Are We Women As Evolved As We Think We Are?

Is Suzie Homemaker a thing of the past?

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, amongst all of the statements of gratitude, reflections, and travel plans that were Facebook'd and tweeted, I noticed a common theme: women announcing what they were cooking, bragging about how they could throw down in the kitchen, and--if you needed proof--posting photos of their heavenly, culinary creations for all to see. Be it teachers, doctors, or lawyers, one thing was clear: these women wanted to remind everyone they could "burn" as well.

Even Oprah--a self-made billionaire, who can change the course of people's lives by uttering one simple phrase--posted photos of herself making sweet potatoes with freshly picked rosemary and cranberry sauce from scratch. That's when it hit me: no matter how evolved we become as women, there is still something in us that wants to let folks know we haven't completely traded in baking pies for boardroom politics. Maybe it's the little voices in our heads--courtesy of "evolved" men--that remind us that gorgeous eyes and pretty smiles will never take the place of a good steak and potato. Or maybe it's simply our homage to our mamas and grandmamas who instilled in us that no matter how far you go or how big you get, you best know how to feed yourself and your family, and not by dialing out for Chinese either.


Oprah "showing off" her cranberry sauce from scratch

That got me to thinking about other areas in which, although we women can sing Beyonce's "Me, Myself, and I" word-for-word, we still need "tradition" to reign in our lives and, in particular, our relationships. One of those areas is in having the man be the head of household. Over the years, women buying their own homes before marriage has become the norm, especially since women are waiting later and later to get married, and have also recognized that the benefits of home ownership are too great to delay or pass up.

I too had the pleasure of stepping out and doing so for myself, by myself at the tender age of 24 (much to the chagrin of my dad, a TRUE traditionalist). I knew at that age, it wouldn't be as quickly applauded by my men friends as it was my girlfriends. But in taking the leap, I already knew what I would need to do when and if I ever got married: MOVE! And not necessarily into his house, but into something new we could build together. Having the man move into a woman's home greatly upsets the balance that not only men need, but that we women need as well (if we're honest) to feel protected and secure in the man's ability to "take care of home," even if we're making six figures. I discovered this in talking to four friends of various races and ages, who moved their husbands into their homes, but aren't feeling satisfied with marriage OR their spouse. For sandwiched between the text of their conversations is a subtext that says, "I don't feel confident in his ability to take care of me." And if you think nothing cools things in the romance department for women like an "unbalanced scale" or "not feeling secure," you're correct.

We can do it, but should we?

And then there are the subtler things for which a man's traditional leadership is appreciated, be it on financial matters and setting the spiritual tone of the house to simpler tasks like washing the car and mowing the lawn. Yes, we women can do them (maybe even simultaneously with our eyes closed), but it doesn't mean we don't prefer the man (traditionally) handles it. Just as there are things men prefer women do as well. For there's always a big difference between what we can do and what we should do, and those things that separate those lists AND celebrate our gender roles should not be forgotten or frowned upon.

Saying all of this to say, we may have evolved on the surface, but deep down inside tradition still brings a certain kind of comfort--and dare I say, "attractiveness"--to both men and women that is needed, as apparent in all of those braggadocios photos posted that screamed, "My sweet potato pie is da bomb!" Yes, we--men and women--can do it all these days (as apparent from a few men who posted their "mean turkey" photos as well), but we both seem to have a desire to remind the other that we recognize the importance of having the foundational basics down too. After all, with 40- and 50-year marriages under their belt, Big Mama and Pop Pop must have known a thing or two and done something right. Let's not forget those things when we're creating our own "recipes" for successful relationships and thus marriages. God made us different for a reason. Let's celebrate that; not try to override it or compete with it. And just in case you're wondering, my Cajun cabbage and collards are to die for. I'll post a pix at Christmas (wink).

Are We Too Plugged In? (Take the Challenge and See!)

Sitting in city traffic the other day, I watched 10 people in a one block radius on their cell phones. Texting. Chatting. Listening to music. The day was sunny, flower boxes were in full bloom, and the breeze just right. Yet, no one seemed to notice. Nor did they notice the kid that took a tumble, the homeless man begging for change, or the police car that came zooming through the intersection. Everyone was plugged in, but to what actually?

It seems every week a new application shows up for cell phones. Laptops (now IPads) can fit into purses. We carry IPods with 10,000 plus songs (we'll honestly never get through). We can Facebook, Instagram, and Tweet from the super market line if we choose to. But in all honesty, why do we want to? At a time when vehicles of communication are most plenteous, ironically, intimate "person to person" communication seems to be suffering the most. Spouses will share their thoughts via status messages all day, yet struggle to utter two words to their mates when they get home. We'll e-mail 20 messages to friends, yet not open our mouths to speak to the neighbor we've lived next door to for five years. How about watching two people on a date, both checking messages during dinner? Or watching parents engage in full lectures to their children by text? We think we're opening ourselves up to new forms of expression through the use of technology, but slowly we're closing ourselves off from any true intimacy that every human needs. Want proof? This family photo below surfaced on Facebook and speaks volumes to how technology is robbing us of true communication, and we're not even aware.

