Shut that fool up.

Stop reading right now and contact the Salem Radio Network to demand immediate cancellation of Bill Bennett's radio show.

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People who aren't black wonder what we're always so angry about, and why we try to explain complicated situations with one word: race. Poor health, substandard housing, exorbitant interest rates, run-ins with cops, rescue from hurricanes. We say: It's because we're black. They say: No, well, actually, it's because of your class, and your income level, and your parents' education...all of those complicated factors.

Now, after hearing Bennett's ignorant and incendiary comments, do you think we have some reason, the slightest reason to attribute our station to our race? Kanye may not have the evidence to indict George Bush for not liking Black people, but Bennett tried and convicted himself. (Check above link to read transcript of his call-in show).

Bennett's proposed idea is not so damaging for the possibility that it evokes. It is damaging for the core value it reveals. He has no regard for the lives of black children. A black child's life is not worth as much as a white child's.

Non white people know this, man. We know this so painfully well, like we know the sound of our own voices. It's evident in the schools we attend, the hospitals that serve us, the neighborhoods we live in. Yet our "meritocratic society" allows others to be oblivious. And use work ethic, choices, effort as the finite explanation to this conundrum. "I'm accomplished because I work hard. You suffer because you're lazy."

Bennett destroys the meritocratic argument by introducing a genetic pathology: Black children are born criminals. Kill them, and we will reduce crime. I cringe as I write the words. How dare he. (I have to say Obama's response that he "crossed the line" really wasn't much of a comeback.)

See why we think "it's" about race? Why we think we were left on a roof for days because we were black? Bennett makes it clear. We're not worth rescuing. We're not even worth being born.

In the spirit of Trent Lott, Strom Thurmond, and other morally-bankrupt politicians continues to provide us with reason to believe that it will always, always, always be about race.

Off to the theatre

The big day had finally arrived and I was running late. Six-fifty in the evening and I was only on 16th and Otis. Had to get to 14th and P., not hit any annoying pedestrians in the process, PARK legally, and then get to the theatre by 7. Definitely didn't happen.

Yesterday was my personal opener to the 2005-2006 season at the Studio Theatre. By some stroke of maternal genius and generosity, my mother scored major points by giving me seasons tickets for my birthday. That I recieved a birthday present is odd. That it is a cool present I can brag about is astounding and hasn't happened since I was seven and got the very cool pink Strawberry Shortcake two-wheeler (with trainers just in case).

The play: A Number. In short, father donates to a sperm bank, and creates 21 children, 20 more than he expected. The play explores the dynamics of discovering new relationship between father and sons. Ted van Griethuysen plays father, and Tom Story carries three complicated personalities of the sons. An engaging one hour situation before a full, captivated audience (The audience included a man with bright red sports socks, his companion in equally bright red slides. Just happened notice from the late seats in the back.

Feeling all New Yorky and intellectualized, I wandered through Dupont Circle to digest the play's quirks, one-liners, and questions of existentialism (at one point, the son wonders if there are other versions of himself out there in the world, is he really himself, the original? or a version of himself? Glad I'm not a twin.)

A few sights around Dupont Circle on a Sunday night in early fall:
Righteous games of chess in the Books-A-Million cafe, and a guy knocked out asleep like he was home in front of the TV instead of the Reference section.

"That guy just pinched my butt." Said matter of factly in the travel secion of Kramerbooks and Afterwards.

Guy on a bike says to me with a little smile, "Loving the dress. Loving it." He was straight and I smile back.

Gang of teachers lesson planning for Monday classes at Cosi. What up, DCTF.

Finally, end up at Cafe Luna, where a group of boyfriends are eating pizza with knives and forks. My waiter makes up for slow service with a second shot of express, gratis. A cute blondie, a Brad Pitt in the making.

And final thought to close out the night, overheard from a pair of med school grads: "The best way to approach New York is with a complete, open..." My imagination was to piqued to hear the answer.

And now meet the other DC

For two friends of mine, two hopeful committed energetic intelligent and smart people, DC is now a very different city. The houses are the same, but not. The streets are still dusty, but the dust has different meanings. Daylight is still bright, but night is darker. They've now met the city they've seen at 7 on 7.

As they were walking to the train station from work Thursday night, they were approached by two young guys who followed them across the street, down the street, to the Metro escalator KNOCKED her down thensnatchedherpurse and RAN!

