Love, and other Surreal things, again

So I've heard from a few reputable, upstanding folks who still get their groove on that Love was a hit, both Friday and Sat'day nights. Go head. Who'da thunk? You know I had my doubts. Serious doubts. But these were folks with manners, and they had a good time, but, they cautioned me I needed to get to Okie street before it had a relapse.

You know my family has been in DC for three generations? Yep. Beginning with grandparents who migrated from Louisiana, Pennsylvania and Virginia, settling here when Capitol Hill looked something like the French Quarter. On my dad's Robinson side, Pop was a musician, Mimi I think stayed home with the ten children. On mom's side, Grandpa Jimmy worked the railroads and the post office, and grandma worked in the school system. Five kids outta those two.

Why the climb up the geneology tree? Yesterday was the annual Robinson Hook-Up, our version of a family reunion. Now, they don't make families like this any more. Catholic Mimi and Pop had ten, and before they blinked, they had ten grandchildren, and by the time they passed, they easily had twenty. My dad is responsible for ten with Aunt G. claiming eight. Most have spread out to Maryland (for space and sanity), so we had a great turn-out. Big props to cousin R. working the grill, bro S.P. keeping the garbage full with all his trash talking (that's my boy right there! Always got my back!)...

and to cousin B. for capping the evening with a sand-flinging romp around the beach. Ohmygoodness how fun was that. Despite promises to mommy-cousins that they wouldn't dirty up their reunion outfit, every body under four feet stripped to their underwear and rushed the Bay, sand and seaweed just a-flying, modesty floating out with the waves.

One big exception: littlest cousin Rahim who sat on my LAP on the beach, leaned over my legs to touch the sand, then cried "Rana, iss ucky!"Declaring everyone else insane, Rah demanded to be carried the entire time we were on the sand until he was good 'n ready to walk ten feet to his father. The moment Rah reached his hip, he started his "ucky" scream, turning red in the face. Who knew you could be metro so young? That his feet are too precious for sand has been permanently inscribed in family lore.

What's up with your family reunion...

Love and other surreal experiences

So how was Love last night? for Reg'lar folk, that's the new name for Dream, shout out to Mo Brown for getting me hip to changes of DC's uber club. Aaaahh, Dream, how we'll miss you, though you're simply chaning your name rather than shape or style. Maybe it's to purge all the Dream experiences out of our systems (i.e. butt/hand grabbing, drink spilling, long-line waiting, car-jacking), and embrace a new era of club life. No more ethereal Dreams but soul-filling Love. I'll wait to hear about it.

'Cross town , I was having my own "same but new" surreal experience with friend and long-time Washingtoninan (by way of Chevy Chase) D.K. Sitting on the corners of formerly Delapidated and Hood streets, there's a little piece of the Soho/Tribeca called Saint Ex. It's carved out of a renovated brownstone, sorta pricey with lots of attitude and not too many appealing dishes on the paper thin menu. (Um, is this not grimy, chicken-wing 14th Street? I've got to get out more.) On the upside, and a reminder that we still are in the Up South, the waiters and hostesses were attentive and politely masked their boredom.

Apparently, this spot has become THE SPOT in this nook of formerly janky rowhouses. As we approached it, D.K. wondered if we could get a seat. Huh? We weren't going to, say, the old Houston's in G'town, or newer Rosa Mexicana on 7th. But he was rightly concerned. We took the last table outside on a beautiful night, chewed on smoked calamari (yep, smoked), sweet potatoe french fries, and watched as cab after cab dumped more midtown chicks off for a night on... 14th street?? DC, I'm trying to figure you out but looks like I'm way behind the game.

Martini with a twist of conscious

The conversation I found myself in at Felix was actually interesting, and the money I was dropping on a delicious mango martini was going to a decent cause, Words Beats and Life, a non profit in the city. This was Grassrootz Tuesdays, Smokingrill's weekly happy hour for young professionals to meet, greet, and support organizations that support the community.

Curt Midkiff of Smokingrill explained, "folks want to get involved but don't know how to start. So with Grassrootz we bring the non-profits andyoung professionals together in a chill environment." With a steady rotation of A Tribe Called Quest, Biggie, Tupac and much ol' school, it was definitely chill. This could be a fairly regular spot. Next week's charity is Tamika and Friends, "national nonprofit organization designed to raise awareness about cervical cancer and its link to the human papillomavirus (HPV) through a network of survivors and their friends."