Even the intimacy we need to have with self is being impaired by the constant interruption of beeps, buzzes, and chirps. The ability to just sit and be--with your thoughts, your ideas, your spirit--seems to be harder than pushing a boulder up Mt. Everest. But being able to do so is as necessary as breathing fresh air. Nothing bothers me more than to see someone reading a book yet stopping to text. Or to see status updates posted from church: "Pastor Williams is preaching up in here today, y'all!" Well, if we turned off our phones and truly immersed ourselves in the message, perhaps we'd grab hold of that one nugget of truth we've needed to hear that could set our whole life free. But we missed it right as we were hitting the "enter" key on our phones to "do our own preaching." Oh darn.

Now don't get me wrong. I too am aware of how easy it is to be constantly engaged in something. So aware in fact, I refuse to upgrade my phone to one that allows more apps and accessibility (much to the chagrin of friends) for fear of being more drawn away from being in the moment. But the distractions aren't just found in what's in our back pockets but what's coming out of our televisions and our radios as well. For even absolute, complete silence to communicate with self has become a monster we're afraid to confront.

I know this to be true from a recent confrontation I had with a close friend. I couldn't hear their point of view and, naturally, the person couldn't hear mine. Tired of the noise "internally" and "externally," I decided to shut everything off--no cell, no TV, no driving with the radio on--and took a moment to replay the scenario in my head. In less than a day, their point of view (that they had been making for a YEAR) was so clear that I couldn't believe I missed it--or even challenged it. Not only did it change how I saw the situation, it ultimately improved our relationship. And it got me to thinking how much we're all missing in our lives by hearing but not truly listening--an action not done with our ears but with our hearts and our minds. A type of listening that can not be achieved in the presence of constant distractions.

Perhaps too much silence gives us too much time to think; too much time to realize we're not being productive and instead are just being "busy"; too much time to embrace we're not as happy as we pretend to be; too much time to realize we owe someone a call of forgiveness or a note of thanks; too much  time to "get our house in order"; too much time to actually formulate a plan to reach our dreams instead of just talking about them; too much time to invest in real relationships; too much time to create a better life. So, we take all of that "too much time" and become too distracted for our own good.

We can and we need to do better. So, here's my challenge to you. Pick a day--any day--when you disconnect from it all (TV, radio, cell, computer). Go about your routine, but without electronic "crutches" of any kind, and let quiet be your companion. Take note of what you see, what you hear, how you feel, and what new revelations (or solutions) come to mind. After you do, please post a reply here and let everyone know how you benefitted from this experience. To quote Bert Murray, "Conscience is that still, small voice that is sometimes too loud for comfort." Let's not fear a new comfort that could be awaiting us in the silence. I look forward to hearing your revelations. Happy disconnecting!

What Kind of Vampire Are You?

Vampires are real...and they're everything you believe them to be: deadly, frightening, calculating, and evil. You've probably encountered them in every area of your life and, most likely, at any hour of the day. But what you may not know is that instead of protecting your neck, what you need to protect is your space. For the "vampires" I'm speaking of are not of the Twilight or True Blood variety; they're "emotional vampires"--those people who come into your space and drain the life right out of you. Not literally, of course, but whose negative energy i.e. complaining, mean-spiritedness, nagging, gossiping, spitefulness, and drama, suddenly shifts your positive energy to match theirs. Often times, it's done unaware; and at other times, you could be that very person causing that shift for someone else.

Energy is indeed real. Iyanla Vanzant once said "You are equally as responsible for the energy you put out as you are the energy you allow into your space." How many times have you sat in a meeting and, depending on who walked in or out, felt the vibrations shift in the room? Or notice how different the vibration feels when certain people are out of the office--even those who don't work with you directly? How about being out with a group of girlfriends and the absence of one changing the entire mood of the evening? Or having your phone ring and, upon seeing the caller ID, feeling your energy decrese or increase depending on who it is? So what to do about it? First and foremost, get aware; secondly, get active.

