add to this the persisting yet erroneous notion that violence is unnatural to women. Why we still hold onto this myth especially despite mounting evidence baffles me for three reasons. One, we are human beings. As such, there is not a single emotion from which anyone should expect us to be immune including rage. Two, experience teaches us that there is not much to be gained from repressing our emotions, especially the most unpleasant ones. Whether or not we choose to learn from them, those emotions have something to teach us, usually doing so by pointing to some breach in integrity. We feel uncomfortable because our external reality is somehow out of alignment with our internal expectations.

Three, being women in a patriarchal world, there’s a lot that pisses us off. Everyday we experience fundamental dissonances between the things that society teaches us to value and practice yet fails to grant us in return for no other reason than that we are women. No wonder expressions of women’s anger and violence – even a fantasy like Rihanna’s Man Down – makes folks itch.

All the shit you put us through? Y’all should be scared.

This is why fans and detractors alike readily label such expressions "feminist revenge fantasies" without truly unpacking what that implies. Whether or not we condone a man’s vengeance, we get it. A man’s rage is always justified even if his actions are not. However, women generally are not entitled to their anger so any expression of it is automatically deemed out of order. At the core of this judgment is another belief: that the breach we feel between our external reality and our internal expectations is our own fault because women have no business believing that we are autonomous, equal or free. We feel violated because we deluded ourselves into believing that our bodies are our own, that we have a right to public spaces, ad infinitum.

Hence, all acts of retribution by women – real or imagined – are deemed feminist regardless of the particular woman in question or the uniqueness of her circumstances. Whether the adjective "feminist" is a badge of honor or a scarlet letter depends on the speaker, but we are on the same page about this: the way the cards are stacked, vengeance is male domain. Women who trespass are committing a feminist act. And for those who deem feminism wrong, such attempts to regulate themselves demand regulation. No wonder why so many critiques of Rihanna's video are fixated on condemning her character's violence with, at best, lukewarm condemnation to the violence done to her character. These critiques also possess a willful blindness to the fact that victims of sexual assault who follow legal channels of justice rarely get any. On the contrary, they are raped over and over again by police, attorneys and courts. Consistent and swift Justice through our present system -- now that's the stuff of fantasy.

While I question whether emulating the vices of patriarchal men is a viable strategy for women to adopt, I am at peace with the label "feminist revenge fantasy" and the existence of narratives that earn it. (I have written a few myself.) It matters not to me if the men and women who create these narratives consider themselves feminist or not. As far as I’m concerned, if you're troubled by and want to put an end to feminist revenge fantasies, then do something to put an end to the objectification of women and the rape and assault culture it inspires.

Toward that end, I’m far more interested in discussions about how effective particular narratives are in depicting the root of that culture, the psychospiritual toll it takes and the strategies that both fail and liberate us. So here I offer five of my favorite feminist revenge fantasies on film. Each pushes the envelope in the vigilante genre in some way other than making the protagonist a woman. There's a depth in these movies that even Clint Eastwood can't fuck with.

1. Thelma and Louise

The first time I found myself in disagreement with bell hooks, it was over her vehement disdain for the ending of this film. She wanted the entire fantasy - for Thelma and Louise to get away - and I'm not mad at her for that. Nevertheless, Oscar-winning screenwriter Calle Khouri did not write a fantasy so for Thelma and Louise to make it to Mexico - as if misogyny's reach ends at the border - would have been incongruent with the realism conveyed throughout the entire movie. Still when asked by disappointed viewers why Thelma and Louise commit suicide, Khouri insists that they are misinterpreting the ending. Perhaps it's wrong of me to quibble with a fellow screenwriter about her own work, but I don't buy that precisely because I find the ending true to the story world that Khouri created. Our sheroes were given two choices: turn themselves in and face a lifetime of imprisonment or die in a hail of gunfire like Queen Latifah's Cleo later would in Set It Off. Thelma and Louise found a third way and gave patriarchy and its false choices the finger.

2. The Brave One

Almost twenty years after winning an Oscar for her portrayal of a working-class rape survivor who demands her day in court in The Accused, Jodie Foster stars in this mainstream film as a radio talk show host who goes on a killing spree after her fiance is beaten to death. I had never seen a film where a woman seeks vengeance for a violent crime against someone she loves before this one. Don't get it twisted though. The Brave One does more to freshen the vigilante genre than by just casting a woman as the lead. Unlike the average revenge film where the man goes on a mindless rampage and never questions the rightness of what he is doing, this is a character-driven story in which we see Foster's Erica Bain grapple with the complex emotions of being both victim and perpetrator. It's because of this I let the Hollywood ending slide.

3. Ms. 45

A proud barer of the feminist revenge fantasy label, this 1981 vigilante classic starring Zoe Lund remains controversial to this day. Some argue that it's not feminist at all. I would concede that it's a bit over the top for reasons I won't share in order to avoid spoilers. Just keep in mind that it's also supposed to be an exploitation flick and ask yourself if the protagonist had been a man would you be as strident in critique of its "extraness." In any event, Ms. 45 made my top five because Lund's Thana is a working-class woman with disabilities -- tell me how often do we see that!

4. Bandit Queen

While not without flaws, this film scores on many levels. Icing on the cake: it's based on a true story. You haven't seen gangster if you don't know the story of Phoolan Devi who not only avenged a brutal gang rape (that's right... she came for ALL them MFers), she went on be elected to office and nominated for a Nobel Prize. Devi was and remains a very controversial figure who brought suit against the filmmakers of Bandit Queen That just makes this movie even greater fodder for discussion, especially if you've read her story in her words in I, Phoolan Devi: Autobiography of the Bandit Queen as well as feminist discourse on her life and the film itself. It lends itself to conversations about retaliatory versus revolutionary violence, intersectionality (because to some Devi was an Indian Robin Hood whose actions were as much a statement about caste as well as gender), and much more.

5. Descent
With films like Quentin Tarantino's Deathproof and Frank Miller's Sin City, Rosario Dawson is no stranger to playing women who kick sexist ass. That said, you still don't know the depth of her acting chops and feminist politics until you see Descent.

The title refers to just how far Dawson's character Maya sinks after a date rape. Her performance proves she is far more talented than many of her roles suggest, and writer/director Talia Lugacy deftly interweaves some race and class analysis that is rarely seen in movies about sexual assault. Both rapes -- the initial crime and the retaliatory act -- are extremely difficult to watch as they should be. This is no exploitation flick that eroticizes sexual assault or depicts violence so cartoonish it can be dismissed (like the vigilante cult classic I Spit On Your Grave.) As hard as it is, we should watch and discuss Descent right down to the final shot on Dawson's face that leaves no question as to whether vengeance is as sweet as Maya had hoped.

Listen to Rosario Dawson discuss rape, revenge and Descent here.

* One notable exception is the 1996 film Sleepers based on the book of the same name, starring a high-wattage cast that includes Brad Pitt, Jason Patric, Kevin Bacon, Robert DeNiro and the late Brad Renfro. After a prank turns into tragedy, four boys are sent to a juvenile correctional facility where they are ritually abused by the guards. Years later when two of the men stand trial after murdering one of their abusers, the other two conspire to fix the trial. Author Lorenzo Carcaterra insists that Sleepers was not a novel but based on true events in his life. Entities such as the Catholic Church and the New York State Department of Correction dispute his claims.

Have you seen any of these films? What do you think of them? What others would you add to this list?

One More Thing, Ashley...

2011-04-13T20:13:00.006-04:00

This week actress Ashley Judd took some heat for describing hip-hop as rape culture. There have been many nuanced responses and conversations in the blogosphere and social media such as Twitter, especially from Black feminists like the Crunk Feminist Collective. (And infuriatingly unsurprising that it took two paragraphs from one famous White woman's memoir to spark the kind of conversation on a topic that Black women have written reams about-- academically, journalistically, creatively, and, yes, personally since Day One.) When others handle it, I prefer to just acknowledge, retweet, co-sign and otherwise fall back. No need to repeat what others have said so well if there is nothing more I can add.

However, as I read Judd's reflection on the response to her controversial remarks, there was one thing she said that I felt merited a reply that I had yet to see. She wrote, "In those 2 paragraphs, I was addressing gender and gender only. However, the outcry focused so much on race (and at times class) that it was naive of me to assume that everyone knew I was discussing only gender. My favorite feminist teachers, such as bell hooks and Gloria Steinem, would probably have admonished me, as they write that gender, class, and race are inextricably bound in the conversation about gender equality. My amends for thinking you could read my mind and know I was only talking about gender. I understand why you were offended."

While I found the rest of her blog thoughtful and sincere, I whiffed a bit of white privilege around these lines. Perhaps a heavy dose of class privilege and/or celebrity hubris is at fault here as well. How else does one explain how Judd can at once acknowledge the importance of intersectionality and immediately dismiss it? It put a backhanded spin on what otherwise read like a genuine if imperfect attempt to take responsibility.

And because one cannot post comments on Judd's reflection, I took to Twitter to gently express to her that there were a few more lessons to be learned from this experience:

RT @ashleytjudd: Just posted reflections on controversy re: 2 paragraphs in my book, "All That Is Bitter & Sweet". Ashleyjudd.com

I appreciate @ashleytjudd 's reflections and believe they are sincere. If there's one note where I'd push back and ask her to reflect more+

is the notion that 1 can ever talk "Just about gender." @ashleytjudd cites @bellhooks as one of her teachers , and yet in her work+

@bellhooks never fails to address intersectionality. If you do not take into account race, class, etc. when discussing gender+

then one is only speaking about the experience of a narrow group of women. And if we're critiquing rap, then 1 speaks specifically about+

and Black women. Thus, there's no talking "just" about gender. So @ashleytjudd, I hope that you will revisit some of @bellhook 's +

other Black feminist discussions of intersectionality bc the failure to understand that a woman's experience of gender is shaped+

make girls and women understand why they should embrace feminist praxis. Failure of White middle-class feminists 2 embrace intersectionality

is why so many women of color dismiss feminism as a White women's racket and WOC feminists dismissed as race traitors.

And as we say on Twitter #thatisall #fornow. Well, one more thing. This sure does make me appreciate more the White feminists I know who "get" it, many who happen to be hip-hop heads themselves such as JLove Calderon and Marcella Runell Hall to name just two. I have no doubt that they've read, cited and even exposed others to the works of bell hooks, Audre Lorde, Tricia Rose, Gwendolyn Pough, Joan Morgan and other women of color feminists. I hope this experience will inspire Ashley Judd to do the same.

Better Than Shoes: A New "Chica Lit" Writing Workshop

2011-02-09T17:54:00.010-05:00

Love novels like Dirty Girls Social Club, Bridget Jones’ Diary, The Devil Wears Prada and Waiting to Exhale? Have an idea for a novel of your own? Want a supportive writing community led by an author who has actually written and published “chica lit” with major publishing houses?

This 8-week course is for you! Join me and other aspiring Latina writers and begin your journey toward getting that novel out of your head and onto the page. By doing fun writing exercises, reading excerpts from some of the genre’s best and getting supportive feedback, you will learn how to develop interesting characters and entertaining plot lines, all without having to leave your latinadad at the door. And isn't that far more important than a fabulous yet expensive pair of shoes?

By the end of this workshop, you will have major character sketches, a complete outline for your story, and both inspiration and strategies to keep you writing that first draft to the last page.

What: Better Than Shoes: A Chica Lit Writing Workshop with
Who: Sofia Quintero, author of Divas Don't Yield and more
When: Thursdays, 6:30 to 8:30 pm from April 14 - June 2, 2011 (8 weeks)
Where: Latino Experimental Fantastic Theater at the Clemente Soto Velez Center, 107 Suffolk Street, Lower East Side, New York City, 10002
Cost: $250

If you want more details you can email thefelttheater at yahoo dot com or therealblackartemis at yahoo dot com. You can also call LEFT at 212-288-3705.

My Finish Your Writing Project Teleseminar with Felicia Pride of the Backlist

2011-02-08T09:46:00.007-05:00

Last Thursday evening I had a wonderful (at least it was for me!) teleseminar on how to finish your writing project. If you missed it, you can listen to it here:

Have questions? Just post them below from now through Friday, February 11th, and I will answer them. As is usually the case, there were so many other things that came to mind after the call, including other techniques I use to get writing projects done. An hour is never enough when you are discussing healing and creativity. At least the conversation has begun so join in with your questions and comments here. I may not have an answer to everything or with complete thoroughness that I would like in this particular venue, but I will give it a good faith effort.

And if you're a woman in or near NYC who wants to enroll in my Seshat Writing Intensive on February 19th, there are a few slots left and still time to enroll, but you have to act now. See the link to my post about SWI here or send me an email at therealblackartemis at yahoo dot com.

Our Heroes and Their Shadows

2011-01-17T12:03:00.007-05:00

Today would have been the 81st birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He would have been the same age as my own mother, and I attempt to imagine him less as a formidable civil rights leader in a powerful yet troubled nation and more as an ordinary man with a family of his own. I specifically envision him as grandfather who might be spoiling his children’s children much to their parents’ dismay. Perhaps I am more focused on the man than the icon because I’ve been reflecting greatly on the shadows of our heroes.

These reflections began this summer when inspired by Black August, I began using Tumblr to share quotes, photos, videos and other media of social justice figures and events of historical significance on a given day. It became as much a process of discovery and education for myself as anyone who might have read it because I certainly did not know about all the people and events. Soon into the effort my research would lead me to some troubling facts about people who are often icons to certain progressive movements, some of which I knew, some of which I did not.

For example, on what would have been Malcolm X’s 80th birthday, Peter Tatchell wrote a piece for The Guardian that argued the evidence of the slain radical’s homosexuality. Some time before that there had been controversy over the release of letters written by Malcolm to Elijah Muhammad which reference his sexual and marital troubles. I personally have no issues whatsoever with the possibility that one of my own social justice icons might have been gay or bisexual. He simply would join a long list of LGBTQ heroes to whom I feel indebted for much of the personal and political freedoms I presently enjoy. Still I am not naïve to the fact that people with radically different ideas about sexuality might characterize this aspect Malcolm’s humanity as a weakness, and therefore, its exposure as an attack on Malcolm’s credibility as a leader in particular and Black social justice movements as a whole, thanks to the persistence of narrow and oppressive notions of masculinity.

At one point, I hesitated to post something about Margaret Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood and enduring heroine of the reproductive rights and other feminist movements because of allegations of racism. At best, she was a proponent of negative eugenics. At worst, a white supremacist impulse may have been a driving force in Sanger’s crusade for contraception. Again, this troubling aspect of Sanger's character has been seized by the foes of reproductive choice to energize and expand their base, including recruiting people of color of conservative faith into a political agenda including Dr. King's own niece.

And by now it is public knowledge that the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. was unfaithful to wife Coretta Scott King. Actually, he has been labeled a womanizer, and it is undeniable that those eager to facilitate the erosion of the civil rights for which King was martyred readily use his infidelity to discredit him as a leader. Thus, the urge of those who lionize King and wish to sanitize his public image is quite sympathetic. This news devastated me when I was younger, and I wanted to pretend it was not true and refused to engage the possibility that a man that I had admire so much was imperfect.

As I grow older and admittedly more comfortable with my own shadow, however, I increasingly find this impulse towards sanitization unfortunate. What do we really have to gain by ignoring the truth that extraordinary men and women of history were human beings with all the same flaws and vices that challenge the rest of us? The adversaries of justice may use these imperfections to slander them, but since their own leadership is rife with human contradictions (and in some instances, outright hypocrisies), is our desire to obliterate the personal-(is)-political history of our heroes and to disassociate them from their shadow behaviors truly driven by strategic expediency?

I am beginning to wonder if what truly scares us about letting the ugly truths about our beautiful icons be known is the challenge that it makes to us everyday people. We do not fear that by exposing the shadows of our heroes we diminish their extraordinary accomplishments. Quite the contrary, their human failings are a call for us to stop using our ordinariness as an excuse to not step up our contributions toward justice, peace and equality. We want to believe that Dr. King and others like him had such profound impact because they were preternaturally gifted beings. Demigods and saints. Angels on earth. Something other than human. Something far greater than you or I.

They were not. They were ordinary people who made extraordinary contributions despite their weaknesses and vices. Just like us they grappled with their own insecurities and ignorance. They, too, battled everyday with pride, fear, lust and all the other emotions and appetites that we confront each day of our lives. King, Sanger and X and all our other social justice heroes had their shadows. The only thing that separates them from us is that they did not use their imperfections as excuses to ignore demands for justice. We all hear the call, and their decision to respond to it with their unique gifts at the ready – at once simple and difficult – is the only thing that makes any of them special. It is a decision that each of us can choose to make at any time just like the thousands who marched, boycotted and otherwise joined King. Thousands whose names we will never know but without whom a leader like him is impossible.

If we accept this about our heroes, if we embrace the shadows that lurk behind their heroism, we can no longer say about any of them, “She made such a big difference because she was extraordinary, and I am an average person.” We lose our ordinariness as an excuse to not take the responsibility we bare to give whatever it is we can to improve this world. Erasing their humanity and taking for granted their struggles – personal as well as political – hardly seems like a fitting way to demonstrate gratitude for their contributions.

We all know that King said, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” Surely, he would not have desired that their inevitable shortcomings carry greater weight in said judgment than their good deeds. Nor would King have wanted for their occasional struggles with virtue to exempt them from stepping into the arena and wrestling with inequality.

So rather than honor Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. by sanitizing his public image, we should remember the whole man – ordinary and legendary – and resolve to follow his example by incorporating social justice into our own personal legends and taking concrete action toward fulfilling his vision.

Seshat Writing Intensive February 2011

2011-01-04T16:39:00.008-05:00

Are you a woman who has resolved to finish a manuscript in 2011? Then this is the workshop for you. As an author who has published five novels and over a dozen novellas and short stories with practically every major house in the industry, I want to help women find their voices and tell their stories. On this all-day event, I will lead you through exercises where you will:

1. Set realistic goals for moving forward your project.
2. Identify potential blocks and strategies to overcome them.
3. Create a specialized action plan for the rest of the year.

Most of all, we will WRITE. This intensive is open to all genres and crafts e.g. memoir, fiction, screenplays, poetry, etc. At this time, it is only open to women and that includes our trans sisters.

The workshop takes place on Saturday, February 19, 2011 from 10 AM - 6 PM. Because I want to be able to devote time to each participant, space is limited to only TEN women and slots are filling quickly. The registration fee is $250.00 which must be paid in full by February 11th. Installment plans are available so do inquire. Those who are registered will receive a coaching questionnaire, the address of our meeting place and other details. Because of the intensive and personalized nature of this workshop, there will be no drop-in or on-site registration available. In order to serve you best, I require time to assess your needs and design a program that speaks to them.

Please share this invitation with others who may find it of interest. More details to follow. If you have any other questions, do not hesitate to email me at therealblackartemis_at_yahoodotcom.

Oh, and who is in that gorgeous photo? That is Seshat after whom I named this event. She is the Egyptian goddess of writing. After this intensive, you, too, will be on your way to being one, too.

Night Catches Us: A Meditation on Activism, Family and Healing

2011-01-02T16:14:00.006-05:00

The best movies provoke thought long after one has left the theater, and the film that did that for me in 2010 was Tanya Hamilton’s Night Catches Us. I saw it when it opened in theaters in December, and it continues to inspire reflection. Some considerations, however, are quite uncomfortable, but those tend to be the ones that have the most to teach.

For those of us actively engaged in social justice movements, Night Catches Us challenges us to examine the personal impact of our political actions. To what extent such actions and their consequences are the inevitable sacrifice we make in the fight against oppression? Is it possible that some of the actions we justify as political resistance are actually rooted in personal wounds, some of which cannot be attributed neatly or wholly to social injustice? And because it may not be possible (if even desirable) to disentangle or reconcile these possibilities, how do we discern the right thing to do? Part of the brilliance of Hamilton’s debut feature is its complex, and therefore, unresolved reflection on this issue.

Set in Philadelphia in 1976, the Night Catches Us opens with the return home of Marcus (Anthony Mackie), a member of the Black Power movement who left four years earlier under questionable circumstances. On the surface, the story is a character-driven mystery: did or did not Marcus inform on a fellow revolutionary and ignite the events that resulted in his assassination in a hail of police fire? But at its essence, the film is about love. Romantic love. Parental love. Revolutionary love. It is an examination of the way those different kinds of love intersect and collide, how they can and cannot be reconciled in ways we can neither control nor predict, and why despite all this messiness, we still feel compelled to get our hands and hearts dirty.

After seeing the film, I was immediately reminded of my 1997 trip to Cuba where I had to opportunity to hear Assata Shakur speak. One sentiment that she shared was that she regretted how little time she and fellow activists spent with their children. Shakur stated that while their children might have been present while they were engaged in political action, they were not involved. Furthermore, she also clarified that she was not speaking merely of politicizing children but rather the larger and more important objective of raising them in community, drawing them emotionally close and otherwise rejecting the expectation that their needs be sacrificed to promote social justice.

Clearly, some activists of the 60s and 70s who gave so much to their people did so at the expense of their own children. And to be sure, some of us are repeating that mistake, inheriting psychic wounds as readily as we do eye color or body type. With all compassion and fairness, I can imagine that the sociopolitical climate in which our elders lived was such that they could not even see never mind manage the contradiction of advocating so vigilantly for other families to the point that they neglected their own.

Yet ironically the sacrifices they made and the gains they achieved actually make it easier for my generation to do just that. Whether we are red diaper babies or political black sheep, as we start our own families and build relationships with the youth in our lives, we seem to be making a more conscientious effort to balance engaging in activism toward creating a better world “out there” and practicing liberation within our own homes. Thus, in many ways, even the errors of the previous generation result in the privileges of ours. So I don’t say this to judge those elders or reify my peers. I only wish to name an unsaid – or more accurately bring whispered conversations to the public discourse – with the intention of promoting communal healing and political effectiveness. My hope is that more of us will watch Night Catches Us and show up courageously to a multigenerational conversation about the questions it raises.

Not that it is a film that should only be seen by people who consider themselves activists. Watching it reminded me of lesson I learned early and painfully in 2010: all any of us needs to do to have a life that matters is heal our family’s history. Depending on what we value, we harbor fantasies of being the next Oprah Winfrey or Malcolm X. There’s nothing wrong with that, but this is not necessary to have a positive and pervasive impact in the world. If all you did was identify the wound that has been passed down in your family from one generation to the next and said, “This stops with me,” you will have paid your rent on this planet. For some of us the family wound is violence. For others it is substance abuse. In my own family it is abandonment, real and perceived. Anything you might do after healing your family history is above and beyond the call of duty, and, hence, there is no need to sacrifice your children.

Life coach Rhonda Britten writes that love is messy. So is movement. It’s that messiness that makes both necessary and worthwhile.