But I also like to get my dance on, and Grassrootz was just a tease. Luckily a conscious chick like myself can do both at Stockholm1976, monthly soirees at Kolumbia where a portion of the proceeds go to local charities, like the Genocide Intervention Fund and the One Campaign.

Why charity? Russ tells me "It's more cool to do charity stuff now, not as boring or mundane." The charities walk aways with an average of $1000 and fresh volunteers, nothing to laugh at in a city of thousands of non-profits clamoring for money and manpower. The key to getting people out, he says, is not to flag it as a charity event, but instead a hot party with a conscience. "It makes a difference in people's minds and helps to expand it," Russ says.

And isn't it about time we spent money on something that matters?

Today's Lesson: Murder

You heard about the neighborhood grandma killed by a stray bullet last week? Nothing but a sin and a shame. Of course, everyone wants to know who did it. Longterm and much loved grandma--police better get all over this one.

Now, about a week later, they have a suspect. And I think I taught him American History. I'm not positive--I haven't seen the face. But I remember the name, and 18 is about the right age for him now.

Trippy, isn't it? To know that someone who sat in your classroom, exchanged normal teacher-student talk, chilled with his friends, flirted with girls....shot a grandmother by accident.

Last summer around this time, another student I tuaght was found dead in an alley. I found out in the newspaper. He was quiet, respectful, tried to turn his work in on time, but those PO meetings and court appointments kept distracting him. A PO (parole officer)? I had no idea. Later on, a student emailed me to confirm "Cheese got shot."

Teaching at the school that I did taught me quickly and thoroughly students are complex people. They are far more than who we think they are. That sweet kid with the stuffed book bag? He threw a chair at a teacher when she tried to take his weed. That b-boy? Total braniac. Girl with the braids? The quiet one in slacks and a polo? Had her third child week before school started. I'll never forget the soft-spoken dude, smart as get-out who dropped a packet of crack behind his seat. He came back later looking for "something," but by that time we'd already called the police.

So, this guy, I didn't know what to make of him (no need to put his name out there. Don't none of y'all know him). He was a kinda quiet around his pit-bull of a history teacher. He did have a record, though, and was giving his mama a hard time. After the year was over, we lost touch. We weren't exactly buddy-buddy.

Gets me thinking to how students are with you for a brief moment. You teach, and work, and talk, and review. Encourage, stay postive and focused. Lecture, grade, and give exams. You literally dump all who you are and want them to be into 180 days of 65 minutes, knowing every second that it's not enough. Your "up-til-2am" still isn't enough, but it's all you have.

And then they're gone. They go back into their own worlds that involve books, dinner, family reunions, piano lesson, sex, cartoon drawing, guns, jacking cars... or not. And occasionally they resurface. I've run into a few students in the mall, or on their jobs (and I beam and squeal with pride).

And then sometimes I scan the newspaper, like anybody else in the city, and see my student accidentally murdered someone. Ms. Henderson, remember me? Yes, but I hope it's not you.

What if I didn't know you?

Twelve years ago, I started my sophomore year at Banneker, a year behind everyone else's established friendships, dramas, cliques. Small as the school is, it was possible to not know a soul.

Somehow I got doped into being the Student Government Association rep for our homeroom. Maybe I volunteered, maybe cause I read in Seventeen that's how you make friends at a new school. The meetings were predictably boring, but I have to say true to the mag's advice, I walked out with a friend. The president fo the SGA, writer for the school newspaper, shiny face on BET's Teen Summit, a senior. For the first couple of weeks at school, she was the only person to say hi in the halls, that friendly face that gave me reason to skulk from class to class. June came and, she flashed that "Future Communications Major" bright smile and waved a ticket. "Come to graduation!" She sped off to college, I lumbered through junior and senior years...you know, we lost touch.