I haven't spoken to her but don't need to her hear voice to know she's stunned. Shocked. Dazed. The young'uns took her cell phone, and tossed everything that wouldn't sell on the street. I need to hear her voice to know that she is resilient. Still hopeful committed energetic intelligent and smart.

Both friends work with young people in the most important capacity, as their teachers. The first responders can be the first victims. Crime affects everyone. News report on some new bad thing every night. It's all true. It is still very real when it is you. And nothing is the same. In the morning.

"And then there's girls like me"

The bass and the guitar came in, the small crowd immediately starts a smooth head nod with a little hip. "Dum dum da dum--bwaaaangg." I cued up "Golden Boys" as the guest DJ at Grassrootz. The DJ has the huge commitment of getting the party going or sending it out on a gurney. I guess the job got done.

That song...wow. Like a glass of wine after a long day of trying to be somebody. Takes me to a lot of places, though I just discovered it about four years ago. Soussi back in 2002, 2003. Golden Boys from G'town law and a lobbying firm downtown hosted a Thursday night affair. So suave, self-assured, arrogant, one was told "You're just like the boys in that song. Think you're a prince."

And then Barcelona...small apartment off Las Ramblas, two a.m., a deck of cards and amazing bottle of white wine. Best friends K. and C. talking shit and trading stories. I drank most of the wine myself.

Of course, the summer of 2004 before grad school. My mom's Silver Spring apartment, me packing for Paris and feeling all Vogue and Vibe at the same time. I'm packing for Paris!

Every girl has met, fallen for and scorned her golden boy, prince of all the magazines. I wonder: "would they love you if they knew all the things we know/those golden boys are all a fraud/don't believe their show."

Damn, DC, you wore me out

“Who listens to ‘Beat It’? I mean, are we going in to step on lights” The stylish woman looked confused, couldn’t figure out why she was standing in line to get into 1223 Saturday night.

E. and I were standing not far, trying to get comp’d in, admitting “we listen to Beat It,” and you’ve got your videos confused. Mike danced on lights in “Billy Jean” video. More importantly, hearing those strains from 1223 was a much better sign than the snobby sorority girls standing outside.

One of the more interesting comments and sights from the end of a string of nights out this week. Started at Felix on Tuesday with Grassrootz Tuesday. Still no dancing, but a great conversation with a fellow Pablo Neruda lover, a lovely raspberry martini with my neighbor and sister, and musings about blame for Hurricane Katrina and Seattle’s status as the “Austin” of Washington state. That’s cool, though. No need to dance every night. Chill out Tuesday, but…

Thursday night, it was on. If homegirl couldn’t fathom dancing to Beat It, she definitely shouldn’t spend her Thursday night at Blue Room, where Uncle Q was spinning a fabulous string of hits that took me from my junior high school dance at Deal Jr. High (shout out DT for rocking the running man with me), to college days in the Faculty House with AMB, JNK, DRM, and SNB burning thousands of calories quickly replenished by a greasy piece of Koronet’s or pancakes at Tom’s. Hanging out with sister P. and friend J., who found themselves in a time warp. J. quickly set an age standard: “Anybody in a white tee,” pulling at his own, “shouldn’t be here.” They skedaddled to Tryst, and the party kept going with Black Rob, Pharcyde, Tribe, and on and on and ya don’t stop…

Friday night. Kept it going at Kolumbia for another Stockholm Joint. “My best one yet,” R. told me later. Folks were styling, profiling, raising money to support Hurricane Kat victims. Best thing about Stockholm is that folks really get their groove on, and you can always count on one group to definitely be working it out. This time, organic soul train line. Oh yeah! In my three-inch heels, I could only watch and two-step. Ended the night with a quick visit to Ben’s. Keep in mind they don’t fix hamburgers after 3 am, but the hotdogs are just as juicy.

And then Saturday. Now, I’d never thought to chill on Connecticut, except for a movie at the Uptown, or sushi at Spices. But, my girl put me onto another spot on to with a $2 cover and a wicked DJ. This dude is NICE on the tables. Great song selection, good momentum, and he can just scratch records like Jigga rhymes: with clarity, intensity, and variation. Loved it. Danced to it. Knew it. But the crowd moved on to 1223, and heard the aforementioned question.