The Spirit of Love and Resistance Behind St. Valentine's Day

2009-02-14T11:07:00.001-05:00

Although I'm no longer a practicing Catholic (or Christian for that matter), February 14th still resonates with me as a committed activist and evolving spirit. I understand why so many loathe this holiday because, once again, capitalism has robbed it of any substantive meaning. But if you look at the history behind this day, there is much to inspire both politically and spiritually, especially in these times of economic crisis, global terror and greedy warmongering.

In a nutshell, Valentine was a priest who was martyred for marrying soldiers. The ruler of his time was a relentless hawk. Because he waged endless war and this weighed heavily on the morale of his homesick soldiers, he banned marriage. Valentine defied him and married couples in secret until he was caught and executed.

Valentine's spirit particularly resonates with me today because of the movement to nullify the legal union of thousands of gay couples in the wake of Proposition 8. As a heterosexual woman who has the right to marry (and intends to one day soon), a person who is committed to social justice, a spiritual being that understands that the opposite of love is not hate but fear, and a heterosexual citizen who owes a great deal of debt to LGBTQ activists for my sexual liberation, February 14 holds new meaning for me. And it really is irrelevant to me whether or not marriage is an institution worth fighting for. The choice to express one's authentic self or not is alway worth fighting for, and until all of us can make that choice, that freedom is under constant threat for everyone. This is why one of my acts of love and resistance today will be devoted to beating back the forces of hate that would deny gay people the right to marry. Give them the choice. Let them decide for themselves - as heterosexual people do -- whether it's something they want to do or not.

And as a socialist at heart, I'm really not about conceding anything -- least of all a positive spiritual concept -- to the crass agenda of capital. I'm thankful for thousand things everyday, but I still make a point to be extra mindful on Thanksgiving. So I celebrate Valentine's Day, not because I don't show my love or appreciate the love I am fortunate to know every single day. So I send cards, blow kisses (real and virtual), call my loved ones, and continue to fight the good fight. To me, reclaiming this day and making it my own -- my socialist, feminist, spiritual-but-not-religious own -- is an act of love for myself, my family, my friends, my, community, my ancestors, my comrades.

It is also an act of resistance.

To watch a fun video about the man behind the holiday, click:
http://tinyurl.com/d5agvy

Call for Submissions by Dominican Women Writers

2008-11-27T11:35:00.002-05:00

I'm pleased to share this, and hope you will pass it on, too.
__________
Saludos escritoras,

I am writing to you because I have finalized the call for submissions for the anthology of Dominican women writers. I am currently in Santo Domingo on the Fulbright grant I received to conduct this project. As I collect stories from creative writers here, I would also like to ask Dominican women living in the U.S. to submit pieces for consideration. A publishing contract has still not been finalized because of the current financial crisis but an editor is willing to look at the book once it is compiled, so we are moving ahead.

Following is the call for submissions in English and Spanish. Please distribute widely. Forward it to other Dominican women writers you know, or to people you know who may know other Dominican women writers etc. I appreciate all of your help in getting the word out there. I look forward to reading your work.

Erika
www.erikammartinez.com

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Quisqueyanas: Contemporary Writings by Dominican Women
Edited by Erika María Martínez
To be published in the United States in English and in Spanish
Dominican writers are under-represented in literary discourse. And most literary studies of the Caribbean focus primarily on some male writers of the past century such as Jose Martí. There is a similar unfamiliarity of female writers in comparison with male writers of the Dominican Republic, yet Dominican women, at home and abroad, have created a space for literary and artistic production. The body of literature developed by Dominican women depicting the cultural, social and political life of the country, is a testament to the talent of all Dominicans. Quisqueyanas: Contemporary Writings by Dominican Women, an anthology of prose by women in the Dominican Republic, and women of Dominican descent living in the United States, will strengthen the voice of Dominican women in the world of literature.
This project develops at a crucial point in the history of Dominicans and Americans; during the nineties the Dominican-American population grew by two hundred percent, making it the fourth largest Latino community in the United States. With this growth, the community's cultural values were often merged with the larger Latino identity. In order to genuinely associate with our numerous parts, it is essential to reconnect with origin-based artists. Writers give a viewpoint that is informed by history and tied to the Dominican Republic, yet at the same time it is affected by the greater American culture. Through a sampling of various Dominican and Dominican-American women's narratives the literary legacy and unique history of the island will be highlighted in content and style. In addition, it will be evident how the history and the future of the two countries are intertwined. This anthology will be a step in the direction of greater understanding between these two cultures and how each one affects the other as we approach the turn of another decade.
This collection will be unique yet use successful techniques from preceding anthologies. As in Lillian Castillo-Speed's anthology Latina: Women's Voices from the Borderlands the work will include both fiction and nonfiction. Like Edwidge Danticat's anthology The Butterfly's Way: Voices from the Haitian Dyaspora in the United States, the book will have a thematic structure according to the contributions received.
Possible themes include but are not limited to:
Family
Feminism
Exclusion
Femininity
Fertility/Infertility
Maternity
Migrations/Immigration
Racism/Prejudice
Silence
Double lives
Politics
History
Work
Relationships
Infidelity
Machismo
Editor: Erika María Martínez is a Dominican-American writer with an MFA in English and Creative writing from Mills College in Oakland, California. She is currently residing in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic as a Fulbright Fellow. Her work has been featured in Colorlines Magazine, The Womanist, Homelands: Women's Journeys Through Race, Place and Time and in Terror?, an exhibit at the Intersection for the Arts in San Francisco.

Publication: The anthology will be published through an independent press in English and in Spanish to be distributed internationally.

Guidelines: Dominican women living on the island or women of Dominican descent living in the United States are encouraged to tell their stories. Submissions may include fiction, creative nonfiction, personal essays and memoirs. Please only send unpublished work. No simultaneous submissions. Writings submitted will not be returned.

Deadline: January 31, 2009

Length: 3,000-5,000 words

Format: Pieces should be typed, double-spaced and paginated. Please include your mailing address, e-mail address, telephone number and a short bio on the last page.

Submitting: Electronic submissions are preferred. Send work electronically as a Word or Rich Text Format file (with .doc or .rtf extension) to Erika María Martínez at HYPERLINK "mailto:antologiaquisqueyana@gmail.com" Put "Anthology" in the subject line. If e-mail is not possible, mail essay to
Erika Martínez 1-12682
3508 N.W. 114th Ave. Suite A
Doral, FL 33178
Reply: Please allow until June 1 for a response. If you haven't received a response by then, please assume your work was not selected. An effort will be made to contact each writer.

Solicitud de Colaboración
Quisqueyanas: Narradoras Contemporáneas Dominicanas
Editada por Erika María Martínez
Se publicará en los Estados Unidos en Ingles y Español
La literatura dominicana tiene escasa representación en el ámbito internacional, donde los estudios literarios del Caribe se enfocan principalmente en algunos escritores importantes como José Martí. El mismo desconocimiento ocurre cuando se comparan los escritores dominicanos con las escritoras dominicanas. A pesar de esto, la mujer dominicana ha estado envuelta en procesos creativos, tanto en su país como en el extranjero, donde muchas se han radicado en busca de mejores condiciones de vida y espacios para la producción literaria y artística.
Esta presencia de la mujer dominicana pone de manifiesto la capacidad creativa y el talento del pueblo dominicano. Muchas han escrito obras interesantes en las que reflejan la realidad de su cultura y de la vida social y política de esa nación. Quisqueyanas: narradoras contemporáneas dominicanas surge como un proyecto que procura producir una antología de narrativa de escritoras de la República Dominicana y de escritoras de ascendencia dominicana residentes en los Estados Unidos, y que tiene como objetivo dar voz a la mujer dominicana en el quehacer literario.
Durante los noventa, la presencia dominicana en los Estados Unidos experimentó un considerable aumento que la llevó a convertirse en la cuarta comunidad latina emigrante más grande de esta nación. Este crecimiento ha conllevado una mayor presencia de los valores culturales de nuestra comunidad, los cuales se han fusionado en gran parte con los valores de otros países de América Latina; factor este que contribuye al alejamiento de la identidad de nuestra población en el devenir de sus vidas en el extranjero.
Esta realidad plantea la necesidad de fortalecer la expresión cultural dominicana en la sociedad norteamericana, a fin de que, los referentes culturales y la identidad de nuestro pueblo mantengan una presencia dinámica que nos permita encontrar las manifestaciones producidas por nuestra gente a través de la narrativa, el cuento y otros géneros literarios con los que se expresa la manera de ser del ente dominicano.
Una muestra de escritoras dominicanas y dominico-americanas contribuirá a preservar la herencia literaria e histórica de la isla a través del contenido y del estilo. Esta antología será un paso hacia un mayor entendimiento y una mayor dinámica entre estas dos culturas.
Si se identifica con este planteamiento, la invito a formar parte de esta propuesta en la que se utilizarán técnicas de antologías estadounidenses como la editada por Lillian Castillo-Speed, Latina: Women's Voices from the Borderlands, que hemos tomado de ejemplo por el éxito tenido al incluir ficción y memorias. Como en The Butterfly's Way: Voices from the Haitian Diaspora in the United States, seleccionada por Edwidge Danticat, elaboraremos una estructura temática. Nuestra antología seguirá el mismo modelo escogido por esas dos autoras. Como pueden observar, habrá una gran amplitud para desarrollar diferentes temas en áreas como:
Familia
Feminismo
Exclusión
Femineidad
Fertilidad/Infertilidad
Maternidad
Migraciones
Racismo y prejuicios
Silencio
Doble vida
Política
Historia
Trabajo
Relaciones
Infidelidad
Machismo
Editora: Erika María Martínez es escritora Dominico-Americana con una Maestría en Bellas Artes y Escritura Creativa de Mills College en Oakland, California. Actualmente reside en Santo Domingo, República Dominicana como becaria Fulbright. Sus publicaciones están incluidas en Colorlines Magazine, The Womanist, Homelands: Women's Journeys Through Race, Place and Time. También colaboró en la exposición Terror? del museo Intersection for the Arts en San Francisco.
Publicación: La antología se publicará en inglés y español con una casa editorial independiente que se encargará de la distribución internacional.
Requisitos: Se solicitan obras literarias de escritoras dominicanas residentes en la isla o escritoras de ascendencia dominicana que residan en los Estados Unidos. Escritoras interesadas pueden colaborar con ficción, ensayos personales y memorias con un mínimo de 3,000 palabras y un máximo de 5,000 palabras. Favor de enviar trabajos que no hayan sido previamente publicados o que se encuentren en proceso de estarlo o de participar en un concurso No se devolverán los trabajos entregados.
Última fecha de entrega: 31 de enero de 2009
Formato: Los trabajos deben ser escritos a doble espacio y tener las páginas numeradas. Favor de incluir en la última página dirección de domicilio, correo electrónico, número de teléfono y una breve biografía (50-100 palabras).
Presentación: Preferiblemente vía e-mail. Favor de enviar trabajos como un documento en formato Word o Rich Text Format (extensión .doc o .rtf) a Erika María Martínez al correo electrónico <antologiaquisqueyana@gmail.com>. En la linea de asunto escriban "Antología."
Si no es posible entregar por correo electrónico enviar a:
Erika Martínez 1-12682
3508 N.W. 114th Ave. Suite A
Doral, FL 33178
Respuesta: Se enviará informaciones con respecto a la antología antes del 1ero de junio del 2009. Si no reciben respuesta para esa fecha es porque su trabajo no ha sido seleccionado. Se hará lo posible para contactar a todas las escritoras.

When Life Refuses to Imitate Art

2008-09-11T11:10:00.001-04:00

Sometimes things change for the better, and it totally screws me up.

This morning I turn on the television in time for the reading of the names of those lost on 9-11. The ceremony always interests me for more than the obvious reasons. In one of my novels-in-progress, a character who lost his father in the World Trade Center attack still cannot bring himself to join his family on the annual pilgrimage to Ground Zero. Angel’s last conversation with his father Emilio was a heated political argument over who to vote for in the Democratic primary scheduled that day. He grows so frustrated with his immigrant father’s increasing conservatism, he hangs up the phone on him. An hour later Angel learns that his father – a server at Windows on the World on the top of the North Tower – died in the attack.

Now every year Angel watches the reading of the names with conflicting emotions. While he appreciates the diversity that the organizers use in selecting those who read the names, it bothers him how the immigrants who died that day remain unacknowledged. It particularly grates Angel in the face of the rising xenophobia in the United States since the attacks. He watches the ceremony on television while sipping gin and juice and making makes sociological observations and political judgments, all in an effort to avoid the guilt of having disrespected his father for expressing admiration for then-mayor Rudolph Giuliani.

But watching this morning’s commemoration, I immediately discover that I have some rewriting to do. The organizers have changed little this year. The readers – loved ones of a life taken that day – still take the podium two at time. They read a dozen or so names as each soul’s name, picture and town scrolls at the bottom of the screen. Virtually all the duos are interracial, but this year, the reader on the left has been charged with making a special pronouncement.

“I came to read with love on behalf of the people of the commonwealth of Dominica.”

“And I’m here today on behalf of Cyprus.”

“I’m proud to have read on behalf of my fellow citizens of the Dominican Republic.”

“I’m here honoring and remember the people of Ethiopia.”

“I came today with the hearts and best wishes of the people of the Gambia.”

“And I’m honored today to have represented the people of Ireland.”

“I’m proud today to have represented my country the Iran.”

After the moment of silence at 9:59 AM when the South Tower fell, a Latina dressed in NYPD blue takes the podium. Her father was a pastry chef on Windows on the World. She says that whenever she and her father parted ways, he would say te quiero y vaya con Dios. She says, “Today, I want to tell my Papi the same thing. I love you and go with God.” It is one of the few times the solemnity of the proceedings is broken with applause.

So this minor change throws a bit of a monkey wrench into my beloved scene about this young man who harbors tremendous guilt because his liberal politics were not changed despite the personal cost of what occurred that tragic day. Yes, I have quite a bit of rewriting to do. This is not the first time that changing tides have disrupt my creative flow like when Harvard’s decision to offer free tuition to admitted students whose families made less than $60,000 per year threw my young adult novel Efrain’s Secret into a tailspin. The writer who doesn’t admit that the occasional change for the better doesn’t sometimes trigger a moment of petty frustration with life’s failure to imitate art is a liar.

But for the first time, a tiny shift toward progress demands a rewrite for once I will be very happy to make.

To Snitch With Love

2008-08-19T10:30:00.001-04:00

“Hell, yeah, I’d give you up!”

I laugh even though I know he’s serious. Maybe it’s because Pa’s answer to my question doesn’t surprise me. The average person would be horrified to learn that if she committed murder, her father would turn her into the police in a heartbeat. Me, I’m just heartened by the fact that we’re so close, the man rarely stumps me and only in good ways.

In my house, boob tube often serves as an unusual bonding tool. Even the most inane show can lead to a rich discussion about morality and politics and the like between my parents and me, especially my father. (Court shows are particularly provocative.) That is, once we negotiate control over the remote.

On Sunday night, Pa and I quickly come to an accord. We agree to watch in the following order: In Plain Sight (the season finale of a show that only he follows), Law and Order: Criminal Intent (the last episode with Chris Noth of a show we both watch religiously), and Mad Men (a show that my father gave up on several episodes ago, hence, the need for this negotiation. Thank AMC for encore presentations.)

For the most part, I’m ignoring In Plain Sight. (Another blog for another day reflecting on why, strident feminist that I am, I couldn’t care less for shows like The Closer, Saving Grace and In Plain Sight which my father watches faithfully. I mean, I’m very pleased that these show exists. I’d just much rather pour out some Corona for The Wire than watch them.)

But at one point, the storyline catches my attention. Shero Mary Shannon plays a federal marshal (I think) who’s intent on giving up her drug addict sister to the authorities for a range of criminal offenses. This makes her mom (played by Lesley Anne Warren who I still can’t decide if I like or not) go batshit. You’d give up your sister ?!? she shrieks to which Mary calmly replies, Yes… Yes, I would.

“Hey, Pa,” I say, prodding him in the elbow. “If one of us committed a crime, would you give us up?”

“Hell, yeah, I’d give you up!” I think he believes I’m laughing because I think he’s playing. I know he isn’t. That’s what’s funny.

Pa rushes to qualify. “I mean, if I know you out there doing things I didn’t raise you to be doing…” I just laugh harder, prompting him to qualify even more. “If you kill somebody, and, you know, it’s in self-defense, I’ll do whatever I can to help you. I’ll get you a lawyer or whatever. But if you out there doing stupid things…”

“You’d give me up, huh?” “If you had a drug problem, I’m going to try to get you help, but…” “Just like that,” I laugh, snapping my fingers. “You’d snitch like a bitch.” Now I double over, in part because I know my mother would actually beat him to the phone.

Pa finally lightens up. “You’d be hiding under the bed, and the police would come, and I’d go She’s right there…

“… Now gimme my reward!”

“Snitches get stitches,” he says, quoting my Uncle Nelson – a former correction officer and his younger brother.

I shake my fist at him and put on my gangsta chick mug. “Talkers get walkers.”

Lots of folks would be hurt even furious to know – never mind be told to their faces – by a loved one that they would readily turn them over to law enforcement. I can hear Hoochinetta McHood now. Uh uh, he wrong for that. Family’s family!

That’s right, Hoochie, family’s family, and that’s why I find my father’s response immensely heartwarming. Not only do I expect it, I understand and respect it. But that’s because I’m truly my parents’ daughter. As different as I am from them in fundamental ways, I have a moral structure of which they are the primary architects, and the Quintero code doesn’t define loyalty as I got your back no matter what dirt you do. In our clan, loyalty demands that we tell you the truth about yourself no matter what and struggle mightily to get you to fly right when you get off track.

So if I did do something irredeemably stupid and got the law on my ass, I wouldn’t see my family turning me over to the authorities as an act of betrayal. If anything, I first betrayed them by acting the fool. Facing the music would be the first step towards making amends to them as well as society.

That’s just the way I was raised.

A (M)Ad Man Creates a Campaign to Find Missing Children of Color

2008-08-18T14:05:00.001-04:00

5 Questions for a (M)ad Man with a Cause: Giving Visibility to Missing Children of Color

With the phenomenon that is the show Mad Men, former ad man Hadji Williams chose an interesting time to put his copyrighting skills to use for a good cause. Fed up with the lack of news coverage for missing children of color, he launched a campaign of his own. It has caused some controversy, but that just proves to the sought-after brand consultant that he’s doing the right thing. I posed five questions – including one about America’s current favorite TV show – to Hadji Williams, and interspersed his replies with some of the artwork of his provocative yet necessary campaign.

Q. Introduce yourself, brother.

Hadji Williams here. I’m an 18-year vet of the advertising/marketing industry. Built my rep as a copywriter/brand consultant. I’ve worked on everything from Mercedes Benz to AT&T to Wrigley’s Gum to… wow, all I can say is if you drive it, ingest it, drink it, there’s a really good chance I sold it to you. I’m also an author of the Knock the Hustle series which gives people an insider’s view of the corporate culture and some of its crazy hustles.

Most recently I helped launch a campaign called “We Want Our Children Back, Too” which is an online effort dedicated to shining light on missing children of color who get almost zero coverage from America’s media. It includes pictures of actual missing children of color with challenging lines like “He had his whole life ahead of him, too” and “Her close-knit community was shaken, too."

Q. What inspired you to create an ad campaign focused on missing children of color?

Well, it was something that always bugged me because I’m from the south and west sides of Chicago – in the’ hood – and I was always amazed by how little support and understanding young victims of crimes in our community received. I had neighbors who lost family members to violence, hit ‘n’ runs, kidnapping, and every case was ignored by the media and not prioritized by law enforcement. We used to say, “White victims make the papers, black victims make the police blotters.”

I really got concerned with the Madeleine McCann case where the media would rather focus on a little white girl from England who went missing in Portugal than pay attention to missing Black, brown and Asian kids right here in the states. I checked with groups like the Center of Missing and Exploited Children, the FBI and other law enforcement sites. Black, Brown and Asian kids account for almost 45 per cent of all missing and kidnapped kids. Yet who gets all the attention?

But alternative sites like Color of Change, Black and Missing, What About Our Daughters, and Missing Minorities were highlighting kids who don’t get enough coverage, and it inspired me to do something I’m good at—create ad campaigns—for something more worthwhile than cars and toothpaste.

Q. Only a cold stone could not sympathize with the family of these kids, but such folks exist. So... has there been any criticism about the way you’ve chosen to go about this? I mean, no way your "Missing White Girl" spoofs is making you friends in all quarters.

Some people have emailed me saying that I’m just another Black person whining about “the white man” or “the system.” I get all kinds and I know the folks over at Black and Missing and the other sites that focus daily on this issue get their share of hate mail, too. All I can say is, when it’s your kid, your community that’s affected, you’re gonna want the whole world to stop ‘til that child comes home.

The white girl spoof actually furthers the point I’m trying to make. I got a bunch of mail from people saying that I shouldn’t be making fun of “people like that.” They meant missing white people. Most people who've seen the white girl and the white boy spoofs got it right away though and showed love. As for the rest, you can't please everybody.

You can’t get right with some people. I’ve gotten complaints for stretching some of the pics in Photoshop. People don’t keep camera-ready/production quality pics of their family members laying around so sometimes you just gotta tweak the pics to make ‘em fit. I say do your own campaign and hook it up the way you want. If you think this isn’t “expensive enough” then spend your own money and get out there and help instead of doing nothing but complain. I complained about what the mainstream media doesn’t do then I got busy to try and help. You’re free to do the same.

Q. So how do folks who want to step up go about it?

Spread the word. The artwork for the campaign is available online for distribution. It could be your kid next. I also encourage folks to know your neighbors. Many missing and exploited kids get snatched up by people from around the way. And keep a couple of media-quality headshots of your loved ones, something that reproduces well online and in papers. Outlets need artwork they don’t have to stretch, lighten or darken to use.

Q. Good advice that hopefully no one reading this will have the need to actually use. But you know I have to ask you this next. As a former ad man -- a Black man at that in an industry that still remains dominated by White men -- what do you think of the show Mad Men?

On the real? Mad Men reps the advertising industry the way Friends repped being a New Yorker or Two and a Half Men reps single parents. Granted, the industry was predominantly white male driven back then and still is now, but say why that is. Are these guys staunch racists? Are they latent bigots? Are they a "product of their environment?" Don't tell me that wouldn't make for better characters than what they have now. There’s drama in explaining that kind of bias. There's humor in that.

As for the rest of the show, it's not even how the industry works. You can do episodes about how you deal with different clients and types of ads and make it exciting and intriguing. Mad Men, in my opinion, is just some half-assed joint cooked up by folks who've either never worked in the industry or weren't allowed to do the show they really wanted to do in order to get it on the air. But leave it to the Emmys to pick some BS--filled show with white folks being loud and self-indulgent and call it "entertainment."

Coming Out When You're Not Gay?

2008-08-15T13:22:00.003-04:00

“Are your parents coming to the show?”