Until, we did high school together again, this time as teachers. Wow, we were teachers and did it up. Survived 9/11 together, wild crack-addicted children who wouldn't sit down, brilliant children we were afraid we couldn't teach. Ate entirely too many wings at Hooters. Suffered delapidated relationships, and baskd in romantic redemption. Planned the first Spring Ball, that still reigns as The Most Elegantly Scandalous Ever. Came to school just to laugh together and at each other. Honestly, there are few people who make better jokes about their own knock-knees and pidgeon toes. Again, after a graduation, we left. Me for graduate school, her for family. See you on the flip side!

Well. Unexpectedly, the flip side is the same Chocolate City, burnt and burnished. Our road back is a little tear stained, a little dusty and not quite as glorious as our departure. Isn't that the stuff good books are made of? Neither sophomores or seniors in the tangled safety net of high school, and only one of us at the helm of a classroom...our DC is something new. Shiny, expensive, cops write tickets for hawk-spitting out the driver's side window. Ethnically diverse (More than English, Ebonics, or Spanish Overheard in DC), pocked with Starbucks, boutique shoe stores lining the pavement with jimmy choos instead of New Balance, DC is vying for "Hippest City in the UpSouth," where everybody's from Someplace Else.

And, for this Northwest chick,

The hallway is a lot longer, like Pennsylvania Avenue long. Thankfully, mercifully, at the end of it, she has the same laugh, infectious humor and optimism, passion and drive. "Yes, I'm like this all the time!" Her new apartment is a haven for us wanna be writers, certified dreamers. The lasagna she whipped up on the formica fold-down table is hot and meaty, and there's a drawer that, when opened, rewards at least ten classic chick-flicks for your troubles. Would I be laughing this hard if I didn't know you? Sanctuary in this unfamiliar town. Madame President, what we gonna do?

Megawatts and humble blogger 

Coupla community events for ya

A while back, someone posted a city is nothing without the people who live here. Do something good for Chocolate City:

"LOVE TO DANCE: YOUTH HIP HOP DANCE COMPETITION & SPEAK OUT"
Featuring:
FLY (Facilitating Leadership in Youth)
and the Peaceaholics, Lady Day, and others.

I'm so excited for this event. It's gonna be dope. Huge fan of the FLY dance team who work it out.
Saturday, Sept. 10 7-9 pm
The ARC Theatre
1901 Mississippi Avenue
$5 Youth $10 Adults

Contact Malaika Tate Scott 202 841 0621

Get out your nine-iron...
If your the golf or tennis type, get a team together for the Courts and Courses Tournament, a fundraiser to benefit Food and Friends. The organization provides food for people with life challenging illnesses: cancer, HIV/AIDS, and others. I've always wanted to learn how to play tennis, but maybe next year.

Date: September 10.
www.foodandfriends.org

For information:
Stacy EnglandSpecial Events Assistant
Food & Friends219 Riggs, Rd NE
Washington, DC 20011
phone: 202-269-6883
fax: 202-635-4262

Cool Man Dude

This morning one of the coolest guys on this side of the Anacostia, Potomac, and Mississippi crossed the border to head back to North Carolina. My brother David, cool-ass Dave, half of the self-described Cool-Man Dude hipsters.

Slow down, David has not always been every sister's dream. I wouldn't've said this about him, or claimed him at a bus station ten years ago. As he moved through each obnoxious phase, the three of took turns hating him and his very existence. Even distrusted our parents' sense of judgment for havnig and keeping him. He's been the annoying little brother who got everything dirty just as you finished it, washed it, dried it or put it on. He was the chubby pre-teen who redefined awkward with a fried chicken belly and matching watermelon head, mad at the world and the scale. The older brother who berated little sister's male callers, tantalized the hell out of her mesmerized friends, and delighted in it all with a devilish smile and commanding voice.

But through it all, we could not tell the bold-faced lie that denies his ridiculously dead-pan humor, self-righteousness ("Rhonda! I'm David! Don't you know???"), and classic charm.

You missed it when he uttered the infamous, "Dad, if I am brown, and dirt is brown, then why
do I have to wash my hands?" Or when he and his partner in crime laid in the gutter during a rain storm to feel the waterfall over their scrunched up faces. Or the day he discovered his thumbs don't match (we named them). We laughed for hours at his perplexed glances toward his asymmetrical appendages.

