Discovering Greatness ... A Little Too Late

I didn't know the Undercover Black Man, but I wish I did. I was only vaguely familiar with his blog, but I've been going there reading the archives quite frequently after learning that UBM, an alter ego for TV writer David Mills, died from a brain aneurysm this past week.

His name didn't ring any bells with me as I read the various obituaries and tributes that ran in different newspapers. It's surprising that I wasn't familiar with him, since he did go to my alma mater, worked with David Simon, another distinguished alumnus, and was a writer for both Homicide: Life on the Streets and The Wire, which was one of my favorite programs. He was also set to work with Simon on Treme, an HBO show that seems to deal with life in post-Katrina New Orleans. He wrote his last blog post about the show, along with several others.

I'm ashamed to say that I've only been perusing the blog after learning about his death. But I do have some favorite posts, like the one where he lists recording artists who were convicted of murder; 'Run, N-gger Run', where he lists the lyrics of a catchy old time tune; and one where he calls out folks for pretending to be Indian. He also provided little known historical data, like giving a bio on the country's first non white vice president.

I've been late in discovering greatness before. I was an adult before I read 'Go Tell it On the Mountain' and 'Giovanni's Room', the latter helping me realize how much I loved James Baldwin. And just last year, my guitar teacher has got me playing songs by the Beatles and their tracks are in constant rotation (John Lennon was THE TRUTH). I'm now learning 'Don't Let Me Down', which faces stiff competition from 'My Life' for being my favorite Beatles song. (I've become so enamored with them that a friend has nicknamed me The Ladybug)

I had already known I was going to watch Treme when it premieres in a few weeks. But now I'll do so with the UBM, or David Mills, in mind. Rest in peace, Mr. Mills.

"These Hips Are Magic Hips ..."

I was saddened to hear about the death of poet Lucille Clifton recently. Poetry is very hit or miss for me. Generally, I enjoy it, alot, especially when the writer is the one doing the reading. But I don't go out of my way to read poetry collections (Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni and Georgia Douglas Johnson are the exception) or attend readings. This could be a side effect from a few years before when I thought I was dropping in on a brief spoken word event, which, instead, turned out to be THREE HOURS of someone screaming, then whispering their words. I'm still recovering.

Anyway, I was familiar with Lucille Clifton because she lived in my old neighborhood. However, I wasn't exposed to her poetry until maybe a year or so ago during a fiction class. My professor gave us a copy of her poem 'Here rests', which basically summed up her sister's life and personality in a few lines. The poem resonated with me because in some ways her sister reminded me of my Aunt BG, who is now in a nursing home raising all sorts of hell. (Let's just say that one nurse learned the hard way about telling my aunt to put out a cigarette.) Here's the poem:

here rests

by Lucille Clifton

my sister Josephine

born july in '29

and dead these 15 years

who carried a book

on every stroll.

when daddy was dying

she left the streets

and moved back home

to tend him.

her pimp came too

her Diamond Dick

and they would take turns

reading

a bible aloud through the house.

when you poem this

and you will she would say

remember the Book of Job.

happy birthday and hope

to you Josephine

one of the easts

most wanted.

may heaven be filled

with literate men

may they bed you

with respect.

With poetry, I'm a big believer in hearing it READ by the writer, versus reading it yourself. So here's some audio of her doing a 'Homage to my Hips', which is where the title for this blog post was taken. But don't stop there. Please check out 'Miss Rosie', 'Blessing the Boats' and 'Wishes for Sons'. And take a moment to see her in action. Rest in peace, Miss Lucille.

Rest In Peace

Gone but not forgotten:

Ed McMahon

Farrah Fawcett

Michael Jackson


And my dad, who died 10 years ago today.

Happy Birthday To Ya....

(For D.E.J. 7/29/57 to 6/26/99)

You are looking at a limited edition photo of a young Strength with Papa Strength, circa 1983. If he had lived, today would've been my dad's 50th birthday. I imagine he'd have a big party to celebrate the day and he'd get his turquoise corvette all washed and shined for the occasion. He'd call everyone -- family, friends, girlfriends -- and remind us all when and where we needed to be. And we'd get there, no matter what.

He'd arrange it so he made some kind of grand entrance where the dj played a special song just to celebrate his arrival. Dad would detest most of the stuff on the radio today, so the playlist would include his old favorites -- Phyllis Hyman, Three Times Dope, Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, Salt 'N Pepa, etc. It would definitely be an old school jam. The one exception would e Beyonce', I'm sure he'd like her.