Someone needs to write a book on how to come out when you’re not gay. The catalog of books for White folks interested in promoting racial justice grows each day, and there are a some titles geared toward men committed to gender equality. But where’s the how-to manual for heterosexual people who desire to be allies to LGBTQI community? Such a field guide would’ve come in handy when I served as the dramaturge for Pandora’s, the multimedia off-Broadway show produced by my company Sister Outsider Entertainment.

An ambitious production that intersperses ten monologues with seven documentary shorts, Pandora’s sought to bring a higher and more complex visibility to queer Latinas than you might see on, say, The L-Word. The show is the brainchild of its creative director Elisha Miranda who also happens to be my business partner. But E’s also my sister warrior, road dawg, ace coom boom. In other words, she always has my back, and I always have hers.

When Elisha told me years ago that she wanted to produce a multimedia show about the Latina queer experience and asked if I were dramaturge the monologues, I didn’t hesitate. If anything, I was honored. There were several more experienced and critically acclaimed playwrights she could have approached who would’ve jumped at the chance to work with her on Pandora’s (E be magnetic like that.) And that’s why when she asked me if my parents were coming to see Pandora’s when it premiered at Theater Row last month, the simple question reduced me to tears.

I hadn’t even told them about the show.

One reason I had not told them about Pandora’s is because, in explaining to them why Sister Outsider was “doing a gay show,” I would have to out Elisha. My parents have come to love Elisha and her husband Alex as if they were their own children. Although Elisha is openly bisexual and a relentless activist for queer issues, being married to a man often thwarts any consideration that she might not be heterosexual. As open as Elisha is about her sexuality, around certain folks like my parents, Don’t ask, don’t tell was in full effect, and I didn’t feel it was my place to announce her sexual orientation to anyone.

I explained this to her when she called and asked if my parents were coming to the Pandora’s premiere. “Well, girl, you know, I haven’t said anything,” I said while standing in the shoe aisle at the Bruckner Boulevard K-Mart. “’Cause, like, I’ve noticed in the past that you’ve kinda held back about talking about that when they’re around.” Like the time we both stayed with my parents at their home in Puerto Rico. While there Elisha was finishing her novella for Juicy Mangos, the erotica anthology we were both writing for at the time. Hers was about a lesbian who’s haunted by her first kiss. I noticed that when my parents were in earshot, Elisha censored the way she talked about her story, and I took that as a cue that she wasn’t ready for them to discover that aspect of her identity. Indeed, it would be like coming out to her own mother (who I affectionately call Mom2) all over again.

But when I explained this to her, Elisha surprised me by saying, “You know, girl, I know this must be hard on you because you’re single and after what your cousin did to you… I’ve seen how you get targeted in different ways so whatever you decide to do, I’m cool with it. I support you.”

When we ended our call, I sat there staring at it for a moment, thinking When did this become about me? I walked shell-shocked out of the K-Mart, leaving behind those cute sandals I had been eyeing. As I started on my way home, knowing that I would find my father nestled in the living room recliner and switching back and forth between the Yankee game and a Law & Order rerun, the truth hits.

It was about me.

When you’re a perpetually single, unapologetic feminist with a queer best friend (and therefore, run with more lesbians than the average heterosexual, single gal), queer and straight folks alike keep trying to yank you out of a closet you’ve never been in. Sometimes it can be flattering, a sign that you’re walking your anti-heterosexist talk. You’ve succeeded in communicating to queer folks not just with your words but through your actions You’re safe with me.

But more times than not, it stings of the homophobia that LGBTQI people have to endure every day. For example, it becomes an “explanation” why I go for long periods of time without a relationship (because, you know, it couldn’t possibly be that I have enough self-awareness and esteem to stay single than settle for any man just to be able to prove I can nab one.) For patriarchal men and women alike, it becomes an opportunity to dismiss my feminist ideals as well as a rationale for queer folks whose internalized homophobia is so deep, that despite their demands that straight people get over themselves, acknowledge their heterosexual privilege and become allies, they cannot fathom that someone is genuinely trying to step up and heed their call.

No way. She must be a closet case.

I’m proud to say that most days I take these incidents in stride. I understand the ignorance and fear in which they are rooted, and I know who I am as do the people who truly matter. That’s a’ight. Go ‘head and do me like that. You’re saying way more about yourself than you are about me. Having had considerable practice, I easily resist inclinations to assert my heterosexuality as doing so only perpetuates the homophobic thinking and behavior I have committed myself to challenging. But I’m only human, and there are days when I particularly feel vulnerable and cower behind my heterosexuality, especially when it strikes close to home, and you don’t get much closer to home than with family.

A few weeks before Pandora’s premiered, my own cousin targeted me this way. She was angry with me over something too petty to mention. Rather than contact me and discuss the matter, she wrote a blog where she stated that if I’m a lesbian why don’t I “quit with the bitch-assness” and “come out already, damn!!!” Mind you, this same cousin fancies herself a queer ally because she never misses an episode of her favorite show The L-Word.

I didn’t realize how much that blog impacted me until Elisha asked me if my parents were coming to see Pandora’s and I had to admit that I hadn’t even invited them. At first, I didn’t even think my cousin was referring to me when she wrote that blog, and my primary contention was not with the homophobic allegation disguised ironically as an anti-heterosexist demand to keep it real. It was that she chose such a juvenile way to express her anger with me. And I believed that was all there was to it, especially when I confronted my cousin and never mentioned the suggestion that I was a closeted lesbian.

But when I reflected on my conversation with Elisha as I walked home from K-Mart, I had to confront myself. For all my talk, I could no longer deny that another reason why I had not even mentioned Pandora’s to my parents was because I was afraid that they, too, might think (and worry and fear) that I was a lesbian. This is what brought me to tears: the realization that I wasn’t the ally I prided myself on being and had failed my best friend, my homegirl, my camarada who never thinks twice about standing up for me.

I walked for several blocks, sniffling to myself, Bitch, you ain’t shit.

What I needed to do was instantaneously obvious, too. I had to invite my parents to Pandora’s. The sudden buzzing in my stomach at the thought confirmed that “outing” myself as a queer ally and dealing with the repercussions whatever they may be was the right thing to do.

So when I got home, I settled in besides my father in the living room. “Look, Elisha and I are doing this off-Broadway show, and I’d like you and Ma to come,” I began after some baseball chit-chat. “The thing is you should know that it’s a gay show.” I give Pa all the reasons why producing a project like Pandora’s is important to me, all of them boiling down to the same fact: it reflects who I am and what I stand for as a person. Then I confess, “And the reason why I haven’t said anything until now was because I was afraid that you might think I was gay.”

Pa and I end up talking for about three hours, from the personal (all the gay people he admires like “Pompa” who works hard and is a great son) to the political (“It is kinda messed up that they can serve in the military but can’t get married so the wife or husband won’t get their benefits if they die at war.”) Now let’s not get it twisted. I went to Pa because he’s unusually open-minded for a person of his kind – a working-class Puerto Rican man who came to the United States in ’52. That’s why I often describe myself as my father’s daughter (with not a small hint of braggadocio), we are the best of friends, and all my friends want to adopt him.

But he’s still very much, well, a Puerto Rican man who came to the United States in ’52. Hence, there are some things he just can’t grasp, sometimes out of sheer unwillingness. Pa Dukes doesn’t “get” bisexuality, definitely belonging to the “pick a team” school of thought on that one but, in his defense, so do many gay people) so forget about breaking down what it means to be transgendered.

But I did try, and that in and of itself is no small victory. My parents didn’t go to Pandora’s, and to be totally honest, I didn’t approach Ma for reasons other than (but not excluding) residual homophobia. But she did know that Sister Outsider was putting on a show (even if she remained unaware of its content), and when I would come home, Pa would smile and ask, “How’s it going?” genuinely interested in the backstage lore (OK, gossip.)

Just when I thought it wasn’t possible, Pa and I are even tighter because no part of who I am or what I believe is hidden from him. It truly paid off to feel the fear and do it anyway. Hopefully, I’ll be an even better ally now that I have personally experienced an inkling of what it must be like to come out. In fact, maybe I’ll evolve into a better activist overall, recalling this feeling the next time I’m in a cynical funk and smirk at a man who claims to be a feminist or a White person who describes him/herself as anti-racist.

In addition to being evidence of one of the feminist movement’s most insightful contributions to social justice of all kinds – the notion that the personal is political – “coming out” as a queer ally to my father has proven to be a multifaceted blessing.

A (Feminist) Job for Tyrese

2008-08-14T14:50:00.001-04:00

Lately, I’ve been inspired to explore the “ride or die chick” archetype. According to the best rated definition in the Urban Dictionary, this is “a chick that ain’t afraid to be down with her man, she’ll do anything her man needs her to do.”

From what I see, she’s the only female in mainstream hip hop that gets any love on a regular basis (mothers and daughters don’t fare nearly as well.) Rappers write odes to RDC, and she has become a staple in predominantly male “urban” films (as if Sex and the City, Gossip Girls, et al aren’t urban, but that’s for another blog.) I wanted to see just what a sister has to do get any respect in a genre roundly criticized for its misogyny.

So I head over to Hollywood Video and stock up on videos I ordinarily wouldn’t go near (the sacrifices one makes for social justice.) Most of these were trashed by critics and tanked at the box office only to rack up on the video market. In other words, plenty of folks are spending time and money on these movies without a half-damn for the opinions of J. Hoberman., A.O.Scott or any of these cats with initials for first names.

First into the DVD player is Waist Deep starring Tyrese Gibson and Meagan Good. Meagan is second on my list of Sisters Who Are Better Actresses Than the Roles They Get (Vivica Fox has been hard to dethrone, but let her keep on with the excessive and unnecessary surgery, hoochie antics and the WTF? flings with dudes like 50 Cent…) Despite a breakthrough performance in Kasi Lemmons classy debut Eve’s Bayou, Meagan has become a preternaturally beautiful young woman who appears regularly in films that range from the tolerably mediocre to the laughably awful. But the sister’s a goddess in hip hop circles. In fact, I select Waist Deep because she is the female lead. Gwendolyn Pough once argued that Jada Pinkett Smith was a “hip hop” film icon because by merely casting her in a role, filmmakers immediately evoked that girl who was “in” the hood yet not “of” the hood. As I settle in while the opening montage plays, I suspect that Meagan Good is on her way to becoming the symbol of the “ride or die chick” archetype.

Yes, overall Waist Deep is crappy. Sure enough, Meagan is your classic RDC who does everything her man Tyrese says so they can hustle up the loot he needs to pay off the street urchin who has kidnapped his son. And as to be expected from most films in this genre, there’s just enough visual oomph, bumping music, and crispy dialogue (Larenz Tate just skyrocketed to the top of my Brothers Who Are Better Actors Than the Roles They Get list) to make it entertaining enough for you to see it through the end, forestalling the inevitable recognition of how terrible it actually is.

But here’s the craziness. Right or wrong, I watched Waist Deep expecting all the aforementioned to be true. That said, I expected I would have to push myself to don a more sophisticated lens when deconstructing Meagan’s character CoCo, understanding that very few films can be fairly described as irredeemably sexist or thoroughly progressive.

What I didn’t expect was for Tyrese’s character Otis to be the most feminist character in the movie.

[Note: Waist Deep was co-written and directed by Vondie Curtis Hall who is also married to Kasi Lemmons so maybe their union plays a role in what I’m about to discuss.]

Not because he relinquishes male privilege, overtly stands up for women’s equality or anything radical like that. (C’mon now… this is the Game’s acting debut. Playing a thug named Big Meat, no less.) Otis stands out in the small but explicit ways he challenges traditional ideas of masculinity. For example, he is the primary caretaker of his son, stands up against violence towards women and doesn’t feel entitled to sex with CoCo simply because she’s in his line of sight.

OK, let me keep it real. Otis’s is only a slightly kindler, gentler patriarchy. He’s left with his son because his babymama’s a treacherous ‘itch, and he intervenes when some dude hits CoCo by issuing a merciless beatdown (yelling the entire time between kick and punches What the !@#$ is wrong with you, boy? Don’t you ever beat on no mother!@#$ing woman like that!) Hey, this is still the ‘hood, and Otis aka O2 is still is a down-ass thug nucca, ya feel me. For this genre, such male behavior is kinda sorta progress.

[Spoiler alert: If you haven’t yet but want to see Waist Deep, stop reading. Yeah, I figured you’d keep going. I ain’t mad atcha.]

Aw, hell. Maybe all that’s BS, and I just got taken in by the ending. Whether it’s an homage or a ripoff, there’s no denying that the climax of Waist Deep was inspired by both Set It Off and Thelma & Louise, two films wildly popular by feminists of all stripes from the street corner to the ivory tower. After smirking through much of the film, I found myself perched on the edge of my recliner when Otis, surrounded by police, drives his car off an open bridge. “Oh, no, they didn’t!” I yelled at the television. “No, you did NOT bite off of Thelma and Louise!” And let me ‘fess up. As I watched O2’s car sink into the river, I said it.

“That boy better be dead.”

Because if he was a woman, that’s the way the film would end. The tropes of feminist popular culture deems that it go like this:

1. Woman breaks out of suffocating traditional sex role.

2. Woman is deemed outlaw for such defiance and is sought out for punishment.

3. Woman gives the patriarchy one last fuck you by refusing to submit to punishment.

Therefore, unless, this is sci-fi, fantasy or some other genre not rooted in contemporary realism, homegirl must die.

So for a few moments, I was a bit heated that a film in which the female lead is little more than a plot device, the male protagnist not only gets to appropriate the bittersweet chick flick convention where the true RDC only makes the ultimate sacrifice for herself and other women, he also gets to live. He makes it to Mexico. And he has a family waiting for him to boot.

And yet if not for this appropriation, I might not have ever gone back and reexamine the character of Otis and noticed some of the other things about him that are unusual -- in a good way -- for a male character in this genre. Rather I was focused on what messages were conveyed through the female character CoCo. Yet I always preach to young men of the hip hop generation that feminism is for everybody and can liberate them from debilitating ideas of masculinity.

So this ending reminded me that part of the feminist project must include seeking out men – and representations of them in the media – that challenge archaic notions of masculinity, big and small. Like I said, Waist Deep stays overwhelmingly loyal to the tropes of its genre which implicitly necessitates the marginalization of women, and ain't changing no time soon. Within those narrow confines, however, it does engage in tiny betrayals and even, steals, er, borrows from the best of pro-women popular cinema.

So if the RDC for the cause of women’s liberation can sometimes be a man, then maybe sometimes we have to send Tyrese to do a feminist’s job.

Dodging Snagglepuss

2008-08-13T08:47:00.000-04:00

I walk into the bodega for my cafecito looking forward to my day when there he is. Snagglepuss. That’s what I call him. Not that he knows that, but if he keeps harassing me, he just might find out.

Snagglepuss is a tubby, not-quite-menacing-yet-not-quite-comforting, gap-toothed dude who lives in my neighborhood and my latest recurring headache. He claims to be my age, but hard knock life makes him seem a decade older. Every time he sees me he says hello in that way that doesn’t strike me as very neighborly. So I ignore him, but then Snagglepuss calls after me, insisting that he’s known me since high school. I may forget a name, but I’m pretty good with faces, and with an unforgettable (and not in a good way) mug like that? No, I don’t know Snagglepuss. Never did. Dude’s lying.

I’m tired of being in this position – not knowing if it’s best to ignore a character like this or to make an effort to be friendly. Street harassment is easier to deal with when a woman encounters it outside the neighborhood where she lives. For the most part it doesn’t matter how you handle it – ignore the unsolicited invitation or opinion, attempt to engage the perpetrator in a diplomatic session of consciousness raising or fire off a pithy comeback meant to shrivel homeboy’s testicles long enough for you to escape around the corner. Just assess the circumstances, follow your instincts, and keep it moving. The chances are very high you’ll emerge unscathed and never see this joker again.

Not so when the perpetrator resides in your neighborhood. The stakes are higher because the creep knows where you live. He knows which stores you patronize and which subway you take. He can discern when you come and go, when you’re with company or by yourself. And if he’s entrenched in the street life, he knows more people than you. People you make a point not to know.

So do you ignore him or do you try to make nice? Ignoring him might get him riled up, unnecessarily escalating the situation. Then again, maybe a little small and quiet hello is all the man needs. Perhaps acknowledging him for the human being that he is will quell his desire to objectify you. And maybe it’ll even have practical benefits because he’ll tell the other corner boys, “Leave her alone. She’s a'ight.”

But what if you’re wrong? You just might decide to be neighborly and have your friendliness rewarded with more of the same harassment. In fact, it may spread like a virus. What if you give homey an “in”, and he runs with it? Yeah, I know her, dog. She fine, rah? Ayo, shawty…! Now you can’t go to the Chinese takeout for some rib tips without him and all of his boys hollering at you from the liquor store across the street.

Like I said, I’m tired of having to think about this shit, especially this early in the morning. Buying a cup of coffee at the corner bodega shouldn’t require that I run the mental calculus of street politics at the speed of light. I should be able to offer a genuine hello to anyone in my neighborhood without pausing to assess whether the gesture will result in my being me more or less safe.

But there’s really no ignoring Snags today. I’m trapped with him in the narrow aisle between the counter and the junk food rack as I wait for the bodegüero to prepare my cafecito. “Good morning,” he says, eyeing me up and down. Because there are other people in the store, and the proprietor is keeping a fatherly eye on me, I decide to err on the side of humanity.

“Uh, yeah, hi.”

“Oh, my God!” yells Snaggle. “That’s the first time you’ve talked to me in years. Like I said, I went to high school withchu.”

I’ve done what I’m about to do now and have regretted it, but I decide to do it again. Be honest with the man. “What you need to understand is that a lot of guys say that they know me when they don’t.” I say this with a tone that unmistakably conveys And the jury’s still out on you, bruh. “But when I try to be nice and say hello, the next thing I know, they’re following me around and harassing me.”

“That’s ‘cause they do,” he insists.

Aw, shit. Should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I can’t now. “No, they don’t. I know who I know,” I say. “And just because you see me around don’t mean you know me.”

“Yeah, you be keepin’ to yourself,” concedes Snagglepuss.

Then he launches into how much better the neighborhood is now as compared to the eighties at the height of the crack epidemic. He recalls how at this hour the street would already be teeming with people buying and selling crack. I glance at the bodegüero, and it becomes evident that Snagglepuss has never been nor will ever win customer of the month here. He rolls his eyes at Snaggle’s lament which does seem to smack with a bit of nostalgia. His mouth says, “Yeah, it used to be so bad back then,” but his bloodshot eyes tear: Ah, the good ol’ days.

Apparently, the proprietor has enough of Snaggle’s fake whining and wants him out his store, but he’s not going anywhere while I’m there. So I rope the poor guy into the conversation. I translate Snag’s lament in Spanish. "Eso lo qu’esta hacienda él ahí," he smirks as he snaps open a paper bag for my coffee. "Vendiendo drogas." The second he says that, Snagglepuss bops out of the store without having bought a thing. Clearly, he understood what the proprietor said about him, but somehow I don’t think he learned that in Mrs. Bitetti’s Spanish class.

I chuckle, “Siempre ‘ta diciendo que me conoces.” I peek out the door to see if Snaggle took off, but he’s loitering out front. “Dique asistió la escuela conmigo.”

The bodegüero scoffs at that one. “¡El nunca fue a l’escuela!”

I start laughing. True that, too. Snaggle doesn’t even know where the high school is. I take my coffee, wish the proprietor a good day and head out.

No sooner do I step onto the sidewalk is Snagglepuss sidling up to me, doing exactly what I hoped being nice to him would avoid. “You have a nice day,” he leers.

I’m thinking Sure, once you leave me the hell alone. But I mutter, “Yeah, you, too.”

“You married?”

This time I make sure dude can see me roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’m married,” I lie. I hate that I have to do it. I shouldn’t have to do it, but you do what you have to do in the ‘hood. Time will tell if it even matters. s

Another Reason to Love America (Ferrera, That Is)

2008-08-11T17:09:00.000-04:00

When Blakely Lively grabbed a chance to hijack a promotional opportunity for The Sister Hood of the Traveling Pants to shill for her own show Gossip Girl, the Ugly Betty star let's her feelings be known without saying a word.

Going Out of Print

2008-08-11T13:56:00.001-04:00

Today, I received an email from agent informing me that Burn and Picture Me Rollin’ are going out of print. Although I saw this coming, it’s no less disheartening. And yet despite the bad news, something inside my soul resonated.

I’m more than an author. Damn it, I’m a writer. I’m truly a fuckin’ writer.

Many thoughts – overwhelmingly negative thoughts – flashed through my head first. Fuck publishing. People getting imprints for trafficking in stereotypes, and I’m going out of print? Just stop writing novels and stick to…

Whoa! Slow your roll, Sof. Stop writing novels?

I can’t even imagine that. Some of the stories inside me – the ones I feel most compelled to tell – are novels. They’re not supposed to be films or plays, at least not in their original incarnation. The novels I write are meant for people who value the intellectual and emotional engagement demanded of literary text, whether that person is the feminist professor who assigns it to her (or his) students to the teenage girl who yearns for a protagonist who is much like herself or someone she loves. These stories were meant to be conveyed with the intimacy that only a book can deliver. That is, experienced one person at a time through words that can be absorbed at a pace the reader sets. A story such as Picture Me Rollin’ is meant to be revisited in an effort to discover layers and nuances. They are meant to be opened and closed, entered and exited, put down and picked up, ll to a rhythm that is unique to the person who signed onto the journey, his or her ideals and accomplishments, insecurities and regrets, passions and aspirations, in tow.

So many other things you can do with your eyes closed with much more reward and less frustration, but, no, you won’t pick up your marbles and go home. Dique you can’t do it. Yeah, you’re a writer.

I have known for some time that something needs to change. For example, I certainly need to become a much more effective promoter of my own work. Gripe what you want about what the house won’t do for you, the bottom line is, no one can care about your work more than you. Maybe I should consider self-publishing. Sure, I’ll trade off one set of problems for another, but what I gain will make prove them worthwhile.

And it can never hurt to do as much as I can to become a better writer. As paradoxical as it may sound, the less the industry values craft, the more imperative it becomes to cultivate it. Don’t ask me to explain that. I can’t. I just instinctively know it to be true and suspect that artists of all stripes will intuitively understand what I mean when I say that.

But not writing the stories that I feel compelled to tell, stories that I know have a broader audience than my sales indicate, stories that I truly believe can do more than provide a few hours of mindless entertainment… the idea crossed my mind, but my spirit immediately rejected it. Do you know what that means?

Yup, I’m a writer.

Maybe the trick is to invest in breast implants and make my way through a particular industry on my back, keeping a meticulous diary along the way. No, I just need to fuck one person. Someone strategically placed in the publishing industry, gender, sexual orientation, and marital status be damned. Or I maybe I can spend a few days cranking out something ridiculously commercial, wholly unoriginal and unapologetically salacious and submit it under a pseudonym of nondescript ethnicity. Or better yet, do something incredibly stupid yet public to become famous then hire someone else to write it for me under my own name.

Nah, I’m a writer.