Often times--such as at work--we have no choice but to accomodate the variance of energies we encounter. But in our personal lives, we have a choice. It just all depends on how much you value your peace of mind and are willing to protect it.  The complaining associate? Politely end the conversation. The perpetually angry friend? Limit your contact. The compulsive gossiper? Change the subject. The loafing adult child? Move them out. Start to take note of your physical reaction to certain people and their behaviors, and respect it as a litmus test to let you know what is not serving you well. And if you're the person exhibiting these behaviors (and often, you know who you are), there's no time like the present to put yourself on a self-induced "negativity fast," while you begin unearthing what's at the root of your "need to bleed" others with your vampire-ish ways.

As I often say, "If you're not sowing joy into someone's life, then you're most likely taking joy away from it." Don't do it to others and don't allow it to be done to you. To quote Donna Karan, "Accent your positive and delete your negative." Even if that deletion includes people. Your peace of mind--and, ultimately, your health--depends on it!

Finding Avery Sunshine...

…not that she was ever lost. The discovery is in fact ours; those of us late in recognizing a “hidden gem” in the melting pot (and sometimes “cesspool”) of music today. It was an innocent enough discovery: an evening drive with a barrage of slow jam classics playing on Washington D.C.’s WHUR, when sandwiched between the some things “old” and even “borrowed,” I heard something “new”: a bare-all, no-holds-barred, melodic approach to an apology, titled, “Ugly Part of Me,” a song about a woman asking for forgiveness from her man for her off-the-cuff, unexpected and, well, ugly actions during an argument. Rare indeed, and not much heard of since Anita Baker’s 1994 “I Apologize.” And so my curiosity was peaked. Peaked enough to buy Avery’s 2010 self-titled, debut (and only) album; peaked enough to see what she was about live and in living color. I got that opportunity on a rainy, Wednesday night at D.C.’s famed Blues Alley, and what I witnessed was incomparable to anything she could have captured on disc.

There are some artists you simply have to see live. I quickly realized she is definitely one. Taking to the Blues Alley stage (her second appearance there), it soon became apparent why the show was sold out; why you could feel an anticipation in the air; why she already has “followers”—or as she calls them “family”—who have memorized her play list. Petite in stature with a closely cropped ‘do adorned with glitter and dolled up in flawless makeup, Avery sashayed to the baby grand piano, accompanied by her musical partner and guitarist, Dana Johnson; a local bass guitarist; and a drummer—and brought down the house for 90 minutes. With the musical talent of a Rachelle Ferrell; the stage presence and humor of a Ledisi; and the vocal chops of a Gladys Knight, simply put, the girl is bad.

In between songs, she’s candid in talking about her past (she’s a Spelman grad; a former choir director; a divorced mother of two); her present (the financial struggles to put out her next album; the woes of pining for that special someone); and her future (wanting to get married again for love, although she once promised the next time she did it, it would be for money). And in between the sharing and the laughter—even pausing to tell an audience member to “cut out all that talking over there,”—she’s a bona fide crooner; she's easily the real deal. If I wasn’t convinced from the delivery of her original material, I was sold as she effortlessly transitioned from her own songs to her rendition of Maroon 5’s “Sunday Morning” to covers of classic Luther, Aretha, and Michael (no last names needed). But it wasn’t until she left the stage (all too soon for me) and returned to do an encore performance of gospel classics, that I witnessed what every artist should strive to be—a medium for something greater than themselves.

Her roots are clearly in the church. And like many secular artists who pay homage to those roots with a song or two on their albums (Brian McKnight has done so for years; so has El DeBarge), Avery features a jazzy rendition of “(The Lord is) Blessing Me” on hers. But what I have never seen is an artist perform those songs live, and turn their concert into a full-on worship experience. For when Avery flowed from “Blessing Me” into “Safe in His Arms,” a gospel classic that unless you’re without a pulse, you will feel something, concert goers were on their feet—with their hands lifted in praise! She took the crowd to church and even commanded, “Don’t feel funny about that Hennessey sitting on your table; you better praise Him while you got the chance. It could be your last.” Enough said. And we did. Before her final exit, she took it back to hand-clapping gospel, stood center stage, and broke the crowd down vocally to do what she also does well—direct. And, I must say, we sounded pretty damn good with that four-part harmony too—until she jumped back on the piano and purposely changed key. *sigh* Choir directors (smile).

By the time the house lights came up, I seriously considered staying for the second, almost-sold-out show. A definite first for me. But I decided to savor the moment, and play her CD on the drive home instead. It was satisfying, but nothing like seeing her do her thang in person, and was I ever happy I got to.

Although it often saddens me to see how often true talent is overlooked or to see the struggle many must endure just to get a quarter of the recognition the “not-so-talented” is so easily given (thanks many times to auto tune, a good weave, and a half-naked body parading around the stage), I felt absolute joy in experiencing this “hidden gem” for myself. For being able to say, “I saw her when….” for talent that big—and pure—cannot be contained for long. I know I’m not alone in that sentiment and hope, like most hidden gems, once they’re discovered, they’re properly put on display and revered. So Avery, continue to shine, girl. You are indeed a diamond—nothing rough about it.