Earlier this summer we went fishing, and helped me on and off the boat. This is the shit that makes older sisters proud to death.

Yesterday, as I ranted and raved about the enormous pile of clothes in the laundry room, he thinks aloud, "Rhonda if we take the laundry out of the laundry room it'll just be the room." Aight, yo, you're funny.

Today he's striding into his junior year in college. English major, Education minor. Worked the hell out of his summer job. Digging this chick he met a while back. My patna Dave. See you at Thanksgiving.

Scoot your boots to Anacostia Museum

Post for Blog—going to the Anacostia Museum

Blazin’ hot Friday afternoon, escaping the city is a necessity. Too broke for a movie, too bored by the mall, I gunned Speedy-Speedy up Morris Street to my new favorite sanctuary: the Anacostia Museum for Black People. (Obviously not the official title. See for yourself: anacostia.si.edu).

An unlikely hideway? Aaahh, you’ve never been there, and until last summer, neither had I. Perched atop a hill on Fort Street SE, the Anacostia museum coolly snubs the frenetic sand-blasted sun-scorched National Mall and all the rushed confusion it stands for. Quiet. Relaxed. Green grass. You’re almost guaranteed a tourist-free experience. No bumbling children in matching neon yellow “I’m from Camp Nowhere” T-shirts, swinging digital cameras to put ya eye out, or families of 15 who stop dead in their tracks to learn to read a map. Nada! Just the nice guard, and an older couple who enjoyed that the museum is fully ADA compliant.

Of course the Important Museum People are a little upset by the fact that the doors of the museum open only about 10 times a day. Museums need people to keep them alive. No point in hanging a thing if no one’s going to look at it. Certainly they dream of the visitors the National Mall burps through the doors of the Air and Space, the American History Museum, and others.

But this is a museum for BLACK culture. Have you seen black culture in or near the Mall. So why have a museum there? It should be in Anacostia, around the corner from Freddy Doug’s house. If DC had a reservation, that’s where the gorgeous Museum for the American Indian should be. (That museum is an “I know there’s nothing that can make up for what we did, but please accept this as a gesture of…” if I’ve seen one.)

Plus, other Important DC People are struggling to get tourists unstuck from the sticky mouse trap that stretches from the Capitol the Monument. Metro is trying to be more friendly, so get on the bus and get your fanny pack across the River to see how DC really lives.

To see what? “Walls of Heritage, Walls of Pride,” an assembly of pics and pieces of art in public spaces around the country. Also, “African American Muslims in Early America.” Both interesting and engaging, I highly recommend checking them out. (I’m deliberately skimping on the details ‘cause I’m trying to get a review published in DC publication. Stay tuned for that adventure.)

Of course, my plug to get more folks to the museum potentially violates its sanctified nature. Yes, I contradict myself ("I don't need that now). But as I remember the fate of the City Museum (you probably don’t; it had a shorter life span than a five year old’s goldfish), I’m willing to sacrifice a little elbow room in the name of longevity.

Loving the Up-South

I had the most lovingest-DC conversation today with a brotha from ATL (not ATL peaches, but ATL cadillacs). He said to me, "I love this city. I fell in love with it thirteen years ago when I came to visit my uncle, and he lived in this $400 apartment. And I went to play basketball across the street, and I heard go-go for the first time. I was like, what is that? I loved it."

So that got me to thinking about my first go-go. Everybody (or shall I say er'body) remembers their first go-go. Mine was at Sidwell Friends school, and I think we heard the Groovers, but I can't quite remember. For some reason, and I'll admit this now, I decided to wear a green turtle neck and black jeans. I really thought I looked like something other than a hot mess. Dude this was the early 90s, and I was really trying to work with the 100 lbs I barely weighed. Me and my brother, my girl who was in love with my brother, and maybe my brother's friend took the redline to Tenleytown, hiked a good half mile to Sidwell. Boy, we got up in that gym, and I danced my li'l tailbone ragged. It was a hot funky mess, but we had a ball like we do in Chocolate City, boy. I found a little shorty just my height (about 5") who went to Dematha. Wonder what happened to him.

