CheapThrills

With Michael Jackson's death, so too ends my childhood

My mom made me take dance lessons from the ages of 2 to 15. I started actually enjoying them in 1991, the year Michael Jackson's Dangerous album came out. I was 8, taking Jazz and Tap classes at the Wissahickon Dance Academy in Philadelphia.

I knew lots of people in the classes at Wissahickon. My mom took adult Jazz lessons with the other “old ladies,” as she put it. My best friend took intermediate Jazz with me (even though she had two left feet). And so did my ultimate frenemy from school, S.

S and I had a very peculiar breed of friendship – one based on competition and jealously. I’d buy MC Hammer pants, and she’d have to get a more expensive pair. If she wore a brand new Cross Colors outfit to school, I had to outdo her with an even hipper ensemble. And when it came to boys, there was only one guy for us. His name was Ian and he was the cutest boy in 2nd grade – and maybe even all of Greene Street Friends School. So and I raced during recess – to the gate and back – and whichever girl won “got to be his girlfriend.” I had long, gawky limbs, which came in handy: I dusted her.

When it came time for the Wissahickon Dance Academy recital, our amazing Jazz teacher Leon had a vision: Good vs. Evil. The entire Jazz company danced in vignettes to two songs: The Pressure by Sounds of Blackness and Will You Be There by Michael Jackson. In our dance to first song, “Evil” kills “Good” and the world is a mess. Leon, perceptive as he was, cast S and I as leaders of two warring gangs (think Beat It, except swap the actual gang members for 8-year old Quaker School girls). In the second song, “Good” resurrects herself and shows “Evil” that he too has love inside of him (in the form of a skin tight white unitard).

I keep coming back to the final portion of the dance.

Evil is now wearing that white unitard, and he’s realizing his power for good. He’s doing these incredible leaps and spins across the stage, as the rest of the company configures behind him in a diamond shape. We’re actually all wearing white unitards, marching and doing simple hand movements in unison.

When I watch the VHS tape of the performance, I can always pick out my mom because her arms are 10X longer than everyone else’s. And I can always see my best friend, because she’s a few beats behind everyone else. And S, my frenemy, she’s easy to spot, because she's dancing right next to me.

And then there’s the presence of my childhood. That’s easy to find too. It’s spoken by Michael Jackson:

In Our Darkest Hour
In My Deepest Despair
Will You Still Care?
Will You Be There?

In My Trials
And My Tribulations
Through Our Doubts
And Frustrations
In My Violence
In My Turbulence
Through My Fear
And My Confessions
In My Anguish And My Pain
Through My Joy And My Sorrow
In The Promise Of Another Tomorrow

I'll Never Let You Part
For You're Always
In My Heart.

With MJ’s last words, the song ends. We configure in our final pose, and bow our heads.

I'm now 26. I have a “real” job, a couple bank accounts, a heart that knows how to ache, stress-related muscle spasms in my shoulders, and beer in my fridge. My mom is older. My best friend is married. My frenemy's father recently died. And now, so too has Michael Jackson.

We configure in our final pose, and bow our heads. Childhood is over. But never forgotten.

Vote CheapThrills for the Black Weblog Awards!

Hey! So this is fun. I've been nominated for the Black Weblog Awards in 4 categories:

1. Best Culture Blog (ref: Boston posts)
2. Best Personal Blog
3. Best Political/News blog (ref: Obama election commentary)
4. Best Sex and Relationships Blog (well, no sex, but interracial relationships galore)

To vote for me, just click on graphic below (or the first link in this post). I really appreciate your support (you all make this whole thing worthwhile, after all) :)

CONTEST! Tell me a memory, win a fab skin care product

Update: Contest Closed! Stay tuned: I'll announce the winner on Tuesday, June 30th

I think when people look in the mirror, they’re searching for memories. They want to see in their reflection something that makes them feel radiant – whether it’s a memory that makes them smile, smirk, giggle, maybe even blush.

So when the folks at Perricone asked me to host a contest for a bottle of one of their best-selling anti-aging skin care products, Advanced Face Firming Activator, I knew immediately how I’d judge it. Especially after reading this bit from the product description: it will “…reveal a radiant and healthy complexion”.