If one of my novels had been optioned for film, made a bestseller’s list or received a rave review, I’d probably share that on my blog as most authors would (and should.) I decided to blog about my last two Black Artemis novels going out of print because, while few will admit it, this is the more realistic and common occurrence of being a novelist in the mainstream publishing industry. And oddly enough, the very compulsion to blog about this proves one thing that no one can deny.

For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, I’m a writer.

Meet Me & Support the Hip Hop Theater Festival

2008-08-06T18:12:00.000-04:00

The Hip Hop Theater Theater Festival hosts a book fair at the Court Street Barnes Noble in Brooklyn on Friday, August 22nd from 7:00 - 8:30 PM.

Join me as I read from PICTURE ME ROLLIN' in support of HTTF so it can continue to invigorate the fields of theater and Hip-Hop by: nurturing the creation of innovative work within the Hip-Hop aesthetic; presenting and touring American and international artists whose work addresses the issues relevant to the Hip-Hop generation; and serving young, urban communities through outreach and education that celebrates contemporary language and culture.

At the book fair, the HHTF will distribute vouchers so that a portion of your purchases benefit the organization to keep in the necessary business of finding, developing and introducing to the public new artistic creations from a diversity of cultures and points of view and bringing new, younger audiences to the theater in large numbers.

The event is at the Barnes & Noble at 106 Court Street in Brooklyn which is just south of the Boro Hall subway hub. See you there on the 22nd at 7 PM.

For more information, hit up:
http://www.hiphoptheaterfest.com
718-497-4282

Baby, Alive!

2008-08-05T17:34:00.000-04:00

Three African American women in their mid forties eat seafood outdoors at Johnny's Reef Restaurant and suddenly burst out in song.

You don't have to be a star, baby, to be in my show.

A few tables away, I sit with my parents, chasing my last bite of friend shrimp with a sip of sangria. I turn around and smile at them. Another slightly older trio of African Americans at the table directly next to them a gentleman and two ladies smile as well. One of the singers says to them, “Bet you don't know who sang that?”

Even if I'm wrong, I see where the conversation is going, and I want to be a part of it. “Leo Sayer,” I guess. I'm pretty sure I'm wrong about the artist, but I've got the right decade

“No, that's Peaches and Herb.”

”Nooo,” I say. “That song before their time.”

The sister who asked me by the condiment bar if she can have one of my salt packets says, “Yeah, now that you say that, I'm thinking…”

Her friend guesses, “Ashford and Simpson.”

“Nooo.”

Finally, the older brother calls out, “Billy Davis…”

“...and Marilyn McCoo!” the sisters yell. Everyone shares a good laugh. Of course, any conversation about seventies soul is going to lead to laments about today's music. Today, the lament leads to reminiscing about old school toys.

A third trio of women on our other side join in. “Remember paper dolls?”

Oh, yeah, paper dolls. You had to cut them out.

“I think they still make them,” I say, remembering racks of them at the old Coliseum Bookstore in midtown. “I think people who design costumes for theater use them.” Everyone nods their heads, pleased to know that they still exist and are being put to such lofty uses.

“I miss Colorforms,” I add. “They need to bring those back.” I swear I'd be a bunch of sets if they did.

“I used to love me some Baby Alive,” says the woman who started the singing. “You felt like you had a real baby. You fed her, you changed her…”

I never liked or wanted Baby Alive. I had a few friends who owned that doll, and the Hasbro didn't really think her through. “She was fun until all that gunk got trapped inside,” I remind them. “You didn't know you were supposed to clean her out until it was too late.”

“That's right!” says my salt-loving friend. “Some of the baby food would get trapped inside, and she'd get corroded.”

A woman from the table on the far side said, “Remember those dolls that could walk along with you?”

Yeah!

That reminds me of another large doll of the seventies. “Remember Tiffany Taylor?” I ask. “You'd twist the top of her head, and you could make her go from a blonde to a brunette.”

Yeah, yeah!

“And Spirograph.”

“And coloring books.”

“They don't make good toys like that anymore,” says Miss McCoo. “All the kids do nowadays is this…”

Everybody twiddles their thumbs, miming a child playing Xbox.

Then I say something that makes me sound as if I sit on the later half of fifty, but let the truth be spoken. “Go outside! Play Double Dutch, hopscotch, Hot Peas and Butter…” The amen chorus fuels my rambling list as my own childhood comes back to me. “… box ball, Hide n- Seek, skullies,… We had video games but still went outside on a nice day.”

Miss McCoo says. “They don't have anything that makes them use their creativity or imagination.” She doesn't sound frustrated as much as she seem sorry. “You had to sit down and cut out those paper dolls. Now you can't get a coloring book unless you go to Barnes & Nobles.”

“Well, sometimes the guys in the street have them,” says her friend.

But the singer is off on her own ramble…”But nooo, now that got that Sudoku.”

“Now, now, now,” the older brother says good-naturedly. “I love Sudoku.”

Yeah, girl, don't mess with a man's Sudoku. I offer an olive branch for my sister's well-intended oversight. “At least, that challenges your mind.”

“Yeah, that's true,” says Miss McCoo, and we all laugh. As each group finishes its meal, we bid each other farewell as if we just might see each other again. You'd think that after a conversation like that, a person would feel depressingly old. But I have a feeling we all left feeling very much alive.

Efrain's Secret - Another Excerpt

2008-07-30T18:07:00.001-04:00

For those who are wondering why I haven't been blogging very frequently over the past few months. :)

___________
Incisive (adj.) clear, sharp, direct

When Trace lets us into the office, Nestor and I find Snipes sitting on the couch reading Sports Illustrated and smoking a cigar. He takes a swill of copper liquor in a short glass then rests it on the table in front of him. Nestor says, "What's up, Snipes?"

He looks up from his magazine and is obviously surprised to see Nes. Nevertheless, Snipes rises to his feet to shake his hand. "What's up?" Then he extends his palm to me. "How's it going, E?"

I have to smile a bit at that one. As I shake his hand, I say, "I've had better days, sir."

He chuckles as if he appreciates my honesty then motions for us to sit. "Word is one of Hinckley's boys wilded out on you, son," says Snipes. "That hothead Julian."

Nestors yells, "Yo, Snipes, he was trippin' . . ."

"I got this, man," I interrupt him. At first, I wanted Nestor here, but it looks bad for to speak for me all the damned time. "Look, I can't front, Snipes. He did wild out, but that's because I messed up." He says nothing, waiting for me to explain. "I was coming out of Floridita's when someone tried to cop from me. It totally slipped my mind I was off the block, and, you know, I got zealous. Tried to service him. So Hinckley's boy had reason step to me, but he ain't have to OD like he did. Punk crept up then raised up on me." Honestly, if Julian had just called the question, I wouldn't have known how to appease him, but I have to play this off. "Had he just stepped to me like a man, I would've owned up and compensated him, but like Nes said, he made a mountain out of a molehill."

Snipes eyeballs me. Without shifting his gaze from me, he addresses Nestor. "Is that how it went down?"

"Exactly."

"And how did y'all leave it."

Nestor waits for my cue, but just because I had to take control of the conversation doesn't mean I have to sell him out. "Nes slipped dude a fifty to let it go."

Snipes nods for a few seconds. He finally says, "Everyone, bounce for a minute while I talk to E." His boys roll out. "You, too, Nes."

Nestor hesitates but eventually gets to his feet. "I'll wait for you outside, a'ight?"

I want him to, for real, but I know that ain't the move. "Nah, kid, it's all good. I'm cool. I'll holla at you later." His face says You sure? I force myself to smile. "Remind me to tell you about that waitress I ran into at the restaurant."

Nestor runs with it. "Ah, the one with the big. . ."

"Yeah, that one."

"Yeah, man, she's fit, yo." He gives me a pound and then offers his hand to Snipes. "One, bro."

"Peace, kid." I don't know where to put my eyes until Nestor and the others leave so I pull lint off the cuff of my sweater. When the door closes, I finally look up at Snipes. He reaches toward the cigar box on the table between us. "Smoke?"

I shake my head. "Nah."

"Want a drink? A shot of rum. Some beer?"

"No, but thanks."

Snipes picks up his glass of rum, walks around the table and takes Nestor's seat beside me. "This isn't you, is it, E?" I have no idea what he means so I just shrug. He leans forward and sets his glass back on the table. "Tell me again what you're doing here."

My heart races. Snipes acts as if I have ulterior motives – like I'm fixing to sabotage him or something – yet I feel cheesy at the mere thought of telling him the truth. "Like I said, I need money."

"Yeah, I remember." I'm fraying his patience. "Nobody ever has enough. But why specifically do you need more?" When I hesitate to respond, Snipes jumps to his feet, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. "OK, Scout, here you go." He peels off one hundred dollar bill after the other, tossing them into a stack on the table. I count them as they pile up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. "Is that enough for you?"

I go from embarrassed to offended. Snipes doesn't know me to rate my needs and motives in life so damned cheaply. I glance up at him and say, "Hardly."

He scoffs at me, and I look away. Snipes adds another grand in hundreds to the pile on the table. "How's that?"

"If I'm fired, just say so." My chest is on fire. "You don't have to ride me."

"I'm not riding you, Scout," says Snipes, heaping on the sarcasm. "I'm trying to help you." He whips out hundreds like an ATM until five stacks sit on the table. "You can take that and walk away, no questions asked."

I should take it, say peace out and never show my face around these parts again. But there's more at stake now than money. "I would if it were enough."

Snipes bends down and hollers in my face, "How much is enough then?"

"Thirty!" I yell back.

"For what?"

"College!"

"College?" He laughs like my name is Ernie, and I want to buy a truckload of rubber ducks. "College?"

"I didn't stutter." I'm not two feet from Cerebus, and I unleash this pent up bravado. Where was it when I was on the block?

Fat Princess

2008-07-30T17:11:00.001-04:00

I just read the following article on Yahoo!
__________
Feminists cry foul over Fat Princess
Does Sony's cartoony castle game cross the line?

By Ben Silverman

She's plump, powerful and ready to cause more controversy than "SuperSize Me."

She's Fat Princess, the star of Sony's upcoming video game of the same name. Debuting at last week's E3 expo, the colorful Fat Princess is a capture-the-flag game with a twist: you can thwart capture attempts by locking the once-thin princess in a dungeon and stuffing her full of cake, thereby increasing her girth and making her harder for your enemies to haul back to home base.

According to popular gaming blog Joystiq, two feminist gaming sites have already voiced their displeasure with the weighty issue.

Feminist Gamer's "Mighty Ponygirl" rings in diplomatically, suggesting a new way to play the game altogether.

"Instead of running out into the forest to find cake to fatten up the princess with, why not go out and find gold (which is a lot heavier than cake) to stuff into a treasure chest. The more gold in the chest, the heavier it would be, and the harder it would be to carry," she said, before adding, "Oh, but that's not as "cute" as cake and fat chicks. Right."

Over at Shakesville, however, writer Melissa McEwan cuts to the chase, telling Sony she's "positively thrilled to see such unyielding dedication to creating a new generation of fat-hating, heteronormative ---holes."

Sony has yet to issue an official response, although Joystiq did receive a particularly informative update from James Green, Fat Princess' lead art director, who clued gamers in on the origins of the game:

"Does it make it better or worse that the concept artist (who designed the look, characters, everything) is a girl?"

Hmmm...hope the game's detractors don't mind eating a bit of crow.
____________________________
Ya know, I wasn't all that compelled to lobby a thorough critique of the game. But I couldn't let that last line slide so I pushed back at author Ben Silverman. Here's what I sent.

I don't know, Ben... just because the artist for "Fat Princess" is a girl (or she actually a woman?) shouldn't make critiques of the game "eat crow." Women are quite capable of being sexist, and what's wrong is wrong. All this proves is that the girl (or woman) behind this game has brought into some very problematic ideas about her own sex, and that's very sad. What's worse, she has decided to perpetuate them for a new generation of girls and boys instead of, say, making a game that doesn't traffick in some antiquated and hurtful ideas. As the folks at Joystiq stated, they could have gone another route without losing anything in the process. Lastly, I don't think one has to be a feminist to take issue with this game. I think many people -- heavy and thin, male and female, feminist and non-feminist -- would take issue with many aspects of "Fat Princess." The label for such folks is decent.

Want to tell Ben Silverman what you think? Here's the link to the article.
http://videogames.yahoo.com/feature/feminists-cry-foul-over-fat-princess/1232315

Reel Images: Stereotypes in Film

2008-07-29T16:56:00.001-04:00

As I was updating my Shelfari page, I came across this video. It's a ten-minute clip of this wonderful panel I participated in sponsored by the Center for Communications in New York City called Reel Images: Stereotypes in Film. I was an honor and joy to have this conversation with some amazing talents and sharp minds. If you're in the New York metro area, definitely check out other Center programs. Shout out to Michelle Materre, Alfred Santana, Sophia Chang and, of course, my homegirl Sonia Gonzalez-Martinez for such an pleasant and inspiring night.

Appreciating Sisters Whether by Blood or Choice

2008-07-29T16:07:00.002-04:00

My cousin Carmen sent this to me. After passing it on to a handful of close friends, I felt compelled to post it here so that other women can find and share it with the sisters in their lives. :)
__________
A young wife sat on a sofa on a hot humid day,

drinking iced tea and visiting with her Mother. As

they talked about life, about marriage, about the

responsibilities of life and the obligations of

adulthood, the mother clinked the ice cubes in her

glass thoughtfully and turned a clear, sober glance

upon her daughter.

'Don't forget your Sisters,' she advised, swirling

the tea leaves to the bottom of her glass. 'They'll

be more important as you get older. No matter how

much you love your husband, no matter how much you

love the children you may have, you are still going

to need Sisters. Remember to go places with them now

and then; do things with them.'

'Remember that 'Sisters' means ALL the women...

your girlfriends, your daughters, and all your other

women relatives too. 'You'll need other women. Women

always do.'

What a funny piece of advice!' the young woman

thought. Haven't I just gotten married?

Haven't I just joined the couple-world? I'm now a

married woman, for goodness sake! A grownup! Surely

my husband and the family we may start will be all I

need to make my life worthwhile!'

But she listened to her Mother. She kept contact

with her Sisters and made more women friends each

year. As the years tumbled by, one after another,

she gradually came to understand that her Mom really

knew; what she was talking about. As time and nature

work their changes and their mysteries upon a woman,

Sisters are the mainstays of her life.

After more than 50 years of living in this world,

here is what I've learned:

THIS SAYS IT ALL:

Time passes.

Life happens.

Distance separates.

Children grow up.

Jobs come and go.

Love waxes and wanes.

Men don't do what they're supposed to do.

Hearts break.

Parents die.

Colleagues forget favors.

Careers end.

BUT.........

Sisters are there, no matter how much time and how

many miles are between you. A girl friend is never farther away

than needing her can reach.

When you have to walk that lonesome valley and you

have to walk it by yourself, the women in your life

will be on the valley's rim, cheering you on,

praying for you, pulling for you, intervening on

your behalf, and waiting with open arms at the

valley's end.

Sometimes, they will even break the rules and walk

beside you...Or come in and carry you out.

Girlfriends, daughters, granddaughters,

daughters-in-law, sisters, sisters-in-law, Mothers,

Grandmothers, aunties, nieces, cousins, and extended

family, all bless our life!

The world wouldn't be the same without women, and

neither would I. When we began this adventure called

womanhood, we had no idea of the incredible joys or

sorrows that lay ahead. Nor did we know how much we

would need each other.

Every day, we need each other still. Pass this on

to all the women who help make your life meaningful.

I just did. Short and very sweet:

There are more than twenty angels in this world.

Ten are peacefully sleeping on clouds. Nine are

playing. And one is reading her email at this

moment.

WAM! Using Hip Hop Fiction to Incite Social Change

2008-05-07T21:38:00.000-04:00

Watch activists and novelists E-Fierce, Jlove and myself as well as social justice educator Marcella Runell Hall as we present our groudbreaking curriculum Conscious Women Rock the Page: Using Hip Hop Fiction to Incite Social Change which is the bridge between the world of Hip Hop fiction and education for social change.

During our session at the Women, Action & Media Conference this March, we introduced attendees to the upsurge of feminist popular fiction utilizing hip hop subculture to raise substantive issues including race, class, gender, sexual orientation and culture. We read brief excerpts of our works, co-facilitate a sample activity from the curriculum and discussed how participants can exploit popular fiction to raise consciousness and promote activism, especially among young women who may not identify as either feminists or activists.

This is the first of two videos. Want to see Part 2? Visit the Conscious Women Rock the Page Myspace blog at www.myspace.com/rockthepage. :)

EFRAIN'S SECRET - Another Excerpt from My Young Adult Novel in Progress

2008-02-19T15:49:00.002-05:00

I'm grinding away at the first draft of this manuscript, and I have to admit, a sista's tired. The closer I get to the end, the harder it is to finish, it seems. I'm that into and yet I think I need to rest my mind. I thought maybe if I shared a little bit more of it, it'd help me to return to the page. This scene takes place after Efrain's parents discover what he's been doing when he's supposed to be working a cash register at Jimmy Jazz.
__________

I treat myself to that hot shower, washing away the blood, the snot, the dirt, the street, the jail. But even though I lather twice and even wash my hair, I just can't strip the weight of what has happened. And not even holy water could dispel what is about to come. Sometimes I hear my mother and Rubio's raised voices over the hard spray of the shower. Only when I hear the apartment door slam do I turain. I towel off, change into the dingy sweats hanging behind the door and go face my mother.

She stands in the living room staring out of the window. At this hour, I don't know what there is to see. Even the bodega is closed, and Nestor's old crew is gone for the night. "Mami. . ."

My mother turns to face me with eyes swollen with exhaustion and anger. "Did you do it, Efrain? They arrested you for selling cocaine, and I need to hear the truth from you. Are you guilty?"

I knew this would be a hard conversation, but, man. . . I had no idea how deep it would cut. I don't know what hurts more: the fact that Moms still believes enough in me to grant me the benefit of the doubt or the reality of the next second in which I prove to her that I don't deserve it. "Yes."

And as if that single word gave her a push, my mother leans against the window to maintain her balance. "How long?"

I drop my head, tears stinging at the corner of my eyes. "Not long."

With threat behind every word, she presses. "How long is not long, Efrain?"

Damn, if she would just scream, and curse or even hit me, I can get through this. I can handle the rage. I want to take it. But this kind of weight? I can't carry it. I just can't. If I hurt her anymore, it will break me. "I've only been out there a few times, and I only did it to make money for college."

"Don't lie to me, Efrain. On top of everything. . ."

"That's the truth! I wasn't out there because I wanted clothes or jewelry or anything like that, and I had no plans to make it a way of life. Mami, I'm tired." I lift up my head because I know if my mother looks me in the eye, she will understand. "I'm tired of following all the rules and never winning the damn game. You don't want me to lie, OK, here's the truth. Nice guys don't finish last, Mami. Doing the right thing is supposed to be its own reward, but doing the right thing isn't going to pay my tuition. . ."

Suddenly, my mother grabs my chin like a vise. Gritting her teeth, she says, "You don't pay tuition when you go to prison." Before letting go, my mother shoves my head backwards. "And guess what, Efrain? If you get killed, soy yo que va tener que pagar. I'm the one who'll have to pay for your burial plot!"

In all my life, I have never seen my mother so enraged. No matter what he did, she never got this angry at Rubio.

Using Hip Hop Fiction Promote Social Justice: Yes, We Can!

2008-02-19T11:31:00.001-05:00

MEDIA ANNOUNCEMENT

Conscious Women Rock the Page: Activists Team Up to Publish Curriculum that Uses Hip Hop Fiction to Explore Social Issues and Promote Political Action

WHAT:
To support educators who wish to use hip hop fiction in their classrooms to explore social issues and promote activism among their students, four women have teamed up to publish a curriculum entitled Conscious Women Rock the Page: Using Hip Hop Fiction to Incite Social Change (C♀RP.)

C♀RP is based on three hip hop novels praised for their treatment of substantive issues from race relations to dating violence in a genre often criticized for glorifying street life and perpetuating stereotypes. The curriculum contains over thirty lessons which are appropriate for use in middle school classrooms through university campuses. The novels upon which C♀RP is based are:

That White Girl, the debut novel of JLove, inspired by her own coming-of-age as a young White woman in Denver in the 80s which included becoming a graffiti artist and joining the local Crips.

The Sista Hood: On the Mic by E-Fierce is the first in a four-part series about four girls of color at a San Francisco high school who bond across their differences in race, class and sexual orientation through hip hop.

Picture Me Rollin’, the second of three novels by Black Artemis, brings a feminist twist to the “felon-come-home” tale as it follows a young Latina who is obsessed with Tupac Shakur in her uphill battle to rebuild her life.

C♀RPcontains lessons on multiple subjects and disciplines including English, social studies, ethnic studies, race relations, women’s studies, criminal justice and health and sexuality to name just a few.

WHO:
C♀RP is a collaboration among four women known in socially conscious hip hop circles: Jennifer “JLOVE” Calderón, author of That White Girl; Elisha “E-Fierce” Miranda, author of The Sista Hood; Sofía “Black Artemis” Quintero, author of Picture Me Rollin’; and Marcella Runell Hall, co-editor of The Hip Hop Education Guidebook. They have also enlisted a diverse team of activist educators to design lessons. The activities in C♀RP spark discussions on issues such as race, gender, class, sexual orientation and more.

WHEN:
Conscious Women Rock the Pagewill be available in late March 2008.

WHERE:
The creators Black Artemis, E-Fierce, JLove and Marcella will release the curriculum and demonstrate a sample lesson at the annual Women, Action and the Media Conference in Cambridge, MA, March 28-30, 2008. For more information about the conference, visit the WAM! website.

WHY:
Committed educators are always searching for ways to strike the balance between meeting students where they are yet bringing them to a higher level academically, socially and even emotionally. As a result, many are incorporating hip hop in their lessons from using rap songs to teach metaphors and similes to looking at the recording industry to impart lessons in economics.

Street lit – often called “hip hop fiction” – is immensely popular and credited for getting reluctant students to read. However, conscientious educators hesitate to use it as it frequently glorifies street life and perpetuates negative stereotypes. Whether they are middle and high school teachers, after-school program facilitators, community activists at grassroots organizations or college professors, C♀RP is a curriculum for educators who want to introduce popular media in their learning environments to engage their students on meaningful social and political issues, facilitate their empowerment, and inspire them to take action.

That White Girl, The Sista Hood and Picture Me Rollin’ each possess a commercial sensibility that will appeal to students of all backgrounds yet also raises substantive issues in a non-didactic manner. That makes these novels ideal for classroom use. C♀RP shows educators exactly how.

Sitting on the Literary Divide

2008-02-13T11:56:00.001-05:00

Sitting on the Literary Divide

For the longest time I have been struggling with this idea that there is distinct line between commercial and literary fiction because I view my own work as a hybrid between the two. It is commercial because the genres in which I have written to date are popular, I employ a great deal of urban vernacular and my storylines are set in contemporary times among working-class characters of color living in New York City.