Actually, she was on to something. After getting in, they cut the MJ cycle, blasted the techno, and we just had to bounce immediately. The music just wasn’t working. Interesting scene, though. 'Cause I mainly stick to straight hip-hop/urban (i.e. black) clubs, I got a sight at how the rest of DC parties. Definitely more diverse than the usual Dream oops Love crowd, equal attitude (especially from a tribe of blondes getting into the VIP section) lots of fist-pumping dancing, but all in the same spirit of hip-shaking stress relief.

Shot up Connecticut to Adams Morgan, where, under a full moon, every hipster under 50 lost their minds in the electricity running through the sidewalk and street. I really don’t have to describe it, cause I’m sure you were in line getting a slice of grease and cheese at the jumbo pizza club (humongous speakers at the door blasting reggeaton, folks grooving in line, and underpaid cashiers working for tips), or standing outside Fasika’s who was taking go-go to the motherland. For real? Word. Never scene Adams Morgan like that. That block almost passed for the West Village, or 14 Street between 9th and 12th Avenues. Sleepy li’l Adams Morgan, baby, look at you now.

(Sidebar: Hardly a single cop to be found, or any sort of law enforcement except for a lone tow truck. Real weird since a fight was as a given with so much booty walking around).

Scooted off to down the slice on a quiet Connecticut Ave where we left my car, chased it with Sprite and call it a night. If I was ever skeptical about whether DC could hang night after night, I’ve definitely been put on to the truth. I couldn’t open my eyes before noon on Sunday.

Still in School

I have to send a big shout out to Mrs. Barbara Bennett, inimitable Spanish teacher for twenty five years, many of them spent at Banneker HS. First class at USDA last Wednesday (has it been that long?) was a breeze thanks to three years of her daily Spanish regimen, and one month spent in Cuba. The couple classes I took in school amounted to little more than fulfilled graduation requirements. Mrs. Bennett, on the other hand was the real deal. By the time I graduated, I was reading Marquez en espanol.

So why take Spanish now, ten years later? First motivation was so I can live and work abroad, perhaps Spain or Latin America. But, cruising through a few classrooms in DCPS, I was shocked at how voices speaking Spanish have just tripled, quadrupled, or just silenced English as the predominant language.

A little background. Obviously, with all the references to this DC school or that, namely Banneker, I went through DCPS as a twig with glasses. And in all of the fifteen or so years, I met a handful of students whose first language was Spanish, and/or immigrated here from Latin America. In our horribly unfair social system, non-native speakers were treated worse than the SpEd kids. At least the Sped kids understood English, (duh?!) the most basic of skills we reasoned with more jingoism than cultural awareness. We were ten years old and horribly self-conscious.

And an example to illustrate. Ethnic breakdown at Bruce Monroe in 2003: 3 Asian, 167 Black, 174 Hispanic, 3 White. (This is a school that was previously predominantly black, and not all schools have populations like Bruce Monroe). Of course it was predicted a few years ago that non-white people would become the majority sooner than we thought. DC even passed a law that mandates government documents be translated into five major languages spoken in the city (other than English): Spanish, Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean, and Amharic. Linguistic diversity is old news to policy makers, but new to young Washingtonian who encounters it in schools formerly all black and all English-speaking.

Back to the classroom. All signs in Bruce Monroe ES are in English and Spanish. At Tubman, Brightwood, Truesdell and I’m sure others, the office staff is bilingual. For these schools, these are new developments. No more running off to Mr. Rodriguez to translate for the Spanish speaking parent.

When I was in school, there was an older woman with orthopedic shoes who would pull out the two Spanish speaking students for English lessons. We never knew where they went. Truly a relic of old school pedagogy. Lots of classes in DCPS are supported by an in-class ESL instructor. The days of degrading escorts to the small classroom behind the storage closet-- numbered. Optimistically, I imagine Latino and Black students hanging out, studying together, kicking around balls on the playground, banding together to give the teacher a hard time.

Pie in the sky, it definitely is. In neighborhoods as resource-starved as some of ours in DC, conflicts are definitely going to arise and blows thrown. But once bandages are removed and classes back to normal, there is always greater understanding. This generation will be far more culturally aware, and hopefully more politically progressive than others, simply because they’re not afraid of the “other.” A Mexican student isn't an anomaly, a wonder, or an oddity. They are real people with realized identities (who can defend themselves against base fourth grade social strata).