Here’s the deal:

1. In a comment on this post or in an email to me, tell me a memory that makes your heart race, your face glow, and your eyes light up.
2. I’ll read them all and select a winner (and commenters, feel free to weigh in on your favs as well).
3. Winner will receive a bottle of Perricone’s Advanced Face Firming Activator – worth 120 bucks!

*The contest will end Friday, June 26. And the winner must live in the U.S (for shipping purposes).

Product Details:
Advanced Face Firming Activator
Corrects imperfections for smooth, youthful, radiant skin
With Alpha Lipoic Acid and DMAE
59mL / 2 fl oz

And a user review (because that’s all we trust on the interwebs, right?):
“I use this product every day and I think its amazing for all ages. Ive noticed a difference in [the] brightness of my eyes.”

For the sake of transparency, I haven’t yet tried the product. So if you win, send me a review and I’ll post it to this blog as well.

Can’t wait to read your memories!

(This is my memory. When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with The Wizard Of Oz. So when I was 5 or 6, my mom dressed me up as Dorothy - though Dorothy didn't have a wand... or crown... but whatevs - and we went to a Wizard Of Oz parade in Springfield, Mass.
- sidenote: who knew Wizard Of Oz parades even existed? Such a specific cause for celebration, right? -

Anyway, that day I just knew that I met the REAL Dorothy, Scarecrow, Lion, and the positively dreamy Tin Man... I was in love with the Tin Man and his little funnel cap. Well, they seemed like the real deal to me at the time. So I glowed for weeks and weeks after that. My mom always did have a knack for making my dreams come true.)

Black man/White woman interracial relationships: Breaking down my judgment

Over the past couple months, I’ve been surrounding myself with people who all have something in common: they’re the least judgmental people I’ve ever known. They're: 1) unconditionally understanding and compassionate of any given situation – no matter how crazy, weird, or counter-culture it may be, and 2) TOTALLY open about their own lives, in all their outrageous and extreme glory.

How refreshing. To escape the “right” and “wrong”, “good” and “bad”, “black” and “white”.

Which brings me to my point.

During a conversation with one such non-shockable friend, the topic of interracial relationships arose. As I began discussing my own perceptions and thoughts on the subject, something became appallingly clear:

I am judgmental.

Here’s the bare-bones, no-holds-barred confession: I am shamefully judgmental of Black man/White woman interracial relationships. When I see such a couple, I immediately jump to the conclusion that the Black man is trying to prove something and the White woman is trying to piss off her family. I lump the couple into a category, with no desire to dig deeper or even accept their union.

So during this conversation, my friend commented, simply: “Why do you care what choices these other people are making?”

The remark struck me. Yes, why DO I care?  I've thought hard about this. I’m sure when my Black man/White woman aversion took shape, it sprung from jealousy. When I was a little girl, I never knew my true worth (what kid does?). I was so jealous all the time. Of White females, because, in my eyes, they’d always have something special in their pale skin that I could never have, no matter how straight I blow-dried my hair or how blond I dyed it. And of guys (all guys, but mostly Black guys), because they were always the most popular and the funniest… and most of them liked girls who weren’t boyish and gawky and frizzy-haired like me.

As time passed, I (seemingly) got over my childhood jealousies. But also, the “Black man/White woman relationship aversion” became almost second nature. An instinctual eye-roll. And coming from the Black girl who digs White guys… what a perfect storm of cutting irony.

So now I take a step back. I see many of my White girlfriends entering into wonderful, loving relationships with Black men. I see happiness and strength. And when I see a couple that I would generally stereotype cuddling on the subway or holding hands through Downtown Crossing, I really have to check myself. Why spend time passing judgment on things I don’t even try to understand? Why do I continuing to do this, with the roiling emotions of a 3rd-grader?

I've got it. The reality is that I’m NOT over my jealousies. And the problem exists in my own head, not the interracial union. Which is a tad upsetting, but also… again, refreshing.

Because I can’t understand all the complexities of others. But I can accept them. And, even better, I can bask in my God-given joy of delving deep and understanding my own complexities.

There's no place for judgment in self-discovery. So I'm kicking all those judgmental thoughts to the curb.

Pain = Art?