However, the themes I attempt to tackle and the issues I deliberately raise are the kind often confined to more literary works. Furthermore, I don't see myself just as storyteller but also a craftswoman. I believe most anyone can be an author, but only few authors are actually writers. I'm a writer.

So as the controversy over street lit rages on within the Black literary community, and lines in the sand are sharply drawn, I find myself increasingly reflective about where I stand. Or more like where I don't. Because on the one hand, I have been vocal and varied in my critique of the proliferation of street lit, and yet on the other hand, I get the distinct feeling that the literary set ain't having me.

Recently, a group of Black writers, editors and booksellers who call themselves RingShout have formed to recognize, reclaim and celebrate �excellence in contemporary literary fiction and nonfiction by black writers in the United States.� Of course, the creation of RingShout has generated numerous responses from the BackList's Felicia Pride's RingShout, Breaking Street Lit and Why Complaining Ain't Cute
to Mosaic's Ron Kavanaugh's LOVEHATE/ Old Man River to name just two. I found myself compelled to post the following comment on the RingShout blog.

Brothers and Sisters at RingShout,

As a writer and activist, I definitely support your efforts, but I do have a question, a sisterly pushback if you will.

I am one of those writers whose work lies in the middle. As an activist, I made a conscientious decision to write popular fiction as a way to raise socio-political issues among an audience of readers that might not otherwise engage them (and yet has the most to lose by their lack of engagement.) Indeed, one can employ the urban vernacular (not to be confused with the profane, least of all for its own sake) and still write deeply about the human condition. However, it is this ambition to grapple with substantive themes and a respect for craft that makes me identify with those who squarely place themselves in the literary camp. Quite frankly, I am adamant about distinguishing myself from street lit. Indeed, as a hip hop activist, it infuriates me when street lit is referred to as "hip hop fiction" in an effort to unilaterally equate hip hop with criminality and promiscuity and that criminality and promiscuity with "authentic" Blackness.

Yet I don't know if -- based on what I write alone -- if the literary crowd would embrace me. I don't know if solely based on my titles, covers, storylines and pen name, any of its members would even read a word to discover that, no, I'm not trafficking in the stereotypes and gratuitous sex and violence. That I truly am striving to meet readers where they are and take them some place better.

I can't tell you how many times I have sat on a panel with literary kin who seem just as surprised as white folks by my ability to speak the King's English and substantively even fearlessly discuss politics. Indeed, I think some of these folks have been upset with me for publicly shattering their prejudices about what a hip hop novelist is because it disrupts the false "them vs. us" dichotomy in which they are so deeply invested. One of your members, Eisa Ulen, has been a distinct exception to what has been an ongoing and increasingly disheartening experience.

Beyond the books I write, I have made genuine efforts to walk my talk on this. Currently, I have teamed up with Jennifer "JLove" Calderon, Elisha "E-Fierce" Miranda, and Marcella Runell Hall to self-publish a curriculum based on our books called CONSCIOUS WOMEN ROCK THE PAGE: USING HIP HOP FICTION TO INCITE SOCIAL CHANGE. I have worked and hope to continue to work with Felicia Pride of BackList to create discussion guides that will support educators who want to bring their students from street lit to classics. Indeed, we had decided that perhaps the best way to do this was to identify "bridge novels" from writers such as Ernesto Quinonez, Kalisha Buckhanon, Kenji Jasper and myself to name a few; work that we feel will appeal to fans of street lit, yet because of the command of craft and the depth of themes, can move them closer to the works of, say, James Baldwin or Zora Neale Hurston. Elisha Miranda and I co-founded a nonprofit organization in East Harlem to support women of color who want to seize the power of entertainment to promote social justice. (By the way, is there room for Afro-Latin@s in your cipher or is your movement only about African American literature?)

So if there is such a sharp line between the commercial and literary, where do writers like me and my peers belong? Does such a line serve any of us - writers and readers alike in general, and specifically those of us from communities that have been long underrepresented or misrepresented?

In any event, let's dialogue and make change.

Sisters Talking Politics at the Dunkin' Donuts

2008-02-04T09:42:00.001-05:00

When I jump off the Bx4, there's no Bx19 in sight so I head into the Dunkin' Donuts on the corner of Westchester and Southern Boulevard. The middle-aged African American woman ahead of me in line sports an OBAMA '08 button on the lapel of her church-nice coat. One of the young women behind the counter - an African American in her early 20s - sports a black wrap under her Giants cap. �Yeah, you voting for Obama?� she says to the customer.

Her coworker - a fair-skinned Latina - asks, �And who're you voting for?�

�Me? Clinton, baby,� she says, wagging her finger. �Last time under Clinton, I had a good job making $52,000 a year. Then Bush comes in, and now I'm working at Dunkin' Donuts.� All of us smile appropriately. Like we understand that it's funny but not that funny. OK to smile, foul to laugh.

The older woman says, �The reason why I'm not voting for Clinton is because it's time for a change. Her husband was in there before, and so she's made connections and deals, and you know they owe people. So if Hillary gets in, she's going to be paying them back, and we don't need that. Same with Bush. First the father, then the son, the same nonsense. At least with Obama, we start fresh.�

Never thought of it that way, and I guess there's something to that. Not that Obama won't have some cronies to grease for helping him get into office if he becomes president because that's just not the way things work, but, you know. . .

�I just made up my mind last week,� I say to the woman, �and I'm supporting Obama, too.�

The cashier says, �No more Republicans.� I laugh, agreeing with that. Seems we all agree on that one. As she hands the woman in front of me her coffee and change, she adds, �They're not for us.� We all agree on that, too. �At least, the Democrats are for us.�

IIIIIIIIII don't know about all that, but I understand why she feels that way.

The woman heads for the door with her coffee and change. Before she steps out onto the street, she stops �Vote for whoever you want,�she calls over her shoulder. �Just vote.�

Ach�.

A Sad Day in the Black Literary World

2008-01-23T10:13:00.001-05:00

I just received the following announcement.
January 22, 2008
Dear Karibu Customer,
After 15 years of service within the Washington, DC metropolitan area, Karibu Books, a Black bookstore chain will be closing its doors. We sincerely thank each and every one of you for your patronage and support. We are optimistic that our mission to empower and educate through a comprehensive selection of books by and about people of African descent will continue to resonate within the communities we proudly served.
Since 1993, we have been blessed to help thousands of local, regional and national authors share their incredible stories of faith, hope, love, peace, politics and race. We cannot begin to express our gratitude for the countless authors who have graced our six stores and enriched our customers' lives.
On Sunday, January 27th, We will be closing our Security Square (Baltimore, MD) and Forestville locations. The remaining locations, Bowie Town Center, The Mall at Prince Georges and Iverson Mall will close on Sunday, February 10th. Our Pentagon City store is already closed.
Effective immediately, all inventory at all locations will be 50% off. All fixtures will also be available for purchase on February 10th. See individual store managers for more information.
Again, we respectfully thank you for your loyalty, laughter and love. What an honor and privilege it has been to serve our community!
Sincerely,
Simba Sana
CEO
Karibu Books
Karibu Locations:Security Square Mall, 6901 Security Boulevard, Baltimore, Md 21244, 410.944.6090
Centre' at Forestville, 3289 B Donnell Drive, Forestville, Md 20747, 301.736.6170
The Mall at Prince George's, 3500 East West Hwy, Hyattsville, Md 20782, 301.559.1140
Iverson Mall, 3817 Branch Ave., Hillcrest Heights, Md. 20748, 301.899.3730
Bowie Town Center, 15624 Emerald Way, Bowie, Md 20716, 301.352.4110

I can only speculate as to why Karibu is closing, but I hope that this is not an omen of futher things to come.

Efrain's Secret - An Excerpt of My Young Adult Novel in Progress

2008-01-22T15:52:00.003-05:00

I'm almost through the first draft of my first young adult novel Efrain's Secret which will be published under my real name by Knopf in 2009. As I grind toward deadlines, it becomes difficult to maintain the blog so I decided why not share a bit with you the project that is keeping me from posting on a regular basis. After all, it's been a minute since I dropped a novel, and while there are several in the works besides this one, this is a new direction for me. Here's a lighthearted moment between Efrain (aka Scout) with his boys. Enjoy!
__________
When I hit the block tonight, Nestor says, "Yo, E, LeRon's got something for you."

"Me?"

]"Yeah."

"What's with the big, cheesy grin?"

"Just go over there."

"Don't mess with me, Nestor."

"Go!"

So I walk over to the other corner. LeRon sees me coming, and he has on this ol' cheese face, too. A folded sweatshirt hangs over his shoulder. I get my guard up but give him a pound. "What's up, L?"

"Yo, Scout, check it." LeRon unzips his parka, and who pops out at me but Frazzle. That's right. Homeboy's wearing a sweatshirt with that muppet's bushy-eyed grill on it.

"Oh, no!" I laugh. "Where'd you get that?"

"My sister made it for me."

"That's cool though."

"I told her how y'all be calling me Frazzle and shit, and then she goes and makes me this shirt, talking 'bout how I'm just like him." LeRon starts counting the ways on his fingers. "Look like him, talk like him, act like him. . ."

"It's true, yo!" I just can't stop laughing. "All of it."
"Nigga's even afraid of the dentist like me." I really crack up at that one, but LeRon is, like, mad serious. "Yo, what you laughing at, man? Ain't you ever seen that movie Marathon Man?"
"No." I had never even heard of it until now.

"Yeah, well, peep that shit, and see if you ever want to go the dentist again."

I shake my head. "Dude, brush your damn teeth every day like you supposed to and lay off all that soda, and trust me, you won't have to be scared of going to the dentist."

"Whatever, yo." Then LeRon tosses the sweatshirt hanging over his shoulder at me. "This one's for you."

I catch the sweatshirt and unfold it. Kermit the Frog. I have to smile. At least, it ain't Elmo. LeRon is clowning me like it is though, but I don't let him phase me. "But Kermy's cool though. He writes books, does movies. . . He's a Renaissance frog."

LeRon gives me this look like we're debating capital punishment or abortion or some shit like that. "His girlfriend's a pig, yo."

OK, now I have to get a little serious, too. "Don't with play me, LeRon. You don't know my shorty. Keep her out of it."

He points at me. "Ah! You were about to wild out, weren't you? Ah, ha!"

I start to head back to my post. Halfway there I stop to yell, "Yo, Frazzle, one more thing. You need to go see the dentist before your teeth start falling out. That's the whole point."

"Yo, E, shut up and drum up some business."

"No doubt." I get to Nestor, and he's cracking up. Guess he knew about Kermit before I did. "It ain't that funny, Elmo."

"Nah, I ain't Elmo, kid."

"Yeah, you are. You Elmo."

"No, I'm not, man."

"I'm telling you, you Elmo, son. You're simple, you're ticklish, you be acting like you're three years old. . . ." As I try to think of more ways in which Nestor and Elmo are alike, he unzips his leather jacket. "Yooo. . . it's Fozzie!" I just lose it. "Man, you cats are taking me back. I forgot all about Fozzie."

"Yeah," says Nestor. "Wocka, wocka, nigga."

It's a miracle I don't piss myself, I'm laughing so hard.

Efrain's Secret - An Excerpt from My Young Adult Novel in Progress

2008-01-22T15:50:00.001-05:00

I'm almost through the first draft of my first young adult novel Efrain's Secret which will be published under my real name by Knopf in 2009. As I grind toward deadlines, it becomes difficult to maintain the blog so I decided why not share a bit with you the project that is keeping me from posting on a regular basis. After all, it's been a minute since I dropped a novel, and while there are several in the works besides this one, this is a new direction for me. Here's a lighthearted moment between Efrain (aka Scout) with his boys. Enjoy!
__________
When I hit the block tonight, Nestor says, "Yo, E, LeRon's got something for you."
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"What's with the big, cheesy grin?"
"Just go over there."
"Don't mess with me, Nestor."
"Go!"
So I walk over to the other corner. LeRon sees me coming, and he has on this ol' cheese face, too. A folded sweatshirt hangs over his shoulder. I get my guard up but give him a pound.
"What's up, L?"
"Yo, Scout, check it." LeRon unzips his parka, and who pops out at me but Frazzle. That's right. Homeboy's wearing a sweatshirt with that muppet's bushy-eyed grill on it.
"Oh, no!" I laugh. "Where'd you get that?"
"My sister made it for me."
"That's cool though."
"I told her how y'all be calling me Frazzle and shit, and then she goes and makes me this shirt, talking 'bout how I'm just like him." LeRon starts counting the ways on his fingers. "Look like him, talk like him, act like him. . ."
"It's true, yo!" I just can't stop laughing. "All of it."
"Nigga's even afraid of the dentist like me." I really crack up at that one, but LeRon is, like, mad serious. "Yo, what you laughing at, man? Ain't you ever seen that movie Marathon Man?"
"No." I had never even heard of it until now.
"Yeah, well, peep that shit, and see if you ever want to go the dentist again."
I shake my head. "Dude, brush your damn teeth every day like you supposed to and lay off all that soda, and trust me, you won't have to be scared of going to the dentist."
"Whatever, yo." Then LeRon tosses the sweatshirt hanging over his shoulder at me. "This one's for you."
I catch the sweatshirt and unfold it. Kermit the Frog. I have to smile. At least, it ain't Elmo. LeRon is clowning me like it is though, but I don't let him phase me. "But Kermy's cool though. He writes books, does movies. . . He's a Renaissance frog."
LeRon gives me this look like we're debating capital punishment or abortion or some shit like that. "His girlfriend's a pig, yo."
OK, now I have to get a little serious, too. "Don't with play me, LeRon. You don't know my shorty. Keep her out of it."
He points at me. "Ah! You were about to wild out, weren't you? Ah, ha!"
I start to head back to my post. Halfway there I stop to yell, "Yo, Frazzle, one more thing. You need to go see the dentist before your teeth start falling out. That's the whole point."
"Yo, E, shut up and drum up some business."
"No doubt." I get to Nestor, and he's cracking up. Guess he knew about Kermit before I did. "It ain't that funny, Elmo."
"Nah, I ain't Elmo, kid."
"Yeah, you are. You Elmo."
"No, I'm not, man."
"I'm telling you, you Elmo, son. You're simple, you're ticklish, you be acting like you're three years old. . . ." As I try to think of more ways in which Nestor and Elmo are alike, he unzips his leather jacket. "Yooo. . . it's Fozzie!" I just lose it. "Man, you cats are taking me back. I forgot all about Fozzie."
"Yeah," says Nestor. "Wocka, wocka, nigga."
It's a miracle I don't piss myself, I'm laughing so hard.

Winners of Day 10 of the 12 Days of Chica Lit Blog Tour

2007-12-22T17:37:00.000-05:00

If you're Karin Tollotsin or Patricia Cochran, then you are the winners of the prizes offered by Misa Ramirez. Contact Misa for more information.

To win the Black Artemis bundle, read my story "I.C.E." and answer the following question:

To what Brooklyn neighborhood did Nancy go for her job interview?

You can post here or at my blog on MySpace. In fact, you may want to read the story on MySpace as the formatting is better. (Blogger just won't cooperate with me.) However, correct entries both here on Blogger and on MySpace will be considered for the random drawing.

To find out if you won, tomorrow visit Toni Plummer's blog and read the last story of the tour!

Day 11 of 12 DAYS OF CHICA LIT

2007-12-22T16:15:00.000-05:00

“Oh, my God, Nancy, I think this is the one,” sings Celestina from behind the stall. “Your brother loves green, too.”
I just mumble, “Yup, he sure does.” She swore the last three dresses she tried on were the One. My cell phone rings, indicating that I have a text message. I reach into my pocket for it and flip it open.
Have you forgotten to pay your bill? For your convenience, you can pay 24 hours online or at., . .
I slam the phone closed and shove it back into my two-year old parka.
“Is that yours or mine?” Cee asks.
“Mine,” I say. “Telemarketers.”
“Girl, you have to put your cell phone number on the Do Not Call list, too,” Celestina swears that my brother is going to propose to her at her company’s holiday party and has dragged me to three department stores from Manhattan to Westchester to find the perfect dress. I have no idea if Migs intends to pop the question. That boy doesn’t talk to me about things like that even though his girlfriend for the past three years is my best friend. Maybe that’s precisely why he doesn’t talk to me about her.
Celestina steps out of the stall wearing a strapless emerald velvet gown with a matching silk taffeta stole around the bodice. Even without a stitch of makeup and her hair pulled up in a lumpy ponytail, she looks fantastic. If he has no plans on proposing, Migs just might after one look at her in that dress.
“Wow, Cee, you’re right,” I say as I stand in amazement. “That’s the One.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely.”
Gathering the fabric in her hands so she won’t trip over the hem, she comes over to hug me. “I can’t wait until we’re officially sisters, Nancy.”
“Me, too, Cee.” We hold each other for a second. “Cee?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we go eat now?”

************************************************************************
When I accepted Cee’s dinner invitation tonight, I knew that in exchange for the free meal, I first would have to endure at least three hours of Christmas shopping. Last year, I would’ve been all for it. This year, however, I’m so broke, my eyes have splinters. It hurts to look at anything I can’t afford which is pretty much everything. It’s so bad that despite my lack of holiday cheer, I force myself to go every holiday party I can for the free hor’deurves and liquor.
So I appreciate Celestina making dinner all about me. Cee lets me choose the restaurant, doesn’t blink an eye when I order my third margarita and lets me go on and on about how much it sucks to be so broke during Christmas because the at-home graphic design business that I quit my dull but well-paying job at a major stationery company to start is almost dead.
“The worst thing is that I’ve been so good, Cee.” I take a big gulp and polish off Margarita #3. “I mean, if I were being irresponsible with my money or slacking off, I’d admit it to you even if no one else. But I’ve been so. . . so. . . “
Cee spears a crouton on her Caesar salad. “Disciplined?”
“Sooooo disciplined, and I’ve got ssssquat to show for it.” I reach for my fork, and drop it the second I lift it off the table. OK, I’m at the edge of drunkenness. You know, that point where you’ve drunk enough to affect your speech and coordination yet sober enough to be aware and embarrassed by the slurring and the dropsies. That’s when you’re supposed to quit. “Where’s the ssserver? I need another fork. And a Cosmo.”
God bless Cee. She rolls her eyes but bites her tongue. That’s a friend. Instead she says, “Oh, before I forget. Santa dropped this off for you at our place.” She reaches down into one of her shopping bags and pulls out a gift-wrapped box.
I stare at the box. “Oh, my God, Cee, you didn’t. . . “I finally accept it and unwrap it. She bought me the latest BlackBerry which does everything – makes calls, sends email, plays music, washes dishes. . . No wonder it costs almost four hundred dollars without a service plan.
Cee smiles. “Well, I didn’t. I mean, that’s from both your brother and me. You’re an entrepreneur, Nancy, and every entrepreneur needs a PDA.”
Only if she’s successful. I know Migs and she meant nothing but the best, but the extravagant gift makes me feel worse. No one – not even my parents and nieces in Florida – is getting a thing from me this Christmas except cards which I’ve been too depressed to even send.
And as if she can read my mind, Cee says, “We just loved the card you made for us, Nancy. Instead of hanging it along with the rest of the cards we received, Migs framed it and hung it on the wall. You’re so talented, Nancy.”
After such tremendous generosity, I don’t know if I have the heart to tell Cee that I can barely keep my current cellular phone service never mind switch to. . .
“Wait a minute. . .” I reach for my jacket and pat down the pockets. Then I start to panic. “Oh, shit! Cee, I lost my cell phone.”
Cee laughs and raises her glass. “You don’t need it anymore!”
I grab my purse and scour through it. “What do you mean I don’t need it? It’s the only telephone I have. My entire address book is in there.” I hadn’t told her that the telephone company disconnected the outgoing service on my landline because my account is sixty days overdue. If I don’t pay before the year is out, they’re going to cut my incoming service, too. “And what if a potential client calls me, and I can’t get back to them.” Never mind that for the past three months the only business calls I get are about my outstanding invoices with Yahoo! and Staples. “The last thing I need right now, Celestina, is for some pendejo to rack up calls on my phone and send my bill soaring through the roof!”
“OK, OK, OK, Nancy, calm down.” Cee should know better than to say that to me. I slam my head down on the table and start to cry. “C’mon, you’re getting garlic sauce in your hair.”
That works. I don’t want to walk around smelling like tilapia. Although at the rate I’m going, that will be inevitable since I’m also behind in my rent. I lift my head, but bury my face in my sleeve. “This is the worst Christmas I’ve had in my entire life.”
Cee reaches over with a napkin to wipe garlic sauce out of my split ends because it’s been six months since I’ve gotten a trim never mind gotten my hair done. “Look, we’ll head back to Nordstrom. How much you wanna bet it’s in the dressing room? That’s where you used it last, right?” I nod like an unconvinced toddler. “Let’s just get the check and go back. They’re probably holding it for you.”
She summons the server for the check, and we head back to mall. On the way, Cee even calls the store and asks if anyone found my phone. Two seconds after she asks, the look on her face gives away the answer.
“Let’s go anyway and look for ourselves,” says Cee. Then she starts scanning the sidewalk like a Basset hound. “We’ll retrace our steps and. . .”
“If I dropped the phone between Nordstrom’s and PF Chang’s, forget it. It’s gone. If someone didn’t kick it into traffic, and it got smashed by a truck, they picked it up and are singing Feliz Navidad to their abuelita a million miles away.”
“C’mon, Nancy, let’s at least go back to Nordstrom. Just because the girl who answered the phone didn’t see it doesn’t mean no one else there did. You never know.”
“No, Cee, I just want to go home.”
“OK.”
Cee drives us back from White Plains to the Bronx, allowing me to brood in silence and changing the radio station every time the DJ decides to play a holiday jingle. Only when she finally pulls off the exit and heads toward our neighborhood does she speak “Why don’t you come by our place for a bit?” says Cee. “Your brother’s been asking for you. I’m sure he’d like to see you.
Translation: Migs wants to be sure you’re not going to ruin our holidays by hanging yourself with the Christmas lights. “Some other time, Cee, OK?”
“OK.” She gives me a hug, reminds me not to forget my new BlackBerry and tells me she’ll call me later. Once I get back to my studio, I fling myself across the futon and cry myself to sleep.