But go-gos unfortunately attract a crowd that gets to pistol-whipping when they hear their neighborhood being represented. So I think I hit up one or two more before Mom was like, "No." There was one at Holton Arms (remember that one?) I went to, but it was lame... then there were those stabbings at the Ibex and the Black Hole and the high school gyms... it just got a little too hot for this NW chick. I couldn't hang. But Groovers, Backyard, you're on my Ipod. "Put ya one leg up...."

Going Fishing

Guy Territory
David raised the hatch and loaded Steven Paul’s rod and tackle box into the truck.
As he hustled in, Dad asked from the back seat, “Thought you couldn’t go out when your girlfriend was in town?”

“I go where I want! When I want! And with who I want!” Full blown finger pointing, veins popping, eyes blazing. The whole dramatic effect that didn’t phase any of us.
“She said you could go?” That was me.
“She said I could go,” he said and strapped on his seat belt.
Goin’ fishin!

…with the coolest guys in the world, the Robinson fishing clan: Dad, brothers David and Steven Paul, and cousins Mark, Carroll, and Justin. Well, not exactly fishing. Don’t plan on squishing any squid onto a little hook, or waiting the arrival of a gill-blower. But maybe I can be convinced to hold a pole for a little bit. Essentially, this evening is about getting off schizophrenic North Capitol Street, out of melting Chocolate City, and into the Bay breeze with the boys. Fishing? If it happens…

The “Andiamo”
We meet Carroll and Mark at the docks. I inhale a deep breath of salty Bay air, and the register the generator’s cranking roar. Such a loud, raucous noise. Pausing before the pier and the boat, David steps on ahead of me, and reaches out to take my hand. My younger brother, the gentleman.

Steven Paul and I settle up on the deck, occasionally consumed by the Bay view mansions. Wouldn’t it be nice…we dreamed. Didn’t say much, but all of us are accustomed to the sound of loud motors as conversation. Curious for a view from the upper deck, I climb up the ladder, knees awkwardly turned to the right to avoid slamming them into the steps. Awesome. Miles of waves ahead, huge steamers, and the horizon.

With minimal direction, Carroll invites me to steer the boat. Captain Rhonda! Something like driving, there’s a huge silver-slick steering wheel, but with a thousand more dials and widgets and flick this and that. But for all the machinery that suggested complexity and excitement, it really isn’t I had to keep a central dial on 190. That’s it. For some calculated reason that was the number that will eventually lead us to the middle of the Bay. With choppy waters, though, it takes a more than my neophyte skill can offer. “We’re never going to get there with you driving,” Carroll says to me, and he sets the cruise control.

Sitting in the captain’s chair is just as exciting, and so I do. But settled, I notice a little…feeling… in my stomach. Not a huge gnawing pain like a cramp or an ache, but a minor disturbance that I have known before.

“Um, Carroll, the water this far out is really choppy?”
He cuts to the chase. “You getting seasick?”
“Well, not exactly, but maybe.” Maybe I ought to go back down and sit…

Below, the guys are shooting the ish, spitting off the side of the boat and gnawing on cold KFC. Little by little my head begins to hurt, my stomach contracts, and something as simple as a wave of water in the sea inspires utter confusion. Despite my suffering, conversation continues: Who is the sexier sex symbol, Beyonce or Toni Braxton? I desperately want to set the record straight: Toni’s near nudity is simply a desperate plea for a career comeback. But, the simple turning of my head alters my entire state of being and understanding of gravity. Mute is a better way to go.

Every so often, Mark or Dad look at me sympathetically, seasoned fishermen with steel-lined stomachs feeling sympathy for the landlubber. “Rhonda, you doing alright? Do you need a pill?” I take one. Steven Paul helpfully points out a prime spot for me to vomit should I be so inclined.

Carroll, all the while, has steered us to the mythical “190” destination, and the gang efficiently sets about fishing. With optimism that his daughter will join the league, Dad baits a rod and sets it in front of me. Yeah, maybe, I can drop a line, reel in a big one, or at least one.

Well, no. After casting off exactly once, I hand over my rod and crawl below deck while I can still move my legs. The waves are rocking the boat at physically unsound angles, and threaten balanced life as I know it. Gratefully I fall into the couch. Horizontal is a position I occupy for the next two hours.