I was watching the So You Think You Can Dance auditions yesterday, and a girl auditioned whose father had recently taken his own life. Obviously, she was heartbroken, but the affects weren’t apparent. She said she could state the facts – mainly, that it had all happened, but beyond she couldn’t really talk about it. However, she could dance about it. And it’s strange – from the smooth pirouettes to the jerky head bobs, her pain was completely palpable in each step she took.

She was brilliant.

They say when you’re feeling pain, you should turn it into art. They say pain makes for best kind of art. Or something.

I guess I fancy myself an artist. But the awful pain I’ve been feeling has completely stifled my art. My writing. I feel that my fingertips are friends with neither my thoughts nor my keyboard. They’re not even friends with my pens. In fact, they cut off all the terrifically terrible thoughts that circulate through my head every single night before I sleep and every single morning before I wake. I want to write it all down, but my finger say no. They break the story – stop it before it can make it to the page.

So what’s a writer to do?

Because now I’m just stuck with the pain in my head and my heart and my stomach... and anywhere else one can feel anything. The pain's got nowhere to go but in. Like it's being driven in deeper by a knife wielded by an eager and angry hand.

So perhaps what they mean when they say turn pain into art is to escape that mean hand and let yourself bleed all over the page. Maybe that’s the aim of my So You Can Think You Can Dance friend, who will open herself up on a stage in front of millions.

But what does that mean for me? I can cry and cry, but those are just tears. Not blood. I know I can’t bleed here, on my blog. I’m somehow guarded here, you know? Maybe my next step is to go ahead and let my words splatter out that deep wound, soaking a larger canvas.

An article? A short story? I’m not sure. But I know that pretending my hurt doesn’t hurt won’t work for too much longer. Something’s gotta give. Artistically, of course.

A closer look at Disney's first Black princess

Disney's The Princess And The Frog trailer hit the web last night (don't watch if you don't want to see spoilers). It gave me goosebumps, sure, BUT!

So maybe I was expecting too much... but I was kinda hoping Disney's first Black princess would actually remain Black throughout the whole film.

Ack. Oh well. It's just a trailer. And the prince pre-frog transformation is kinda hot (I've always had a thing for Disney princes). So I'm still excited to see the flick. How 'bout you?

More: It Ain't Cool

Flashback: New Years 2007

I’m an extremely nostalgic person. What does that mean, you wonder? Like, for example, you know those movies that portray a progression of time, and then at the end flash back to when things were good and everyone was happy? (like Brokeback Mountain, for example). Those movies KILL me. Like, rip me apart.

But anyway, I got myself into this really nostalgic mood today. A nostalgia-tizzy, if you will. It ended with me looking through the first blog I ever kept, on another Six Apart platform called Vox.  I noticed so many curious things... My writing style was SO different. All my posts were so personal. I couldn’t really believe it.

Then I found a post from almost 2.5 years ago, which made me feel even more nostalgic. But in a good way. I wanted to share it here with you, as kind of an ode to friendship. Because – and it has become increasingly clear with every day that passes – without my friends, I’d be completely lost. I'd be a totally different person.

In any case, here's the post.
Dated January 2, 2007

____________

I believe that life is based by and large on luck.  Sure, we've got some say in how everything turns out, but you'd be surprised how much of your life is really dictated by the randomness of the universe.  Your freshman roommate, summer reading list, crappy 4th grade teacher, parents... all these key factors in life come to you by chance.

Most people believe that great friendships spring from college dorms, but with luck on my side my soul mates came to me much sooner.  They all showed up somewhere between 7th and 8th grade at a Quaker friends school in Pennsylvania.  As time has progressed... through semesters abroad in Senegal or Barcelona, years spent in Japan, messy hook-ups and break-ups, jealousy... we've managed to become closer over the years.  Imagine that.  And here's why:

My friends don't give a damn.

They are the funniest people I've ever met.  Here's a few tidbits from the archives:

• At a talent show our senior year, my four closest friends and I sang an a capella rendition of "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair."  In the middle of it, my friend L stopped singing and hollered "POOP!" and then we all ran off the stage.  No one really laughed or even clapped for us, but that just made it funnier.
• My friends L, J, and I came home early from school one day to "record our tracks."  We sat in front of my Super Woofer boom box, and then and there L and I created the worst freestyle hip-hop tape of all time.  We called it The Cup and here's a line from it:  "I get my candy from Willy Wonky, my ass is a donkey."
• The nicest thing my friend C ever did for L:  Drive her crappy 1988 Honda Accord (which L named Sheila) in a blizzard so that L could stick her naked butt out the window.  As L put it, it was "the most refreshing feeling" she'd ever experienced.