************************************************************************
I wake up around ten the next morning in the same exact position where I crashed. Slowly but surely, I get myself up. That’s when I notice the light blinking on my telephone. When I came to accept that the only calls I was going to get were from collection departments and not potential clients, I shut off the ringer on the telephone and turned down the volume on the answering machine. Since I feel bad about being such a grinch, I turn up the volume and play my messages just in case I received a call from Cee or Migs or some other relative. Maybe just maybe, a long lost friend that I had blown off one time too many while starting my soon-to-be defunct graphic design business is feeling charitable this season and has decided to give me one last chance. So I hit play and listen while pressing my fingers into my face trying to iron out the sleep wrinkles embedded in my right cheek.
The first message is from that same chick with the thick accent. This is Kathleen from Universal Fidelity calling Nancy Aguire. Miss Aguire, this is not a telemarketing call, and I need. . .”
“It’s Aguirre, ¡idiota! Ah-GHEE-reh not Uh-GWY-er!” I yell at the machine. “That’s why I’m not going to call you back never mind pay you.” I glance at the caller ID window on the machine. Area code 281. Isn’t that freakin’ Texas? Then she really should know better. Any excuse, right? I hit delete, realizing that if I had had ordered voicemail service through my telephone company instead of splurging almost two hundred dollars on this home office system, good ol’ Kathleen from Universal Fidelity wouldn’t be breathing down my neck right now because Verizon would’ve cut off the voicemail. I can’t even screw up right.
“Nancy? It’s Migs. Yo, Nancy, pick up. Look, mama, I know things are real tough right now for you, and I just want you to know I’ve got your back, OK? I’ll help you best as I can even though I’m not exactly rolling in it since. . .” He lowers his voice into a whisper. Well, as close to a whisper as a Puerto Rican six-foot-two, muscle-bound correction officer raised in a South Bronx housing project can manage. I just bought Celestina an engagement ring, OK, and, so help me God, you best not breathe a word to her. You hear me, Nancy? I don’t care if she is your best friend. If you say anything to her, I’ma go over there and kick your ass. I swear, Nancy, as I live and breathe. . . In the background, I hear Cee enter the room and ask if my brother if he reached me. So if push comes to shove, and you need to stay with us until you get back on your feet, you know, you can. OK, mama? I’ll try you again later.
Despite the threat to do me bodily harm if I spoil his proposal, I’m moved by my brother’s offer. I know it’s sincere and had nothing to do with Cee’s prodding. I’d just rather pitch a tent underneath a bypass of the Bronx River Parkway than move in on two newlyweds. I put the volume on maximum, skip to the next message and head over to the kitchen to make myself some coffee.
Nancy. . . It’s Jay. Wow, it’s been what? Definitely more than a year. Even though my refrigerator is in my living room, I spin around and run back to the phone. Listen, a little bird told me that you lost your cell phone at Nordstrom’s. No, the bird’s name is not Celestina who I’m sure was with you at the time buying out the place. Anyway, if you want to find out how I know and to make arrangements to get your phone back, give me a shout. My cell’s the same. . . It’ll be good to hear your voice… you know, in person. Well, not in person, but. . . you know what I mean. Looking forward to talking to you, Nancy. Bye.
How on earth did the ex-boyfriend that I haven’t spoken to in over a year get his hands on the cell phone I lost in White Plains?
Although Jay and I parted on good terms, I feel nervous as I dial his new number. The last time we saw each other. . . I can’t even remember. After we broke up, we made a genuine effort to remain friends and even got together for coffee two or three times. But I was knee-deep in building my own business, and he was trying to get his doctorate in psychology. Once I cancelled dinner to take on a last-minute rush job that would have brought me some desperately needed income. We rescheduled for lunch two weeks later only for Jay to bail because his advisor gave him a break-neck deadline to revise a chapter of his dissertation. I’m not sure, but I think he was supposed to call me to reschedule but never did, and so we just fell out of touch. Until now.
I’m sorry. Your call cannot be completed. Please call. . .
“Shit!” In my surprise over Jay’s call, I forgot that I had no outgoing service. I pull on my jacket and walk the five blocks to Celestina and Miguel’s apartment.

************************************************************************
As I dial Jay’s number from the telephone in my brother’s bedroom, I feel like a linebacker with Celestina sitting on my neck like a huge shoulder pad. I look over to her and mouth His voicemail. Cee sucks her teeth and backs off me a bit.
But then I realize that I’m not prepared for this call at all.Just as the beep sounds, I hang up. Celestina gives me a questioning look. “Cee, why did Jay and I break up again?” I ask, “I mean, I remember all the damned fighting. But what was it the hell about. I can’t remember.”
Cee shrugs. “Everything. Stupid shit. All that fighting about nothing, that’s why you had to break up.”
I nod, but I’m not satisfied. It makes sense, and yet it doesn’t. “Oh, what’s the big deal?” I finally say as I dial Jay’s number for the second time. “Hey, Jay, it’s Nancy. What a nice surprise to hear your voice after all this time! Yes, I’m super curious to hear how you got your hands on my cell phone which I do need back right away so. . .” For a second, I’m lost for words. Celestina puts her hand to her ear as if she’s making a call. . . “. . . uh, yeah, call me back. Youhavethenumbersothanksbye!” I disconnect the call. I don’t know where that sudden wave of anxiety came from.
“You should’ve left him this number, too, you know, and hang out for a bit in case he calls back.”
“What for?” Before she can even answer that, I say, “Besides, it’s bad enough my broke-ass is going to have to see him to get my phone back, I don’t need him calling here looking for me.”
“Why not? What’s so terrible about seeing Jay?”
“It’s not Jay. It’s me. I don’t want him to see me like this.”
Cee looks me up and down. “OK, so you need a trim and the highlights haven’t grown out, but so what? You put your hair up. A little makeup, a nice outfit. . .”
“Cee, it’s not the way I look.” I throw myself backwards on her bed and stare up at her ceiling. “It’s the way I am. If you were in my shoes, would you want an ex-boyfriend to see you this way?”
“What are you going to do?” Cee’s upside down face pops over mine. “Wait until your life is perfect before you meet the guy to get your phone back?”
“No,” I say. “But I should at least get a damn job.”
Migs comes into the bedroom with his Love you but get out face so I head home.

************************************************************************
Who happens to call me while I was walking the five blocks?
Nancy! Where are you? You just called me. Probably at some party rubbing elbows with other artsy types. Hope you’re having a good time. Anyway, I’ll be up pretty late so if you want to find out how I got your phoooone, call me back when you get in.
Shit! Why doesn’t the man just tell me? No way in hell am I heading back to Cee’s to return his call. Besides Jay thinks I have a life. Let him. I’ll go get one tomorrow and then call him back.

************************************************************************
With a batch of quarters in my purse and my resume on a flash drive, I go to the neighborhood library so I can search for a job. I’m not above getting a customer service gig at a department store just to keep myself afloat, but what’s the point? The holiday season is underway so there’s probably no work in retail to be had. Better to invest my time in finding something more permanent.
When I feel my resume is in decent shape, I take a break to call Jay on the pay phone. The library is virtually empty during a cold weekday so the conditions are ideal. Having done something to better my situation, I feel ready to speak directly to him.
I take a deep breath and dial only to get his voicemail.
Tag, you’re it. . . I give a small laugh. You know what, Joaquín? I’m starting to wonder if you truly want to return my phone. Don’t let me find out you’re using up all my minutes. Whoa, where did that come from? I sound way too flirty. I hit three on the keypad so I can erase and rerecord my message. I wait for the cue, but it never comes. Only then I remember that feature only works on my phone. ¡Que estupida! I immediately slam the receiver down and back away from the phone as if it were possessed. Should I call back and apologize for the obnoxious beep I left on Jay’s voicemail? No, that would be even more pathetic.
Instead I head back to my job search. I keep it at for a few hours not stopping until my eyes blur and my stomach growls. Do I save time and grab fast (and not inexpensive) food near the library or do I save money and walk the three blocks back to my apartment and make myself a (free) meal? I decide it’s best to go home.

************************************************************************
Waiting for me are five messages. Four are about overdue accounts including one from the telephone company. The last, of course, is from Jay and starts with a husky laugh.
Don’t worry, Nancy. I’m not using up your minutes. Damn, you called me Joaquín, too? You must mean business. Now what if I were using your phone? What were you going to do about it? Spank me? He laughs again and then hangs up.
I laugh like I haven’t in weeks. One of the things Jay used to do to crack me up was that silly spank-the-booty dance. Whenever I had an unproductive day and refused to cheer up, he’d just start galloping around and smacking his own ass just to make me laugh. It never failed. Once we had a big argument about something before meeting Cee and Migs at the movies for a double date. I was behind on a job, he was stuck on a chapter. . . I don’t think either of us really wanted to go out, but somehow we got started on each other. Right there in the middle of the multiplex lobby, Jay starts to gallop, and I just couldn’t stay mad at him. It takes guts for a man to do that in public, especially in front of his girlfriend’s muy macho older brother.
While waiting for my griddle cheese sandwich to heat, I scour through my jar of loose change for more quarters. I toss them in my purse, wrap my sandwich in a paper towel and walk back to the library, eating along the way. I even stop at a bakery and splurge on a large cup of hot chocolate.

************************************************************************
Before I settle in front of a computer at the library, I head over to the pay phone and call back Jay. Once again, I get his voicemail, and I don’t mind. I decide to play with him just a little. Spank you? From what I remember, you’d like that. A lot. Now me? All I want for Christmas is my phone so would you pretty please let me know when and where we can meet? I’m pretty flexible. From what I remember, you liked that, too.
Whoa, I didn’t mean to go that far! What’s gotten into me? Well, what’s done is done. And what’s a little flirtation between exes turned friends? It’s sweet even if it’s going nowhere.

************************************************************************
Over the next few days, Jay and I compare schedules and make a date via telephone tag. Not once does he ask me why I never call him from my home number, and I stop asking him how he wound up with my cell phone. He flirts up a storm, and while I can’t deny it puts a smile on my face, I do my best not to give him the impression I’m interested. Still I tease him a little so as not to hurt his feelings.
So you’re still flexible, huh? Well, then we should get together soon.
Real soon. Like tomorrow night. How ‘bout Café Sevilla’s at six?
Hi, Jay. Café Sevilla, yes. Tomorrow night, no. Migs and Cee are insisting I go to her office Christmas party because he’s going to pop the question. Migs has no clue that she sees it coming, Cee doesn’t know that I know he bought the ring, they both need me for moral support. You know how it goes. I’d like to invite you, but I don’t know. . . I’m starting to think you’re a figment of my imagination. You know, an eggnog mirage. Like Santa, I’ma need to see you to believe you. Byyye!
Misss Nancelot! You know, I almost took you up on your invitation to Cee’s office party, but I decided I want you to myself. And by the way, I known you know I’m real. You know how I know? I’ll tell you when I see you. Sevilla’s on Friday?
J-Real, so we be chillin’ at Sevilla’s on Friday, but can we make it seven, babe? I have an appointment in Brooklyn at four. Don’t want to be late lest you get it twisted. I ain’t skeered of you.

************************************************************************
The interview I scored at the up and coming design boutique in Williamsburg goes so well, I lose track of time. I had applied only because I had no choice but to go back into the traditional workforce, but fifteen minutes after I arrive, I decide I really want this job. The pay is much less than I made at the stationery company since it’s a mom-and-pop shop – or maybe I should say a papi-y-papi shop since my bosses are two older Latino gay men – but the job requires true creativity. Not only will I gain new skills, I’ll also learn about the business. I can see myself happily making the hour-and-half commute every day for several years until I either become a partner or strike out on my own again with a real shot at making it.
I leave the loft knowing that the reference check is just a formality, and I can’t wait to see Jay and tell him all about it. I glance at the clock in the lobby. It’s five-thirty. I’ll be cutting it close, but I should make it to Café Sevilla’s on time, especially since it’s rush hour. And first chance I get, I’ll switch to the express. On my way to the subway station, it starts to flurry, and the holiday spirit just grabs me. I even start humming Sleigh Ride. When I realize how corny I’m being, I actually start to sing.

************************************************************************
Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a problem with the train in front of us. As soon as we can, we will be moving. We apologize for the inconvenience and appreciate your patience.
Liar! We have moved, like, seven inches in the last half-hour. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me. I’m a native New Yorker, and like it or not, these unforeseen delays happen, and I can take them in stride. But not today, damn it! For the past year and a half I’ve been working from home with only rare occasion to go into Manhattan, and now the subway wants to act up?
It wouldn’t be so bad if my train at least had paused in a station. That way I could just get off, find a pay phone and let Jay know that I’m running late. But we’re stuck underground where I couldn’t even get a signal if I had my cell phone.
The train finally crawls into the next station, making me a half-hour late. At least now I can do something besides sit and wait. I paw my way through the rush-hour crowd – thicker with the holiday shopping bags – and onto the platform. I practically have to walk to the other end to find a pay phone.
I lose a dollar and watch my train leave the station before I realize that bastard doesn’t work. But I keep my cool. It’s not like that train is going to pick up speed and make up time. I look at the system map and see that another subway line is not far. I’ll just walk to it and stop at a pay phone to call Jay on the way.

************************************************************************
Damn it, I forgot how deceivingly close things seem on a Metropolitan Transit Authority map. Not to mention how a working pay phone in New York City is much like Santa Claus and Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer – something that ceased to exist in my universe once I turned ten.
I walk at least a mile in my interview pumps and lose several more dollars at five pay phones before I reach the next subway line. I imagine Jay sitting at Sevilla’s, checking his watch and wondering if I stood him up. Having used my cell phone instead of wearing a watch for years, I have no idea what time it is until I get to the station. It’s now a quarter after six. I can forget about getting there by seven. At best, I’ll make it by seven-thirty. That is, if nothing else goes wrong.
Jay will give me until seven-thirty. He knows I’d call him if I could. I mean, the man knows I have no phone. Well, at least no mobile phone. He has my cell phone. So he’ll cut me some slack and give me until seven-thirty.
Won’t he?
I mean, he’s been flirting with me for over a week. Surely, Jay’s not going to jump ship at the first misunderstanding, is he?
Then again, why shouldn’t he? Especially since I’ve been playing hard to get. Well, not playing, but. . .
I have to do something. Last night I swallowed my pride and asked Cee to lend me a few bucks. Despite all his flirtation, I didn’t want to risk that Jay would offer to treat me to dinner. Even if he did, I planned to insist on paying for myself. The way I see it, I have two choices.
One, I could just stick with public transportation with the hope that Jay is still waiting for me at the restaurant. Once there I then could recover a modicum of pride by paying for my own meal. And I would never have to reveal just how much life has sucked for the past few months.
Two, I could use the cash I have to take a cab, perhaps get there only fashionably late and confess my poverty to Jay when it came time to order.
“Taxi!”

************************************************************************
Those damned flurries I had been serenading just hours before become the bane of my existence. They contribute to a three car fender-bender on the FDR Drive. I arrive at Café Sevilla’s at ten after eight. As I run from the cab to the entrance, I keep telling myself that Jay’s still there. Of course, he’s there. Jay’s here.
But he isn’t.
At least, I have enough cash left for a margarita. Reluctant to head home to an answering machine of messages from collection agencies threatening to keep me out of heaven, Cee dying to know how my momentous day went, and Jay sparing the fewest words to let me know that my cell phone is in the mail, I sidle up to the bar. I ask the bartender to bring me a margarita. As he prepares it, I reach into my purse to pay only to
realize that the bill I thought was a twenty is actually only a five.
I would’ve burst into tears if Jay didn’t fly through the door that second. “Nancy!” He’s adorably messy, and I find myself wondering – hoping – that I look the same to him.
“Joaquín!” We give each other a hug, and I get a whiff of his cologne. I have to smile because Jay never wears cologne.
“Thank God, you’re still here.” He exhales and plops onto the barstool next to me. “You wouldn’t believe how bad traffic was.”
I laugh. “Try me.”
He seems relieved that I’m not pissed. “And I couldn’t call you. . .”
“. . . because you have my phone.” I wait for Jay to order himself a Scotch and soda. “Speaking of which. . .”
He grins at me. “I got your phone because the sales clerk at Nordstrom who found it called me. So I drove to White Plains to pick it up.”
He pauses to sip his drink as if that’s all there is to it. “Why of all people in my address book would she call you, Jay? It’s not like you were one of my recent calls. We haven’t spoken in over a year.”
Jay reaches into his pocket and pulls out my cell phone. He opens it up and scrolls through it. “Because I’m still your primary I.C.E.,” he says as he finally returns my telephone.
I take it from him. In my address book, he has highlighted I.C.E. #1- Jay. I.C.E #2 says Miguel and I.C.E. #3, of course, is Celestina.
Now it makes sense. When we moved in together, I made Jay my primary In Case of Emergency contact, and after all this time, I never changed it. To think that there was a time Jay outranked my older brother and best friend. That’s how much he meant to me.
And he still does, I realize. That’s why I snapped out of my whiny funk when Jay reappeared in my life. That’s why I had to get to Sevilla’s before he could leave. That’s how Jay knows that I know he’s real.
I feel Jay’s hand brushing my hair off my face in a way that tells me he hasn’t noticed the split ends or the dulling highlights. He asks, “I’ve missed you so much, Nancy.”
“Even after all the fighting over nothing?”
“But it wasn’t over nothing. You were starting the business, I was trying to finish my dissertation, and those things became more important than our relationship. We were drifting apart.” Jay takes my hands in his. “I used to think that was the reason why were starting arguments with each other over the stupidest thing. That that’s why the best thing was to break up.”
“So did I.”
“Well, now I understand that sometimes people who love each other fight as a way to connect. Or in our case, stay connected. I like to think that if we had known that then, we would’ve found a way to work it out.”
“New psychological insight, huh?” I lean forward to press my forehead against Jay’s chin. I wait for him to kiss my forehead and then pull back to look into his eyes. “Hey, you’re Dr. Ocasio now, aren’t you?” In the year and half since we were together, Jay must have completed and defended his dissertation. I reach for my margarita. “We have to celebrate.”
Jay’s eyes flutter. “Not quite. . .” He tries to laugh off the embarrassment of not having yet earned his doctorate. “Let’s stay positive. Tell me how’s the business going.”
“Oh. It’s going.” I roll my eyes. “Going, going, gone.” Jay and I laugh. “I guess this wasn’t our year, Jay.” I raise my glass in a toast. “To next year.”
Jay lifts his Scotch and soda. “Our year.”
We tap our glasses, but instead of taking sips, we kiss.

************************************************************************

Want to win not one, not two, but all three Black Artemis novels I've written to date? Then post your answer to this question below before midnight: What Brooklyn neighborhood did Nancy go to for her job interview? A random winner will be selected from all the correct entries and tomorrow the winner's name will posted on Toni Plummer's blog along with the last story of the tour. Enjoy and Good

An Author's Holiday Wish List

2007-12-11T12:51:00.000-05:00

If you're a reader, you're probably giving more thoughts to book now that the holiday season is underway. You're thinking about books you'd like to receive as presents, books you'd like to give as gifts, books you'd like to read over the holidays and the like. If you are or have a writer in your life, you may have considered what you can treat yourself or that person to in an effort to keep the words flowing. (Friend and author Mary Castillo has some cool ideas on her blog called Mary's Favorite Things.)

During this season of generosity and giving, I'd like to humbly request that you bestow a present on your favorite author. As much as we love it, the writing life is hard. Along with the magic of being creative comes the challenge of staying in business. Publishing is an increasingly difficult industry, complicated by the mystery of how it actually does and does not work to our readers. That is, the folks who may appreciate us the most tend to know the least about what we go through to get that book into your hands. As a result, sometimes our biggest fans do things – or fail to do things – that hurt our ability to get that next book to you.

So in this season of giving, I'd like to recommend to book lovers things you can do before the end of 2007 to be sure that your favorite author can continue to serve your entertainment and/or enlightenment needs in 2008 and beyond. They cost little to no time or money, and make all the difference. Here's what's on my holiday wish list.

Buy your copy. To properly feed you favorite author, you must buy the book, LOL! Seriously, it's that simple. If you borrow if from your friend and then pass it on to your cousin, of course, we're flattered. But we're also in trouble. The biggest thing that makes the publishing house think, "This is an author we should keep publishing," is book sales. Word of mouth only helps an author if it translates into more books sold not borrowed. There's no way to track borrowed books so please, if you can afford it, buy our books rather than borrow them from someone else.

Buy the book for someone else. In general, books are fantastic gifts because there's one for every person, even the one who hates to read. Now to give back specifically to your favorite author, buy the book you love most and give it to someone else who you think will love it, too. Don't just tell him or her, "You have to read this," and hope they do. And because it bears repeating, certainly don't give that person your copy, LOL! Buy the book for them. If you can get it autographed, that's a special touch, and most authors love to oblige if you're cover the postage and give us enough time. Chances are that if you go to such a length to stand by your recommendation, the person will actually make the time to read it. There's no better way for a fan of an author to show his or her appreciation than by recruiting new readers to our work. J

Ask for it at the library. Not all people who love to read can afford to buy books, but you can still support your favorite author through your local public library. Simply ask the librarian to order copies of our books if the neighborhood branch doesn't already have them. In their diligent effort to serve you, librarians do keep track of such requests as well as monitor which books are borrowed most frequently. Get your favorite author on your librarian's radar, and you have done an incredibly helpful thing.

Write a review. We don't care if it's on Amazon, your personal blog or an email you send to some friends. If you love what we've done, put it in writing so that others can see it. Especially the people who have the capacity to keep us in business. J

Tell us if no one else. Even if you're hesitant about posting your opinion of our work on the internet, at least consider letting us know how you feel. I have a folder called Besos where I keep all my fan e-mail forever! When a reviewer chops me up, I don't get that grant I was so confident about or just am having a hard time showing up to the page, I look through that folder for inspiration and motivation. I know other authors who do the same. We may not always answer (especially if your note comes when we're under deadline), but we ALWAYS appreciate it and read it over and over again! J If you do nothing else this holiday season, write a few lines to your favorite author telling them that you enjoyed their last book and are looking forward to the next one. That's it. You don't have to prove to us that you caught every nuance or read every title. We don't care about your spelling, grammar or punctuation. We only care that you exist.

If we disappoint you, nicely pull us aside. Now I don't suggest you do this during the holiday season, but. . . There's always room to grow, and every artist needs people – especially fans who truly wish us continued success – to tell us how. If for some reason, our latest work was not up to your expectations, we don't mind if you tell us. To be in this business, we have to have thick skins. Just take care to put more emphasis on love than on tough, and we'll know that you're criticism comes from a good place and take it seriously. Don't blast us on Amazon. Tell us nicely in a private email, "This didn't work for me because. . ." Be specific and constructive. Remember that we are human beings who make mistakes, have flaws and possess feelings. We know the difference between an honest but compassionate appraisal from a supporter that should be considered and an attack from a hater with a dubious agenda that should be ignored (or sometimes even checked or maybe that's just me who does that, LOL!)

Limit the request on freebies. Many authors love to meet with their fans be it at book signings, club meetings, online chats and teleconferences. Some of us can command sizable fees to speak to a group (and we must to survive despite the pervasive myth that getting published renders an author into an overnight millionaire.) Despite the need to supplement our writing income, we will often meet with a local book club for no cost. The way we see it is that you have supported us by buying the books, and we are glad to reciprocate with a few hours of our time. We also see it as an opportunity to say thanks for the support as well as to discover what resonates (or not) with our readers. I find this especially true of young adult authors who will gladly give of their time to visit schools and centers in their community.