Check out Avery Sunshine's official video for "Ugly Part of Me":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDOoa_9_dCg

Remembering the Godfather

I don’t know how old I was when I first heard go-go. However, I do know it was love at first listen. And the man responsible for that “love affair” came right on time but also left us far too soon: The Godfather of Go-Go, Chuck Brown.

Though there’s not an exact point of reference, my earliest recollection of the Godfather’s music was the breakout hit, “Bustin’ Loose,” an infectious jam with a sound closer to mainstream "funk" than any other go-go song probably ever had. Yet, there was still something different that let you know this was something bigger than funk. This was a new sound in town, and the more you heard it, the more of it you wanted, from the thumping percussion to the blaring horns; the syncopation, the call and response, and even that gravelly voice riding over the beat telling us that, "You got to give a lot just to get what you need sometimes...." Oh yeah, we wanted more of this, and boy did we get it!

Although Chuck had been “movin’ and groovin’” in the world of jazz, blues, and Latin music long before many of us even came into this world, his creation of go-go gave Washington, D.C. something that no other music had—an identity; something to call our own; a sense of pride. Even through the ups and downs the city faced over the years from falling mayors to the crack epidemic to gentrification, go-go remained consistent, like a life-long friend and gave us a sense of “home.”

It was the soundtrack to our youth. It was there at the cookouts, the house parties, the Back-to-School boogies, the park concerts. It was there when you got that number or gave yours out for the first time. It was there when you convinced your parents to let you buy your first Dookie gold rope or “Run Joe” sweatshirt. It was there when you got your first set of wheels and you’d lean on the car, open the windows, and let the bass thump. And as we got older, it was there at the wedding receptions, the reunions, and the pool parties. And behind it all was Chuck Baby.

As the music and the movement continued to grow, birthing other local “stars” like Experience Unlimited (E.U.), Rare Essence, Little Benny and the Masters, and the Junkyard Band, some groups attempted to evolve in a quest to get a taste of the mainstream fame that probably drew them to pick up instruments as kids in the first place. There was just one problem: not many understood or embraced go-go outside of the D.C. area. It was the blessing and the curse: a curse for those artists who wanted more recognition; a blessing for those of us who didn’t want the world to take what was rightfully ours and turn it into nothing more than a “cash cow.” And so with flashes of national recognition here and there, much like the Prodigal Son, go-go always returned to its Godfather—and we couldn’t have been happier.

Times continued to change; the audiences got older; going to see a live go-go show or hear some around the city got a bit tougher (as, ironically, most local clubs will not allow it to be played due to the “high energy” it causes in its patrons), but we always knew that a trip down memory lane or a night of unadulterated partying was just a Chuck Brown show away. Even as Chuck grew older, venues continued to grow larger, and his name would share the marquee with such notable acts as Jill Scott, the Roots, and Erykah Badu. Whether playing the 9:30 club or the famed Howard Theater, shows would sell out in a matter of days, and now two and three generations of lifelong fans were shouting “Wind me up, Chuck” together. For when you’re at a Chuck Brown party, you never think the party—along with the beat—will end. Unfortunately, it came to an unexpected halt on May 16th.

In the instant the news broke about the Godfather’s passing from a brief illness at the “young age” of 75, there was not one D.C. area native whose entire youth did not flash before their eyes. It was akin to losing that uncle and knowing you’ll never hear his jokes again. Or losing that aunt and knowing you’ll never have her sweet potato pie again. It was losing your mom, and knowing you’ll never hear her voice again. It was losing your dad, and knowing you’ll never see him working under the car again. It was losing an icon and knowing you’ll never see him standing in front of that mic again, tall and lean, signature hat slightly cocked to the side, guitar strapped to his body, 10+ piece band fading in with that oh-so-familiar percussion, and the crowd beginning its signature chant, before a rich, deep baritone so smoothly replied, “Aww, ya spoil me now; I love you so much.”

Well, Godfather, you spoiled us and we love you for it, for you gave us a lifetime worth of memories that can not be replaced. With every call and response, you gave us our youth back. And with every riff on your guitar, you gave us a magic that we held on to tightly and kept deep down in our souls. Yes, we trust go-go will live on and will always be a part of the fabric of the Nation’s Capital. It will continue to evolve and, hopefully, grow with the emergence of new go-go bands every day. But no one will ever be able to make us feel like you did; no one will ever be able to set the rhythm and flow of an entire city to music; and no one will ever be able to replace the greatness that was Charles Louis Brown. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Rest in peace.