We'd stroll out onto the dance floor in full view of his insecure ex girlfriend, Susan. Dad always had a way with the ladies and the poor thing always got all a'flutter when she saw Dad around them. She once called over his place and got mad when I answered the phone, thinking I was someone he was cheating with. (Pobrecita -- I hope she got the help she needed.) His other exes would be there as well, including Debbie, who, along with her daughter, remind me of the main characters from 'The Parkers' ; and Joyce, who drove me crazy with all her pets but was with me at the hospital when he died in 1999.

The party would be packed with folks who knew Dad in one way or the other. Some smart aleck would find a way to put 50 candles on a birthday cake and he'd try his hardest to blow them all out. Mom probably wouldn't attend, but he'd ask me about her, like always. He'd tell me that I'm looking more and more like her everyday and then he'd clown me once he noticed that I'm getting the same gray hairs that I once teased him about. Then he'd ask me how long I'm planning to let my locks grow before I come to my senses and cut them off. He'd roll his eyes when I tell him that I'm letting them grow as long as possible, then I'd give him a big hug. Somebody would snap a picture and soon, the party would be over.

Anyway, that's how I wished things could've happened. Rest in peace, old man.

Back at It

I'd apologize for my absence, but I know ya'll are about as tired of hearing my excuses as I am about writing them. The truth is, I couldn't get inspired to write about anything lately. I was going to write about the nuptials of The Extremes, which I attended a week ago, but then I had a death in the family. Plus, the drama at Virginia Tech also saddened me. But I've dusted myself off and I'm back at the blog.

It occurred to me the other day that since November, I've been to three funerals and one wedding. It sounds like an awful twist on a Hugh Grant movie, but it's true. Most recently, my grandmother -- my stepfather's mother -- passed away. The doctors told us to prepare ourselves for her death months ago, but we were all hoping for the best. And even though we talked to her about death and dying several times, all of us were shocked when we learned about her passing.

I don't want to get too emotional here -- cuz Lord knows I've cried too much in the last couple of weeks -- but Mrs C was the last grandmother I'll ever have. When my Mom first met her son 14 years ago, she welcomed us both into the family with open arms. Being the stubborn teenager that I was, I tried my best to keep her, my stepdad, and the rest of his family at arm's length. But she wouldn't give up on me and always called just to see how I was doing, sending me money whether I needed it or not and feeding me until I was ready to explode.

In my top drawer, I still have a letter that she sent me in 2000 when I moved away from home and started my first job. "I have so much love in my heart for you. I feel you are also a part of me," she wrote. "... As you start out (in life) be careful whom you choose and trust no one." And as usual, there was a check inside.

Anyway, she's gone now and we traveled down south for the funeral, which was over the weekend. Because I am who I am, I needed to find something to laugh about to get me through this marathon of funerals that I've experienced in the last few months. In two of them -- Mrs. C's included -- they had choirs where all the singers were 80 or older. Not that there's anything wrong with having an elderly choir -- if they can sing. On both occasions, the choirs sounded eerily similar to the way I do when I'm singing "The Sound of Music" in the shower. Note: It ain't pretty. Mom agreed with me and together we devised a list of people who would be banned from singing at our own funerals. It was a bit of a morbid conversation, but it got us through.

(Photo courtesy of http://the-office.com/bedtime-story/ragdoll16.jpg)

"Life Goes On"

I apologize for my absence, but it couldn't be helped. A good friend of mine had a death in the family, so I had to go out of town to attend the funeral. It was one of those tragic stories where her uncle was standing outside making a phone call when he became the victim of a drive-by shooting. I'll never know what causes a person to grab a gun and shoot a complete stranger multiple times. Maybe complete insanity.

Anyway, in the years that I've known my friend, I never met her uncle. He was someone I knew about in passing, since she would often mention him. She and I always lived about a four-hour drive away from each other, so most of the time we talked over the phone. Usually, she would tell me some hilarious story about her favorite uncle. Even though our paths never crossed, her uncle often told her to tell me, his 'girl,' hello.

Visiting my friend's hometown again helped me realize that it's been 12 years since we first met. We became friends after living on the same floor freshman year and became so tight that we went to each other's hometown each summer. The first time I went to her place, it was the summer before 2pac and Biggie were assassinated (yeah, I said assassinated). Her uncle loaned her his car and the only cd he had was 2pac's All Eyez on Me. There was one song we played repeatedly, "Life Goes On." The chorus was: 'how many brothas fell victim to the street/rest in peace, young nigga there's a heaven for a G/be a lie if a I told you I ain't never thought of death/my niggas we the last ones left.' I had the pleasure of meeting some of her friends who nicknamed me PochaButtus, because of my growing booty. She even earned the moniker 2Plop Shitmore for her miraculous ability to eat and then disappear into the bathroom five minutes later. Good times.