The most recent stunt occurred 2 days ago as we rang in 2007 in NYC.  Everyone primped and primed and greased up to fit into mini-outfits.  We all emerged to take on the town smelling great and feeling even better.  And J - the person who's laugh makes me convulse with giggles - claimed his outfit was by far the most stunning.

I am so lucky to have a friend so wise, so manly, so secure that he revels in the opportunity to wear a dog suit through New York on New Year's Eve.   And even luckier to have a group of friends who encourage such unabashed personality.

Cheers to a New Year!

____________

Oh boy. 2007. So long ago. So much has changed. So many things are different. But one thing has remained the same: when it comes to my friends, remembering our shenanigans will always bring a smile to my face.

So I guess some nostalgia doesn’t kill me. Sometimes a “flashback scene” has the power to remind me how awesome life can be when I find myself forgetting.

Mayor Menino announces his candidacy at my company

I caught a glimpse of Mr. Menino practicing yesterday (he actually asked me and a co-worker to stay and watch him go through his speak - pretty freakin' cool - but we were most likely running to some mind-boggling meeting or something). We had no idea what he was doing here until we heard he'd be at Digitas today announcing his candidacy. Apparently he chose us because we're one of the largest employers in Boston. Plus, the office is pretty hip.

Here are some pics from the press conference (the crappy ones were taken with my wack LG Chocolate, please excuse the low quality. The good photos courtesy of P. Johnson's iPhone).

That's our president on the steps with the reddish hair.

Related -
Boston.com: Menino not ready to leave quite yet
Boston Herald: The race is on, Menino announces candidacy

I broke up with Facebook

As if going through a break-up isn’t hard enough, now we have to experience it all double-time online.

When I got defriended by him, my heart sank. And then, when his relationship status changed from “In A Relationship” to “Single”, something inside of me died. Just a couple clicks of the mouse, a few taps of the ‘ol keypad, and suddenly…  1) My life has been “redefined” and 2) Everyone knows about it. Which is silly, right? It’s all “virtual”, right? I mean really, such weight we put on the little broken heart icon Facebook uses to symbolize a broken relationship.

But see, the problem is, that stupid icon gets broadcasted to everyone—and, in the end, this ridiculous piece of crap broken heart icon is the thing that sums up the 4.5 years you’ve spent giving your actual heart to the person you’ve loved all these years.

I just could not do it. I could not allow an icon define all the complexities of my botched relationship. It felt so petty somehow. So, instead of following suit and letting all of my acquaintances, co-workers, friends-of-friends, middle-school classmates, etc. in on my excruciating break-up, I called it quits.

I deactivated my account. 

I think it’s better this way. Judging from the amount of time I spent/wasted on the site – not to mention the eminent harmful ramifications of one click, one “new life” picture uploaded, one drunken wall message posted – I think it’s safe to say the relationship became unhealthy.

Maybe we can work it out. Maybe with distance will come understanding. Or acceptance. But, for now, I can’t feel anything past the twists in my stomach. So, for now, Facebook will have to remain something everyone else is raving about. A little bit like love, I guess.

Try on my hair (not for the faint of heart)

At work, the Pontiac team just launched this wacky Cheer-A-Matron site as part of their NCAA Game Changing Performance Pick and Roll promotion. On the site, you can upload your headshot, stick it on an actual cheerleader’s body, and cheer it out to handcrafted 2-4-6-8s.  There are 4 cheers to choose from, as well as a silly assortment of hair options. They did a great job – the site is beautiful and goofy and exploratory, all in one. Exactly as it should be.

While working on the project, the team realized they only had all these super White hairstyles to choose from. So they asked if they could use my curly Q’s, and of course I said yes. Gotta represent, you know. I also supplied my voice for one of the cheers (can you guess which one?).

Anyway, have fun! And if you’re feeling brave, send me your cheer and I’ll add a screenshot to this post.

Horray!

CultureJunkie gets down

Jo rocks out