The real struggle, I think, won’t be resolving conflicts in integrated schools. It will be actually integrating schools like Ballou—1084 Blacks, 2 Asian, 2 Hispanic, and 2 white as of 2003—that, in terms of cultural progress, are still in the 60s. What can be done about that?

Peace y’all, I’ve got a Spanish lesson to study.

First day of school

So today is the first day of the Unofficial HGSE book club. We're reading Teachers Have it Easy: The Big Sacrifices and Small Salaries of America's Teachers. (I think the new rule on non-fiction publishing is that one must have a long subtitle to follow their snappy title).

The authors highlight the Big Sacrifices and Small Salaries of various teachers in the United States to demonstrate that the argument, "teachers don't have to work so much" is really a farce. (I'm practicing making interesting and convoluted statements to get ready to impress my Harvard friends. We're meeting for coffee to discuss books. Like Kanye and DuBois, I struggle withe dilemma to be a hip intellectual.)

Anyway, the stories took me back to my days teaching. And what scary ones they were, sometimes. Yes, I loved it. Was passionate for it. Found it intellectually stimulating. But suffered some of the same criticisms the bold-names do in the book: ingratiating comments from well-meaning and better paid friends: "Oh you're a teacher. That's wonderful." My mother: "I didn't pay this much money for you to be a teacher." Ex-boyfriend: "You're so smart. Why do you teach?"

The problems within teaching are self-defeating. The most important job for the economy and the spirit is one that is the most disparaged. And what are the solutions. I don't know what can be done with the choir reading the hymnal over coffee but it's a start. (This is what I plan to say, and then sip my coffee, with one eyebrow raised. The left one.).

In other news, I'm really going back to school tomorrow. First day of Conversational Spanish III at the USDA. Will definitely post more about this learning experience.

From the Supreme Court

A rare guest appearance from a friend who works in Senate. He shares insight on the progress of the Roberts Nomination:

“5-4; 4-5; THESE DECISIONS CHANGE OUR LIVES!”

The protestors, or more accurately described, citizens, shouted rhythmically hoping to catch the attention of pedestrians. Their refrain had one of two destinations; the ears of the sympathetic or the pavement as their cries bounced off the deaf ears of those committed to the nominee.

Most of the pedestrians whose attention these vocal citizens strove to obtain had already determined their positions on Supreme Court Chief Justice Nominee John Roberts before they arrived for another day of work in the storied halls of the Senate.

No doubt many of them had found their political fortitude back home in the Midwest, Deep South, upper Northeast and other areas of the country long before they made the trek to Washington, D.C. Some however were likely influenced away from home at College during seminal years of personal exploration.

Still others likely had not defined their political moral center until arriving within the city of four quadrants.

But none were likely swayed by those citizens on the corner of 1st and C, SE. “5-4; 4-5; THESE DECISIONS CHANGE OUR LIVES!”

A rather dire and pessimisstic view from C., who works inside the Capitol. Then again, I participated in a "Stand for Chickens" protest ten years ago.

She blows...

Even via phone from Manhattan to my desk in DC, I can see Toyin’s face radiating as she recalls falling in love with the oboe and the orchestra. Years ago, there was a conductor at the DC Youth Orchestra, who, every time it rained would have us play an improvised storm in diminished chords, with the timpani as the thunder. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.”

At age 11, she was hooked.

DC has nurtured many talented musicians through the years, notably Marvin Gaye and Duke Ellington. Rising in renown is a family friend, Toyin Spellman, the oboist for five piece wind ensemble, Imani Winds. Coming off of a month vacation (“inertia’s a …”) and a music-filled wedding I attended before going to Montreal, we chatted about her early music life in Chocolate City.

"I always tell people," she says seriously, "DC was a terrific place to grow up. It’s gets a bad rap as a place that’s very dangerous. There are many different inexpensive ways of expressing yourself… I think it’s so important to have that stuff available to all children.”

Fortunately, she and I grew up during the heyday of the DC Youth Orchestra, where Toyin and I met through her sister (and my childhood friend) Kaji. Toyin’s father, who worked for the National Endowment for the Arts, had come across DCYOP’s grant application, and decided it was the program for his daughter, who was already taking piano lessons.