We had our fair share of issues over the years. Family drama, school woes and man trouble usually kept us on the phone all hours of the night. These days we probably talk once a month about nothing in particular, but it always feels like not much time has passed. It's cool to see this woman -- who once wanted nothing less than Shemar Moore -- gush over her boyfriend. I even helped her drop some hints about how she envisioned her future wedding. I'm not sure if he was took the bait though. We'll see.

Both her uncle's wake and funeral were standing room only. Once it was over, we drove back to her place in silence. Leave it to me to break it by starting off with 'how many brothas fell victim to the street.' She tearfully joined in. After all, life does goes on.

R.I. P. Bebe Moore Campbell, 1950-2006

I was saddened to read this earlier today. Ms. Campbell has been one of my favorite authors since I read "Your Blues Ain't Like Mine" some years ago. Her work never let me down and I tried to read everything she wrote, including the excellent "Brothers & Sisters," "What You Owe Me" and most recently, "72 Hour Hold."

For anyone who hasn't read her work, I advise you to go to your local bookstore and pick up one of her books. It is truly a sad day in literature.

Casanova

This week, I was terribly saddened by the death of Ed Bradley and then today of Gerald Levert. For me, Ed Bradley was the best part of the bland 60 Minutes. He stayed handsome throughout his life and I loved the way he rocked that earring. Gerald Levert was a big teddy bear with a beautiful voice. I remember being a little girl dancing to some of his hits with Levert, the group he formed with his brother and cousin back in the 80s.

But in my office this week, you'd think I was the only one who cared about these deaths. One of my friends emailed me Thursday and told me that Ed Bradley died from leukemia. I was shocked because I didn't even know he was sick and again, he was the best part of that boring CBS show. I had a moment of silence at my desk and pressed on, 'cause that's what I do. For whatever reason, I didn't tell my coworkers the news. I don't know why, maybe in the back of my mind I thought that they wouldn't care about the death of a black newsman.

It didn't take long for the news to spread and soon, everyone in our little department was coming up to me, asking if I knew that Ed Bradley died. They would come across the room and talk to me about it, as if the death of this black man didn't matter to anyone but me, the only black person in the office. "He was such a good man," one lady said to me. "And a good journalist. I trusted him. I really did." But later that night, this trusted man's death didn't even lead the 11 o'clock news. I mean, it's not like he was Britney Spears, ending a marriage via text message. Now that's news.

Another friend emailed me today about Gerald Levert and I was just as saddened. I needed to share this info with someone, but I knew none of my white colleagues listened to R&B. But then there's Anna. Anna is white, but she lives with her black boyfriend. She must've seen too many 'hood flicks because she uses them as fodder in her daily imitation of a stereotypical black woman. Yet her delivery makes her look more like Buckwild from Flavor of Love. Anna once told me that she loved my baby locks and asked me what I would think if she got her hair cornrowed. All I could think of was Bo Derek in "10", and told her that she should do what she wants.

Anyway, I sent Anna an i.m.:
Me: Do you remember Gerald Levert?
Anna: Hell yeah, girl
Me: He's dead! Had a heart attack.

Anna jumps up from her computer, eyes crazed. "Are you serious?? Can ya'll believe this? GERALD LEVERT IS DEAD!!" Everyone else looked around and gave a collective, "who?"

Anna looked around the room like she was staring at BooBoo the Fool. "Ya'll can't be serious up in this piece! Gerald Levert -- Eddie Levert's son!!"

Sean, another coworker, was perplexed. "I'm sorry. Were they friends of yours?"

"They're singers," I said. "Eddie sang with the O'Jays and Gerald was his son."

"Doesn't sound familiar," Sean said. "Can you sing a song?"

Against my better judgment, Anna and I did a duet of Levert's 1986 hit, "Casanova." We were off key and all we knew was the chorus. Sean later said he knew the song, but neither one of us believed him. Anna went back to her desk and made a series of calls where she screeched, "Gerald Levert is dead! Gerald Levert is dead!"

Later, I saw her outside smoking a cigarette and holding her cell phone, presumably telling someone else about Gerald's death. "Yo, I can't even believe these people," Anna said. "How can you not know who Gerald Levert is?!"

I shrugged.

"Damn shame," Anna said. "Damn shame."

Sure is.

Update: Upon checking my newspaper on Saturday, I see that Gerald's death is on page 6B, sans photo. There's no mention of it at all on the website.