Once I emerge see the red moon dipping low in the water, but pay for it dearly in the currency of gastronomic harmony. No more of that. Zen-like, I lay on my side and mentally carry myself to terra firma.

Unfortunately for the crew, not a single croaker has made an appearance, and Carroll decides to sail farther north. Except the anchor is lodged deep into the bottom of the Bay. Apparently I’m not the only one struggling to gather bearings. “I’ll go on up the helm, see what I can do,” Mark yells. Carroll continues to push a button that creates a crazy gyrating screech, I imagine the thick wire cable of a stubbornly anchored anchor. Oh, my head.

Return to sanity
Finally, with not a single croaker between us, we decide to head back to port. The waves are more pleasant the closer we got to the creek, and my stomach grudgingly agrees to remain among my community of vital organs. Reinvigorated, I bound back to deck, rejoin Steven Paul and smile at the sky, specks of stars, and the glory of firm land ahead.

Can I call what I did fishing? Is it truthful to say I went fishing if, of the four hours on the boat, two were spent in the pine position negotiating with my digestive tract not to send my dinner straight up my throat like a trucker barreling up 95 north? Telling tales of adventure is a distinct and essential element of the Robinson fishing tradition. Yes, I went fishing with the boys, and got sick like a girl.

Enjoying the sunset. 

The Post reported a cattle village in Sudan had over 150 words to describe the bovine. As the big attraction in that region of the East African country, the topic the topic dominates conversation. In Alaska there are hundreds of words for snow

Lately, in this tiny city on the east coast of the United States, the heat wave has inspired a new vocabulary to describe the wretched combination of heat from the sun and humidity from the swamp (or the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers, put nicely).

Muggy, clammy, "chewy" (when you describe air as something that you can chew, the mix of heat and humid is simply out of proportion. Retreat inside to a frigid movie theatre).

Which I did with my dude to see "Hustle and Flow," the story of a low-budget pimp's journey toward realizing a long-held dream of being a rapper. The storyline didn't turn me on, either. In fact, the ballot was cast against it the moment I read "pimp" as a character. I mean, really, enough with the pimp sh*t, juice, and whatnot. Dudes, claim some other identity, like employed.

Rantings aside, critics more intrepid than raved about Terrence Howard, the aforementioned pimp, and his powerful delivery. Commended him for humanizing a "pimp," the sleaziest of the sleaze, and demonstrating real talent. Huh. Terrence Howard, the other guy from "The Brothers," the crazy boyfriend in "Lackawanna Blues," and a few other things. Being a sucka for a great actor not named Denzel, Samuel (who has had more than a few questionable flicks), or Taye, I put my moral aside and saw the film.

True to reviews, the film succeeds in growing the pimp, DJay. His initial frame of mind is clear--he's a pimp, small time drug dealer trying to keep himself fed and housed in low-ride North Memphis. The reappearance of a high school friend jarrs his memory of what he could have been, and then sets out to be more than a pimp. Interesting plot.

The problem is that the scenes never live up to their potential. The regional dialogue keeps my uninitiated ear listening for phrases to drop when I perpetrate like I know something more about Memphis than BBQ. Visually, the film is a tour of run-down Memphis. But the scenes do not accomplish the emotion I anticipated. Characters may begin important conversations--the meaning of being a pimp or prostitute--but do not carr the dialogue through its natural conclusion, or offer intruiging responses. A few scenes are outrightly gratuitous, and after a while I never wanted to hear the words "trick" "ho" or B*tch" again. .

Even with its success as a character piece, the film could improve by exploring or explaining how DJay came to manage and staff his operation. How did he get hooked up with a womanlike Shug? What does he love about her? Why does she love him? For me to feel sympathetic toward a vile individual, especially a pimp, I need to understand his circumstances beyond the "Daddy left me" scenario.

Finally, Taryn Manning rocked as the dilly backwater prostitute. In many scenes, she effortlessly nabbed the humor or seriousness from the leads with a nook, nod, saunter or question. Where DJay fell off, her appearances kept the movie interesting.

This film is one that's perfect for a Friday night stroll through the aisles at Blobckbuster, the visit when you're looking for something you heard was kinda good, and you remember it looked interesting. Seek out "Hustle and Flow."