However, if you're going to ask a local author to donate his or her time, don't ask for free books, too. Too many times schools, centers and organizations will ask an author to come speak (sometimes even teach!) when they haven't even purchased copies of the book for the library. ??? We know that public institutions and nonprofit organizations are underbudgeted. But so is your average novelist! An author cannot live to write another day when (1) s/he is volunteering her time to meet with your group in person that could be spent working on her next project yet (2) also constantly give away books for free. The cliché that time is money and money is time is true here. Please ask for volunteer time or request books but understand why we cannot always give you both.

These small efforts are the gift that keeps on giving because they help keep us in the business of writing stories that you love to read. Promise to do one of the above for just one author this holiday season. It makes a difference not only spiritually but materially, too.

Can I get an amen from some other authors out there? Additions are welcomed, too. Just remember to keep them low on cost and time.

12 Days of Chica Lit Starts Today: Here's the Lineup & Schedule

2007-12-11T10:58:00.000-05:00

Every day starting today 12/11 through 12/23, travel from blog to blog to read great holiday stories, discover tasty recipes and have chances to win awesome prizes.

12.11.07: Mary Castillo, Author of Switchcraft

12.12.07: Berta Platas, author of Cinderella Lopez

12.13.07: Mayra Calvani, author of Dark Lullaby

12.14.07: Caridad Pineiro, author of Holiday With A Vampire: Christmas Cravings\Fate Calls (Silhouette Nocturne)

12.15.07: Lara Rios, author of Becoming Americana

12.16.07: Caridad Ferrer, author of It's Not About the Accent

12.17.07: Margo Candela, author of Life Over Easy

12.18.07: Kathy Cano Murillo, author of
Crafty Chica's Art de la Soul: Glittery Ideas to Liven Up Your Life

12.19.07: Tracy Montoya, author of Telling Secrets (Harlequin Intrigue Series)

12.20.07: Jamie Martinez Wood, author of Latino Writers And Journalists (A to Z of Latino Americans)

12.21.07: Misa Ramirez, author of Lola PI: Living La Vida Lola coming soon in 2009 from St. Martin's Press

12.22.07: Sofia Quintero, author of Divas Don't Yield: A Novel (Many Cultures, One World)

12.23.07: Toni Margarita Plummer, author and editor

What Happens to Female Film Directors of Color?

2007-11-05T15:50:00.001-05:00

As I prepare to direct the book trailer for my novel PICTURE ME ROLLIN', I went to the video store to rents several films that might have the sensibility I wanted to emulate. One of the film's I rented to watch again was JUST ANOTHER GIRL ON THE IRT written and directed by Leslie Harris.

I found myself wondering what happened to Leslie Harris. Has she made any films since her debut? After all, JUSTANOTHER GIRL ON THE IRT won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance in 1993. That usually means that someone somewhere is going to gamble on the director's next feature.

I go to the Internet Movie Database and enter Leslie's name. According to IMDB.com, despite her auspicious debut, Leslie has yet to write or direct another film. She doesn't even have a website.

This made me curious about another woman of color whose debut film received critical acclaim. I entered the name of Karyn Kusama who wrote and directed GIRLFIGHT, the 2000 independent film that launched the career of Michelle Rodriguez. GIRLFIGHT also won Sundance and scores of other prestigious nominations and awards. But it took five years for Karyn to get a break in Hollywood helming the ill-fated AEON FLUX. Since then she has only directed a single episode of THE L WORD.

The continued success of Darnell Martin conjures mixed feelings in me. Darnell's debut film I LIKE IT LIKE THAT made history as the first feature produced by a Hollywood studio to be helmed by an African American woman. I LIKE IT LIKE THAT won many kudos, too. But it took seven years for Darnell to make another feature length film - PRISON SONG. If PRISON SONG ever received a theatrical release it was short-lived and received little to no marketing.

Since I LIKE IT LIKE THAT, Darnell has directed several television projects, including multiple episodes of critically acclaimed series such as OZ and LAW AND ORDER. However, it's a mixed blessing. It's heartening to see such a talented sister earning a living as a director yet anyone who has seen I LIKE IT LIKE THAT and knows anything about the craft of filmmaking can tell you (if they're honest) that a talent like Darnell should be making films with the same regularity as directors Charles Stone or F. Gary Gray.

In fact, there are some male directors regardless of race who helm feature films on a regular basis that can't touch Darnell's talent. I can think of a few hacks who find the financing and distribution to make one clich� after the other while years pass between features from women like Leslie, Karyn and Darnell. Whether in the independent front or the Hollywood scene, my business partner and our female peers are constantly told that our �urban� stories will never be produced unless we do it ourselves. �Urban� (whatever the hell that's code for, it always applies to our projects) doesn't sell, they tell us. It won't make money. But rarely a weekend passes where a project not unlike one of ours is released. They may or may not be particularly original or well done, but they are there, always dominated before and behind the camera by men.

Music videos have been a major springboard for many men - especially men of color on the hip hop scene - to receive an opportunity to direct a mainstream feature-length film. Names of such men easily come to mind - David Fincher (one of my favorite directors), F. Gary Gray, Brett Ratner, Spike Jonze, Hype Williams, Jessy Terrero. . . But I can't name a single woman of color who has leveraged a stint in music videos into narrative film. Hell, I don't know of woman of any race who directs music videos on regular basis. Directors Franc Reyes and Andy Tennant started their careers as dancers, but has anyone given Rocafella, Tina Landon or Laurie Ann Gibson an opportunity to direct a video let alone a feature?

To finally see a female music video director who worked consistently, I had to invent her for my novel EXPLICIT CONTENT.

Despite all its pretense of liberalism, the industry conspires to give men - regardless of race, genre or even skill - an opportunity to tell their stories. It matters little if those stories are fresh or clich�. Sometimes it doesn't even matter if the projects is a commercial failure. There still seems to be chance for a male director whose film fails to find another opportunity to redeem himself. I'm still waiting for Leslie and Karyn to be given that same chance.

The latest statistic is that less than four per cent of directors are women. Women of color don't even comprise a single per cent. Yes, in 2007, the number remains this low.

And it clearly isn't for lack of available talent. In the past fifteen years, we have seen quite a few amazing women of color emerge with promising debuts only to languish before being given the resources to direct a second feature. When they do, it is often with a weak screenplay plucked out of development hell then poorly marketed (e.g. AEON FLUX. Come to think of it, the studios didn't even properly market GIRLFIGHT so if you ask me, Karyn Kusama never got a full break. And despite some major flaws, Monique's PHAT GIRLZ was not the low-brow ghetto comedy it was promoted to be. All this for another blog at another time.) While producers and distributors continue to bank on the boys and their projects - some who undoubtedly deserve it, and others who clearly don't- sisters must continue to resort to doing it for themselves.

Leslie, I know a long time has passed since JUST ANOTHER GIRL ON THE IRT, BUT I hope the first time we heard from you won't be the last.

Kique's Ghost - The 3rd Story in the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour

2007-10-29T11:49:00.001-04:00

KIQUE'S GHOST

By Sof�a Quintero

Even through the veil of my hat, I see all eyes are on me as I sachet down the aisle toward Kique's casket. Good. That's the main reason why I squeezed my big ass into the red spandex dress. The same dress I wore on our first date when I was two sizes smaller.

Just as I reach the casket, a teary-eyed girl barely out of her teens carries away a toddler on her hip. Don't ask, Lili. Just let it go. I take a deep breath and look into the casket. Damn it if Kique don't look good! The bochinche was that the last woman he burned had shot him right between the eyes. Guess not. I glance at his crotch. Well, if she aimed there, the damage is not obvious.

'Chacho, the undertaker really did an amazing job. Kique's soul patch is sharply trimmed. Those perfect lips, rose and soft, are shaped into his signature smirk. Kique looks exactly the same way he did the day I realized I had fallen for him. That memory gives me the courage to do what I vowed I would to all my disbelieving girlfriends when this day came.

I look to my left then check to my right. Everyone is too busy mourning - or glaring at the llorona en la esquina who's making a performance of it - to watch me. I lean over Kique's body, lift my veil and spit on him.

�Burn in hell, asqueroso!�

Then I spin on the heels of my Via Spiga stilettos and march out of the funeral. Through the veil of my hat, I watch the others as they stare at me, their eyes so swollen and red. Look at them crying for Kique. Wearing black. Falling over themselves to praise him now that the son of a bitch is dead.

Di que Kique was so funny 'Member the time he did eso y lo otro?

Or when he was working, Kique was so generous.

And my personal favorite. Kique loved his children. All five of them. If he knew about 'em, he loved the hell out of them kids of his.

�Hipocritas! All of them, if they truly knew him. Where's the bitch who shot him? That's who I want to see. Shake her hand. Buy her a drink. Ask if his eyes were open when she did it. Why she did it? I don't need to ask her that.

Just as I push open the door that leads from the parlor into the lobby, I hear glass crash against the tiled floor. A black wave rushes by me as mourners run past me toward the commotion. When I reach the scene, Kique's brother and best friend pull apart two women who still claw for each other. Water, glass, and carnations are all over the lobby floor.

��Saca a esa pedenja, Junior!� yells the petite negrita with the box braids. �She didn't give a shit about Kique, and everybody knows it!�

The voluptuous chinita screams back, �You've always been jealous of me, bitch, because I'm the mother of his only son.�

Someone behinds me sucks her teeth. �That ain't true,� she mumbles �Doesn't Kique have a son in Santo Domingo?�

Another woman say, �And a daughter in Haina.� The revelation inspires several gasps. Don't these people know by now that scuttlebutt regarding Kique's �reproductivity� should be believed until proven otherwise?

I'm so over all this. As the catfight ensues, I ease my way through the crowd to the exit. By the door is an easel with a poster of Kique from his three-month stint as a real estate agent. It reads Enrique �Kique� Gilberto Mendoza, April 29, 1967 - October 29, 2007. As I walk by the easel, I snarl at Kique's picture and point to the crowd. �Damn it, Kique . . . even in death!�

Once outside the funeral home, I hand the parking attendant my ticket. As I wait for him to bring my car, I break out a cigarette. Fuckin' Kique Mendoza's dead.

I had just turned twenty when we met. Before Kique I was too busy being the dutiful daughter to date. Going to college, working my way through school, practically becoming the matriarch of the family as my mother cared for my father. . . What little time I had for a social life, I didn't want to waste on the boys around me because they were just that. Boys who just wanted one thing and yet were incapable or unwilling to offer much in return.

Then Kique came along and swept me off my feet, giving me all the romance I had been missing. Craving really. Then he ruined me for all men.

That's not a compliment.

Suddenly, a chill dances up my spine, and I shiver. What gives? It was almost seventy degrees when I left my apartment! The temperature must have dropped drastically in the few minutes I had been inside the funeral home. That's October in New York for you.

I wrap my arms myself while I wait for the valet to bring my car. He takes his time, stealing long glances at my dress. Or more like my ass busting out of it. That's why you're cold, Lili! I flick away my cigarette and drag the valet out of the driver seat so I can hop in. The car's pretty damn cold, too, so I blast on the heat as I drive off.

Only when I pull onto the Bronx River Parkway do I remember I still have on this silly hat with the veil. I laugh at myself as I sit on the entrance ramp and check oncoming traffic. Just before I'm about to merge, I pull off the hat and fling it onto the passenger seat.

�Nice hat.�

I almost give myself whiplash in the direction of the voice. Kique? He wears his burial suit, my spit sliding down his tie. In fact, Kique, his suit, his body, all opaque like crepe paper. But my saliva glistens in the ray of sunlight beaming through the front car window, just as fresh as I cut it loose.

I scream so loud that only the blaring of the horns of the cars behind me snaps me out of it. And what does Kique do? He chuckles condescendingly the way he always did when faced with a woman he drove to hysteria. �Pull over, Lillian,� he says, pointing to the shoulder. He folds up the tail of his tie to blot at my spit. �We need to talk about this lingering rage of yours.�

My mind scampers, trying to remember how to handle a ghost. A wooden stake through the heart! No, that's for vampires. Besides, who the hell keeps a wooden stake in the glove compartment? Then it hits me. I do have my shiny new Club under my seat. I hit my blinker and make my way to the shoulder of the parkway.

Kique continues to rub at his tie, but the spit remains as if untouched. �Spitting on me. . . he says. �What were you thinking, Lili?�

Oh, now you want to know, asshole? The second I arrive at the shoulder, I reach down to grab the Club and swing it with all my might at Kique's head. It slices right through him, banging against the passenger window and ripping a crack through it. �Fuck!�

Only the sound of cracking glass makes Kique realize what I had tried to do. �First, you spit at me and now this?� He squints at me. �What happened to the sweet nena tranquila who would look away whenever I told her she was beautiful?�

Anger finally erupts, taking me far past fear. �Damn it, Kique, what are you doing here?� Then I remember. When you encounter a ghost, you're supposed to confront it. Ask him what he wants so you can give him what he needs to move on. They say sometimes a person just doesn't know or hasn't accepted that he's dead until a living person breaks it to him and convinces him to let go of earth. God, I hope this is not Kique's problem. The man was so full of hubris, it'll take his ghost weeks of hopelessly chasing live women before he accepts that he doesn't have �it� anymore and take his game to the netherworld. �You're dead and no longer belong here,� I say. �Que en carajo is holding you back?�

�I need you to forgive me, Lili.� He blinks at me like a child, that infamous smirk gone. �Without your forgiveness, I can't rest in peace.�

Shit. If that's true, I'm fucked. As a child, I never even had an imaginary friend but now at the age of thirty-three, I'm stuck with the ghost of the only man I ever loved? That'd be bearable if he also wasn't the worst ex-boyfriend I ever had. Like it wasn't bad enough that he lied to me about how many his-and-her kids he had, chased away my few male friends with his possessiveness, and eventually cheated on me with the most psychotic of his baby mamas. After I left him, Kique would stalk me every time he was in between women - from the �Oh, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop to say hi� drives by my apartment to the �IF YOU REALLY FUCKIN' LOVED ME YOU NEVER WOULD'VE LEFT SO EASY, YOU HEARTLESS BITCH!!!� messages on my answering machine. I finally had to file a restraining order against him.

�Of all the women you've known and screwed in your forty years on this planet, why me, Kique?� I yell. �I mean, according to the chisme, I got off easy.�

Kique cocks his head to the side. �That's true. What I did to you is nothing compared to what I did to Sherry. Or Flaca. Or La Bembe. . . � I roll my eyes at him, and he halts the roll call of his victims. Kique looks at me with those sad eyes. Not those telenovela eyes reserved for performing deception and manipulation. The sincere eyes that I rarely saw in the short but intense six months we were together. The ones filled with tears at my father's funeral. The eyes wide with fear when Kique Jr. was diagnosed with leukemia then tight with joy when the cancer went into remission. The eyes that slacked with resignation when it finally sunk in that when I said I was never going back to him, I meant it and not playing along with the usual script he enacted with his other women.

Kique says, �But it doesn't matter that I was at my worst with them. You were the one I hurt the most. That's because you were the only one who truly loved me.�

I did love the son of a bitch. It hadn't matter to me that he was a twenty-eight year old father of three children already. I didn't care that he had those children with two different women, neither of whom he married. I didn't care that he only had a G.E.D. and changed his career every month.

�Look, Enrique, I really do want to forgive you. I mean, it's been thirteen years.� I say. Can you lie to a ghost? Probably not. So I level with him. �But I just can't. I've gone for months, even years not giving you a second thought, but when a certain song comes on the radio or I drive by a place you took me to, all the dirt you did comes rushing back right along with all the hurt and anger, and it feels like it just happened yesterday.� And here the feelings come again, and this time with an additional dose of despair. I start to cry. �I want to let go of all that shit. I've tried really hard to focus on all the good times we had. But I just can't.� Now I start to sob. �The fact that you're dead now doesn't change it.�

Kique shakes his head, and that smirk of his reappears. Bastard. This is what he wanted all along. Rest in peace my ass, he came to haunt me. Like the realization that I will never be free of these ugly feelings toward him wasn't horrible enough. I'd try again to crash in his skull if I knew it'd do any damage. Maybe I should do it anyway, it night make me feel better even if just for a moment. No, Lili, you can't afford to break that window any worse.

�So you can't forgive me,� says Kique. �Do you know what that means?�

I wipe my runny nose against my sleeve. �What?�

�You haven't forgiven yourself yet.�

I suck my teeth at him. �Forgive myself for what?�

Kique sucks his teeth back at me. He knows I hate when he mimics me, pendejo. �For putting up with the shit I did and never giving me the hell I deserved for it.�

I think about that. I was so young. Back then I thought that if you were truly committed, you loved unconditionally and that meant relaxing my standards beyond recognition. All through high school and college, I told myself You're pretty, intelligent. . . You come from a good family. You're getting an education and planning a career. Why is it so hard for you to find a boyfriend? Then Kique came along and heaped on the romance, and grateful for attention, the validation, I did overtime to rationalize all the flags. So he didn't go to college. Don't be such an elitist, Lillian. And so what Kique has three kids but has never been married? Nena, if you prefer a Latino man and rule out single fathers, you drain an already shallow pool! OK, so he didn't tell you about them until you were head over heels. He was falling for you and was afraid of losing you. How can you not forgive him for that?

For the first three months when things were idyllic, it was easy. Kique always has a job, sometimes two. Kique not only supports his kids, he actually makes time for them. He didn't pressure you into sex, was gentle when you were ready, and is always attentive to your pleasure. I used all the good things about Kique as excuses for putting up with the mind games he played during the last three months. Only when he stood me up one night after going to his ex's apartment to visit his son did I draw the line. He said that had just pulled a double shift but didn't want to disappoint Kique, Jr. and ended up falling asleep on his ex's couch.

While he was �sleeping on the ex's couch,� I was crying my eyes out on mine. But the possibility that Kique had been cheating on me was the farthest notion from my mind. In my lovestruck naivete, I truly thought that something terrible had happened to Kique. (He did allude to a thuggish youth.) I had called his job, his friends, and even his mother. She actually sighed and said, �Nena, there's nothing wrong with that boy for you to be so worried about him. Nothing you can fix anyway, and you shouldn't have to if you could because you're a good girl, Lili. Por favor don't give Kique another thought.�

I couldn't understand how his own mother could say such a thing. Eventually, Kique arrived at my door with a half-dozen roses. I rushed into his arms, sobbing with relief that Kique was with me in one piece.

My genuine concern floored Kique to the point that he couldn't tell me his story with a straight face. He expected me to be furious. To interrogate him while knowing all along what he had been up to, curse him out, maybe even hurl something at his head. Then Kique was supposed to seduce me, I was supposed to forgive him, and then we were supposed to have a fuckfest, all the while knowing that we were entering into an unspoken agreement that this scenario would repeat itself for as long as we were together.

The problem was I had really loved and trusted Kique with all my heart. Unlike his other women, I didn't need to be with him. I wanted to be with him. Looking past all our differences, I chose Kique, and that made his betrayal all the more egregious. As young and inexperienced as I might have been, I wasn't going to tolerate his constant betrayal of my love and trust. When Kique pulled me away from, looked me in the eye and insisted that nothing had happened between his ex and himself, the guilt in his eyes told me that I needed to stop lying to myself. He was not the man for me.

Damn it, Kique, er, his ghost or whoever, he's right. It's been thirteen years since I've been with the man, and I still haven't forgiven him for what he had done to me. But that's because I still blame myself for allowing him to do it.

I look at Kique who's checking himself out in the rear view mirror. Some things never change. �Kique. . .� I say to get his attention. He taps his finger on his tongue then wipes it across his eyebrow before looking at me. I snicker at the paradox of his old vanity and his newfound depth. �When did you get so damn insightful?� I ask.

�When you run toward the light,� he smiles, �a lot of things get really clear.�

�You're supposed avoid the light, Kique, not make a mad dash toward it.�

�Only if you want to live, Lili. Not when you're ready to go.� He pauses then continues, his voice heavy with exhaustion. �'Chacha, I ran toward that light, and I got, like, hosed with more wisdom then I could handle. That's probably why I had to come back and unload some of it. You know, before I could rest.�

It never occurred to me that Kique was unhappy. When I would hear through the grapevine about his latest escapades with the woman of the hour, I would swear that he enjoyed it. That it was all sport for him. That he reveled in the drama that he created over and over again. How bad it must have been for Kique to be so ready to let go and leave his kids behind. Especially if in that rush toward the light and the accompanying torrent of wisdom, he finally got an accurate count of how many kids he actually fathered.

I try to find something nice to say. Despite all the bonding, it's kind of hard. Finally, I settle on, �You made a really pretty corpse, Kique.�

Of course, he beams at that. �Thanks, Lillian. And thanks for coming to my wake in my favorite dress.� He hands me the veiled hat. �You know, you were the best thing that ever happened to me, but I always knew you deserved better.� Kique has said that to me before, but for the first time, I actually believe he's sincere. �That's why I did everything to mess it up. Then when I did mess it up, I tried so hard to win you back. Which is why when you wouldn't take me back, I got ugly. But I never stopped loving you, Lili. I mean, as best as a guy like me could. I truly gave you my best and, I'm sorry it wasn't worth much and that I broke your heart.�

I take a deep breath and give a long exhale. �I forgive you, Enrique.�

�No, you don't.� Ever the drama king, he practically sings when he says it. �You're just saying that to get rid of me.�

�Uh, if you were in my shoes, wouldn't you?�

�Yeah, but 'member what I said. You can't forgive me until you forgive yourself. You didn't realize that was why you were stuck until I told you three minutes ago so no way you're gonna get over it. . .� Kique snaps his fingers. �� Just like that.�

I think I'm going to cry again, this time out of frustration. The ghost is more trying than the man ever was, I swear. �OK, here's the deal, Kique. In order for me to forgive myself so that I can forgive you, you gots to go, man. I mean, be reasonable here. If you haunt me, you're gonna piss me off, and that kind of defeats the purpose, don't you think?�

Kique gives it some thought. �Yeah, I can see that.�

�And have I ever lied to you.�

�No.�

�So please I'm asking you to trust me on this. If you leave and go wherever it is you belong - and stay there! - I promise you that I will work through this.� I start to cross my heart but quit when I remember that the last time I crossed myself, I heaved a wad a spit onto Kique's cold body as it lay in a casket. �In fact, I guarantee you, Kique, your leaving is going to go a looong way in helping me make peace with what happened between us. It's best for both of us if you go.�

There goes that impish smile again. I brace myself for the worst, but Kique say, �OK.� His apparition steps through the door and climbs out of my car. My car suddenly becomes so hot, I snap off the heat. Kique turns around to look at me through the cracked glass of my passenger window. �One more thing, Lili.�

Damn it. �What?�

�An incentive.�

�What, Kique, what?�

�That dude who keeps hanging around your cubicle? Stop punishing yourself by blowing him off. He's the One.�

�Huh?�

�Nena, don't play dumb, you know you're no good at it. I ain't telling you nothing you haven't already wondered. Get over yourself and go out with the man.�

Before I can say thanks and goodbye, Kique's ghost blows me a kiss, pulls away from my car and just fades away.

� Sofia Quintero 2007

It's Not Too Late to Join the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour

2007-10-28T17:55:00.001-04:00

Organized by the one and only Crafty Chica Kathy Cano-Murillo, the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour features short ghost stories from five of your favorite authors in the chica lit genre.

It started this Saturday, October 27^th and continues right through Halloween The authors -- including Sister Outsider's Sofia Quintero -- write and post short Halloween tales on to their blogs for all their fans to see. From freaky to funny, you won't want to miss a single story. Here's the schedule. Missed a day? Don't worry, it'll still be there.

Saturday 10/27 – Berta Platas
Author of "Cinderella Lopez"

Sunday 10/28 - Mary Castillo
Author of "Switchcraft"

Monday 10/29 - Sofia Quintero
Author of "Divas Don't Yield"

Tuesday 10/30 - Kathy Cano-Murillo
Author of "The Crafty Chica Collection"

Wednesday 10/31 - Caridad Pineiro
Author of "The South Beach Chicas Get Their Man"

Because October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month

2007-10-23T15:24:00.001-04:00

The following monologue is an excerpt from my novel Picture Me Rollin. In this scene, the protagonist Esperanza explains to her mentor Maite how her mother ended up in a prison. If you own the novel, you will find it on page 186.

"He kept beating on her and beating on her, and they would arrest him and let him go. They told her to leave him, but he said he would kill her if she did, and she had every reason to believe him. So Mami tried to get him to move out without breaking up with him. She begged him to leave. 'It's not good for our girls to see us fighting like this all the time.' And the cabez�n. . . His name was Roland, but behind his back Dulce and I used to call him el cabez�n 'cause he had this big head in every sense of the word. Mami never even knew we called him that 'cause she wanted us to show him respect. Anyway, at first Roland fronts like he agrees with Mami, and he starts packing. And little by little, he loses it. He's ranting about all he's done for us, getting us off of welfare, and buying us good food and pretty clothes. Roland's grabbing anything and everything he thinks he bought for the house, throwing things in his boxes. He storms into the kitchen and rips the radio out of the wall. Mami's behind him. She's not trying to stop him from taking anything; she's just trying to call him down. And then he reaches into the dish rack and grabs the knife. So, you see, Mami got lucky in that fight, because it was el cabez�n who went into the kitchen and got the knife. I don't know how she got it from him, but if she hadn't she'd be dead . . . . She'd be dead, and he'd be out by now beating on somebody else. But people in my neighborhood are, like, 'Brenda got lucky. She got the knife. She got lucky.' But Mami wasn't lucky. Three years of black eyes, loose teeth, and cracked ribs. But they called my mother a murderer."

One of the reasons why I wrote Picture Me Rollin was to bring awareness to this little know consequence of domestic violence. There's an increase in the number of women incarcerated in U.S. prisons, and a significant factor in this increase is domestic violence. Although our criminal justice system continues to be weak at protecting women from abusive partners, it has been quite strident in criminalizing women who kill their abusers in self-defense. To learn more about this and other related issues, visit the following sites just to start.

Some Facts on Domestic Violence in the United States.

Think the Jennifer Lopez movie Enough is an accurate portrayal of domestic violence? Think again.

INCITE! Women of Color Against Violence

Self-Defense is Not a Crime

National Clearinghouse for the Defense of Battered Women

Join the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour!

2007-10-23T12:42:00.001-04:00

Organized by the one and only Crafty Chica Kathy Cano-Murillo, the Chica Lit Halloween Blog Tour will feature short ghost stories from five of your favorite authors in the chica lit genre.

It all starts on October 27th with Berta Platas, author of Cinderella Lopez. Join us and tell your friends. My story will be posted on October 29th and poses this question: what if the worst boyfriend you ever had died a violent death and didn't have to the decency to go straight to hell where he belonged? ;) Boo!

Terry McMillan Goes Off on Authors/Publishers of Sensationalist Books

2007-10-05T14:42:00.001-04:00

A fellow author (an amazing one actually and a great person at that) was forwarded a letter writtten by Terry McMillan to Karen Hunter. In it she goes off on Karen for helping her ex Jonathan Plummer to write his novel as well as Simon & Schuster for publishing it. Below is what was forwarded to my peer so I don't think it's the entire letter. Nevertheless, these are Terry's words. In any event, I'd love to hear what you think of what she has to say.
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The three of you, along with the other publishing houses who have been kind enough to add "special" urban/ghetto imprints are all about to see a major shift in your ongoing and relentless publication of exploitative, destructive, racist, egregious, sexist, base, tacky, poorly-written, unedited, degrading books. Like a number of Black bookstores who are starting to refuse to sell this trash, I, along with other Black literary organizations, supporters, book clubs as well as writers are about to make our opinions known, to aid in making clear to the public just how demeaning these books are and what it means to our community.
It is sad that it took years of selling trashy sexually-driven as well as tell-alls before so-called black writers were ever allowed in the Big Publishing Houses's Little Rooms enough to FINALLY get our own imprints. Why hasn't Walter Mosley or Edwidge Dandicat or Barak Obama or Terry McMillan or Jamaica Kincaid among others ever offered our very own imprints, I wonder?
I've heard that Simon & Schuster has even gotten some of its authors out of jail just to go on a book tour. Karen, you should be ashamed of yourself, but like Jonathan, I can tell that you (along with your sister-in-law Wendy Williams) are all cut from the same cloth. You care nothing about pride as a Black woman or you wouldn't align yourself or even put your name on some of the ugliest words and stories possible. You are an embarrassment and for someone going around bragging about being a Pulitizer Prize winner (which I understand you are not, that you were associated with other writers at the Daily News who actually deserved it) you should be ashamed of yourself for relying on such a prestigious literary prize to co-write some of the despicable and outrageously base books that you can. I find it sad indeed when a Black woman of your so-called reputation was willing to help my ex-husband write a tell-all describing "the juicy details" about our so-called relationship. You know he is a liar and a thief and that he played me and you didn't care. As long as you got paid, and this is precisely why no one (last week I understand according to Book Scan a whopping 600 copies had sold nationwide, and only 87 on the entire west coast) is buying it. Karinne "Superhead's" book is tanking just like Balancing Act, and RJ's book is not going to fly either.
This is the beginning of a brand new trend, so be prepared for it. Years ago white folks bought us and worked us as slaves. You're doing the same exact thing. The only problem is that back then we didn't go willingly. Malcolm X and Dr. King and Rosa Parks, among others, didn't fight for us to get to This, and this is precisely why you are beginning to see a lack of support for these disgusting books.
So Karen Hunter, you can put your name on them if you want to, and you along with Louise and Carolyn have already been reading on Black Voices (among others) what they have to say about Simon & Schuster (but they're referring to all of the Houses with these ghetto imprints) among other sites, how people are getting fed up with these books, even the "reluctant readers" are bored with who's having sex with whom and degrading tell-alls that show black people in a negative and stereotypical light, have no respect for these type of books, for you Karen Hunter ("run the other way when you see her name") and you have already seen the beginning of downward spiral in your sales department, I'm sure. It's going to continue, because with all things exploitative, the reign always comes to a halt.
Jonathan's reign of terror is. And the publishing industry's exploitative role in all of this is too. And Karen, there are only so many scandals out there, and people are getting tired of reading about others' sex lives. Why don't you write about yours. Give 'em something to talk about.
Sincerely,
Terry McMillan

That White Girl

2007-10-02T09:43:00.001-04:00

If you regularly read my blog or have heard me speak in person, you know that I can be unapologetically proprietary about the term "hip hop." As an activist, I am quite critical of the phrase "hip-hop" being used synonymously with "gangster" and "thug." While I cannot deny the occasional intersection between hip hop and street life, I loathe the wholesale equation with the two. There are very few novels that explore that connection with the complex treatment of the role that race, class and even gender play in it.

There is a new addition to the small but growing canon of bona fide hip hop fiction that steps up to the plate to tackle this important yet difficult task. And check it. It was written by a White woman.

That White Girl is the debut novel of Jennifer "JLove" Calderon (ne� McLaughlin) and is inspired by her own life. Sixteen year old Amber is growing up middle-class in multiracial Denver during the 80s and attempting to find her place. Her search for community leads her to many places including, from a graffiti crew to the local Crips and all the drama that entails. These experiences force Amber to grapple with a variety of issues, both personal and political.

In the wrong hands, That White Girl could have been all the things that hip hops of color love to hate: White girl dabbles in Black culture – or what she thinks is "authentic" Black culture, whines, "Why can't we all just get along?" and never learns a damned thing about that gangsta called Racism and his first lieutenant White Privilege.

But JLove is no poseur. She has a proven track record as an activist, demonstrating time and again that she not only loves hip hop, she adores justice. JLove is not the female equivalent of Isaac of Barbershop who believes he's Blacker than you because he's fluent in Ebonics. She's not the one to throw shade at the other White person at the hip hop summit because she believes that there's just so many "Cool White People" points to go around and wants them all for herself. She's not that the chick who thinks her love of all things hip hop makes her immune to white privilege.

As a person who knows Jennifer personally, I can testify that she's the one who is unafraid to pull the coattails of other White folks when they engage in racist behavior and does so with empathy. She's the person who truly listens to her fellow activists of color even when what they say is mad hard to hear. She's the woman who never "forgets" that she's White, is in constant struggle with what that means, and always searches for ways and opportunities to exploit her racial privilege toward the ultimate goal of a building world society where it no longer exists.

JLove's that White girl, and I hope you cop and enjoy her novel.

Actors of Color, What is Your Favorite Monologue?

2007-09-23T14:13:00.001-04:00

This fall one of the courses I'm going to teach is a high school class on writing and performing monologues. I'm very keen on using monologues delivered by characters of color as examples, and I'm on a particular quest to collect film adaptations so that I can play the performance of these monologues for my students. If you are an actor of color, perhaps you can help me out. While I welcome monologues from plays -- especially those by playwrights of color -- ideally, I'd love monologues available on video (e.g. the film adaptation of play) and which can stand alone without requiring too much context.

I find that your average book of monologues -- especially those geared toward youth -- are not very diverse with respect to culture or even scenario. Furthermore, while they may be serviceable for teaching performance, I find them inadequate for teaching writing, especially the unique art of writing the standalone monologue.
Here's an example of a great monologue I discovered while conducting research for a different writing project altogether. It comes from the 2000 HBO miniseries The Corner which was created by the same talent behind the TV series The Wire. In this monologue, Gary, a 34 year old dope addict is getting high with some friends.

I went to see this movie. The one about what they did to the Jews in the war. Lord, what they did to them people. The Germans decided that they weren’t human no more. They just said, “No, you ain’t human like we human.” And when they said that, hey, man… it just got easier for them to do all kinds of dirt. By the end, all the Germans could do, man, was like get rid of them, you know. Kill them all. ‘Cause, you know, they couldn’t see them being anything better than rats or bugs. But it was real, all right. And I’m sitting there, and I’m watching this movie, and I’m realizing that it’s happening again. We sit here day after day making ourselves a little bit less human, and the world is happy to see it. It seems like they happy to see it, man. I mean, when I was making money, it didn’t matter because I was still a nigger. And now that I’m sitting up here getting high with y’all, it’s still the same. Don’t you see what I’m saying? The Germans made the Jews into niggers. That’s what that was about. And that’s what this is here except we’re doing it to ourselves. It seems like the world just can’t wait for us to finish until we all end up dead.

This monologue is perfect because you can either read or watch it with no context and still understand it. The actual movie had a few lines of interjecting dialogue from the other characters present in the scene, but their lines can be deleted with nothing lost. It's a great piece of writing (I especially love the subtext), and it gives the actor several moments to mine.

Another good example is a monologue from Romeo Must Die starring Jet Li and the late Aaliyah. In the scene after Aaliyah's character Trish learns that her brother has been murdered, she tells how she and her brother used to get a kick out of scaring their mother by crying wolf and pretending he got hurt. The scene uses this anecdote to reveal Trish coming to grips with her brother's death which this time is real and no laughing matter. She experiences how her mother felt the moment she thought her son had been hurt yet. Unlike her mother, however, Trish realizes that she'll never know the relief of learning that her brother is actually OK.

So if you can suggest any more monologues like these, drop me a line. I'm looking for all ages, genders, sexual orientations and genres. And by people of color, I do mean also Native American, Arab and Asian as well as Black and Latino. If you've seen great monologues in any independent films, even better as I'm sure that information will come in handy for future initiatives. At the very least, any other character's lines should be minimal and can be cut out without the primary character's speech losing meaning. Again, movies readily available on DVD are ideal so that I can play them for my students as well.

Sadly, as many wonderful solo shows many actors of color have produced in recent years, very few of them have been recorded for sale never mind for educational use. What I would give to Sarah Jones' Surface Transit, Staceyann Chin's Border/Clash or Calvin Levels' wonderful Down from the Mountaintop on DVD. Right now a gal is relying on Danny Hoch's Jails, Hospitals and Hip Hop, Roger Guenveur Smith's A Huey P. Newton Story and The Vagina Monologues and even the film The Breakfast Club, but it's just not enough. Even John Leguizamo' s Mambo Mouth, Spic-o-Rama, and Freak are hard to find and mad expensive!

So if you're a person of color who produces or develops solo theatre, do your creative kin -- be they emerging and aspiring, practicing and teaching -- a favor and plan on eventually making your show available and affordable on video. :)

Things I've Learned Since My First Book Got Published

2007-09-18T16:24:00.001-04:00

Another author wrote this piece and posted it on her blog, but, man, can I relate! I've interspersed my own commentary in blue.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED SINCE MY FIRST BOOK GOT PUBLISHED
by Cherie Priest, author of the novels Four and Twenty Blackbirds and other stories of Victorian gothic fantasy
http://cmpriest.livejournal.com/879864.html
I got an email yesterday from a reader who said she saw me a few DragonCons ago when I did a panel on being a new writer. At that time (if I remember correctly) I did not actually have a novel out yet. I was merely in that pre-novel stage of, "I SOLD IT, AND SOMEONE'S GONNA PUBLISH IT, YAY!"* But to make a long story short, she was hoping for an update. Her email concluded, "What have you learned since Four and Twenty Blackbirds cme out? What do you know about publishing now that you wish you'd known about then?" So here's my update, just for her. Let me call it:
Things I've Learned Since My First Book Got Published

Everyone will think you are rich. Obviously, if you got a book published, someone must have given you fat sacks of cash dollars American. You now have a moral obligation to donate to charities, give to your alma mater, and consider including PBS in your will.
Yes, everybody thinks you're rolling in it, but it wouldn't bother me much to be approached by some worthy causes. However, my activism keeps gives me plenty of ideas for where to donate so I don't really need suggestions. What I don't like is the assumptions that folks begin to make about what you can and cannot afford to do as if it's any of their business.

You will not be rich. Whatever money you might have earned from an advance will have been spent fully a year before your book appears. Maybe you paid off your car, or maybe you got that leather jacket out of lay-away at Wilson's. Whatever, that money is LONG gone.
This is so damned true, I have to laugh to keep from crying!

Publishing is very exciting. For you, personally. Everyone else will think it's dead boring, and will be sick of hearing about it by suppertime -- once they figure out that you are not rich.
Well, kinda true. It's boring to those who don't aspire to be published. To those who want to be published but have yet to be, it's way less than exciting than they think, LOL!

You will probably still have a day job. This will make you look like a failure to all the people who assume you must be rich. These people can bite you.
I've been blessed to be able to avoid the 9-to-5 marketplace thus far, but don't get it twisted. I have to do more than write books to make a living and support my modest lifestyle. But there are times when the savings are dwindling and the next check is a few months off, and I'm seriously thinking, "Should I put in an application at Barnes & Noble?"

Getting your foot in the door is not the hard part. It is the first hard part.
Too true. There's a major difference between getting a break and breaking through when it comes to any artistic career. And one book deal does not a career novelist make. It's harder than ever to maintain a writing career even as midlist author now that publishing is becoming more like the film industry -- personality driven and franchise-oriented. It's becoming less about the consistent money an author earns a house over the course of a career and more about the hot commodity that sells blockbuster even if the author is a one-trick pony.
Drinking and blogging is right out. Because once you've published a book, you forfeit the right to ever make a typo in public, ever again.
I guess this depends who you are. I'm not much of a drinker, and I've been known to put my mistakes on blast in a blog so I'm pretty carefree and fearless when it comes this.

You are now the foremost authority on the English language. At least, this is what all your friends/relatives who do not write will assume, and they will treat you like their personal diction consultant. While you are at work, you will receive phone calls from Florida, where your aunt wants to know about a comma she's considering for the church bulletin.**
Not when you write urban fiction with liberal doses of slang and ebonics, you don't. :)

Everyone will want to know how you did it. This will make you feel very SMRT and like an expert and stuff, for maybe the first (I dunno) two weeks after Locus mentions it. Then you'll get kind of tired of talking about it.
Nah, I can't say I ever felt like an expert on publishing or anything. In fact, I still feel very much the amateur. But I am tired of talking about it, but it's all that other aspiring writers want to know. It makes it very tricky to join writing groups, take workshops and enroll in seminars. Often once other people in the group realize you've been published, you are thrusted into the unwanted position of teacher when you came there to be a student. It's tough because I don't want to be unsupportive or aloof, but I can get a bit resentful because I came there to learn not teach.

No one will believe you did it by writing a book that was worth publishing. Aspiring writers will be sure that you had a secret short cut, and you are a raging bitch for holding out on all those other poor folks who are just as worthy as you, but who were unwilling to flash their boobies at exactly the right people. And if you don't think people will actually say things like this, perhaps you have not yet published a book.
It's the worst when you get this feeling from folks who you considered to be your friends. They tend to be the same people who are speculating about how deep your pockets are. You hit the trifecta with those who want you to hook 'em up when they haven't even bought your book let alone read it!

Everyone will want to know why you're not on the New York Times Bestseller List yet. You will pretend that you're much more reasonable about your expectations than that. But secretly, you will also wonder why you're not on an important list someplace and you will feel inadequate.
Yeah, hate to admit it, but it happens sometimes, even when you know that there are perfectly good reasons beyond your control as to why Oprah hasn't called yet.

People will "helpfully" tell you what you should have done differently with your cover. When you explain that (a). you really love your cover and anyway (b). you-as-author don't get any say-so over this aspect of the publishing process, they will feel sorry for you because obviously you are a loser.
You could say the same about titles, but for the most part, I've been thrilled with my covers and titles and have had considerable input into all of them. I realize that I'm the exception to the rule, and it just so happens that I'm not a diva when it comes to these things. So long as the cover or title is not some gross misrepresentation of who I am and what I stand for, I'm pretty open-minded to what the house comes up with. I did have one experience, however, that made it very clear to me that, when push comes to shove, the house calls the shots

You now have the inside track to publishing. Everyone you've ever known -- even in passing -- who has ever written a book now thinks that it's your God-given duty to put them in touch with your agent/editor/publisher. This will get awkward.
True indeed, and what these folks don't understand is that publishing is a labyrinth of an industry that takes years to understand.

People will use your name to lie. At least twice, other writers with whom I was peripherally acquainted approached my (now former) agent and told him that I'd recommended them.
Oh, hell, yeah, don't even get me started on this shit.

You will be asked to work for free. This is because you've now achieved that career point of, Technically Successful - Yet Still Approachable. Small upstart markets, acquaintances, etcetera, will appear with offers to "let" you write for them, for "really great street cred." You should kick these people in the shins.
Well, I've been asked to work for free long before I got published so...

There is such a thing as the law of aggregate success. You will also be offered more paying gigs, and if possible, you should probably try to take advantage of them. Some paying gigs (especially short markets) do not pay much, but there are plenty of very fine venues that can't afford to offer a huge rate.
I'm just starting to appreciate this as I develop two chapters of my current novel-in-progress into standalone short stories.

People will ask you questions about stuff you wrote, and you will say, "Um ..." By the time your book actually comes out, it will have been a full year or even two years since you actually composed the material. You will have moved on to other projects, in which you are wholly immersed; and when someone asks about why character X in book one does thing Y, you'll have no earthly idea. But you'll be confident that there was an excellent reason.
Actually, I pretty much remember, but I much prefer to move on. Still if you're talking to a fan, it's not hard to be gracious and talk to the question. In fact, if it's a fresh question -- and not one that you've heard a thousand times before -- it can be a joy to rediscover your own novel through new eyes. I am, however, tired of answering, "Why did you choose the pen name Black Artemis?" but, alas, I always do because the mere thought of saying, "The answer is in the back of the book" makes me feel like an ungrateful dolt.

You will get book reviews. If they are good, no force on earth will get those reviews into your hands so you can read them for yourself. If they are bad, fifteen people will email you the text before breakfast.
True, I'm still happening across great reviews for Picture Me Rollin' and Divas Don't Yield even though they were published two and one year ago respectively. As for people jumping to send me bad reviews, I can't say that I've had that experience. Then again, in the beginning of your career, you tend to be unusually adept at finding the nasty ones with no ones help even as the raves evade you for years. If you're a "give me the bad news first" kind of gal like I am, it's better this way.

You will acquire fans. This will blow your freakin' mind
It truly does! .
Some of your fans will be annoying. Especially when they email you to say how much they love your work, and then they spend three pages pointing out all the things you did that they totally hate.
LOL, poor Cherie. First, the "friends" who leap to email her bad reviews and now this. My fans rock. On the rare occassion that one has pushed back on something I've written, s/he has done so with tremendous sensitivity and openmindedness to my explanations (hate mail's another story, but I'm not going to give that any attention.) So pointing out all the things I hate is not the way the rare annoying fan has gotten under my skin. In fact, I don't know if the people who have worked my nerves are true fans. My gut is that they're aspiring writers who are posing as fans in the hopes that if they flatter me, I'll put them on. Or go out with them. Don't get me started on that that.

Most of your fans will make you want to squee yourself to death with joy. Because holy crap, someone who is not one of your parents read your book and liked it. I am not exaggerating when I say that this makes it all worth it.
No truer words have been said.

[Edit: I'll update the list as more occur to me.]
So might I. :)

Chicken Soup for the Hip Hop Soul

2007-09-10T12:53:00.001-04:00

If you've been waiting for someone to write a book that could be described as Chicken Soup for the Hip Hop Soul, wait no more because it's here.

Thanks to author Felicia Pride, we now how have The Message: 100 LIfe Lessons from Hip Hop's Greatest Songs. Felicia is the founder of BackList and her mission is keeping books in style. Y'all know that ain't esy for a variety of reasons. Whether working with my company Sister Outsider Entertainment on our Urban Literature Initiative or writing her own books, and pushing forward with a myriad of pro-literacy projects, she stays on mission and on point. Support this powerful sister and cop The Message which hits the streets on October 7th.

Until the final version is available, I'm keeping my advanced review copy on my nightstand right alongside Five Good Minutes in the Morning: 100 Morning Practices to Help You Stay Calm and Focused All Day Long and Daily Cornbread: 365 Secrets for a Health Mind, Body and Spirit. :)