Originally, and I did not know this until recently, Toyin auditioned to play the flute, a popular choice. How many girls fell for its light melodies and dainty perch of the lips on the mouthpiece? But with so many flutists, her chances of getting solos were pretty slim. Toyin noticed the oboe soloists were far fewer and “really bad.” The oboe would be her best shot to shine.

“Along the way,” she laughs, “I grew to love the oboe but at first it was all about me being a star.” This is hard for me to imagine, since I know Toying to be as humble as she is talented.

With DCYOP, Toyin traveled to Korea, and the former USSR, and realized how lucky she was as an American to have access to musical instruments, and to music. But she said her Asian colleagues played music with whatever they had. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t have access to materials. You’re going to find a way to make music if it’s inside of you.”

The National Symphony Orchestra Youth Fellowship was really helpful, too. Simply put, it taught Toyin how to play her instrument. "It was a great student vocational education experience,” she explained, with free lessons, invitations to sit in on rehearsals, and occasional performances with the orchestra.

Along the way, private teacher and freelance musician Brother Ah schooled her on being a professional Black musician: be nice, be sweet, and show up on time. As well, be aware of racism, he told her. As the first black French horn player for the Metropolitan Opera, he suffered discrimination so scathing that he returned to Washington to teach music and play in a world band.

With training from DCYO and NSO, Toyin left DC for Oberlin College. She misses not being part of the DC music scene, having played in various parts of the country before settling in New York.

But it’s clear she does not regret her choice from flute to oboe. “If I had stayed with the flute, I probably would’ve been among the thousands of flute players” trying to get gigs. “And I wouldn’t be a part of this great ensemble, Imani Winds, which was started by a flute player.”

Imani Winds last performed in the DC area at the Strathmore Arts Center.

For the victims in N'Awlins from Chocolate City

Big Props to Yamama'nym (Your Mama and Them to the uninitiated) and friends for a dope fundraiser last night at Cada Vez. Normally I don't drop a dime on unheard artists (I just don't have the money for it), but since my ten bucks were going to hurricane relief...cool beans.

I shouldn't have worried though. DC's finest local talent came out last night: Wayna (Good Lord! That woman right there had us shaking, head-nodding, praying!), W. Ellington Felton schooled us on why relationships fail, and K. Allan can easily lead Raheim to his seat. Yamama'Nym tore up "My Life" that would make Mary cry. By the end of the night, we were holding church, thanking God for what we have--love, safety, talent, friends--and praying for our brothers and sisters who lost everything. That's what's up, Chocolate City.

(You gotta see Wayna, I mean NOW.)

Scratching the surface (without an umbrella)

Each time I travel, I'm so excited about going away that I envision sunny days to match my disposition. Then, I get there, and it rains just like any other place, my own excitment be damned. Here I am wet.
Anyway...

Yesterday, over late lunch at Tres Amigos, new friend who's lived life in Montreal makes me hip to what I think of as the Canadian Contradiction. On the one hand, Canadians enjoy social welfare that we envy: universal access to health care and education, cheap prescription meds (which reminds me that I forgot to ask if anybody needed anything?) A huge investment by the country in its people. The main institution of the country says, "We'll take care of you." Of course, citizens are taxed up the St. Lawrence for it, but it works for them. Or does it?

The other complicating hand. As he folds a fajita, Jerry explains, Montreal has high abortion and divorce rates. Like 4 out of 5 couples get divorced, and it's common for women to have three and four government compensated abortions. True? Damn. All the while I've been thinking that Canadians had a great hook-up, but look at the close details--divorce and abortion. Of course folks have a right to separate and abort, but on a large scale the two are a deadly selfish combination.

In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, folks around the world, Montreal included, ask how? How could this happen in the United States, the hyperbolic nation? Like Canada's welfare system, we look so great on paper. Highest GDP, we can eat other country's national debt for breakfast. This tragedy, Katrina, like Diallo, like the dogs on the bridge in Selma, like the homeless man in Farrugut Square park, forces the world to look at our details. Yes, we have a free market economy open to anyone. Make a fortune here! What do we do with it? Horde wealth among a top percentage and leave the less wealthy to fend for themselves. Divest necessary social capital from strapped communities like Biloxi, Pascagula, and then blame them for not having the means to get out. (It "was a mistake on their part," says our Compassionate Conservative.)

(On a side note, I'm back in the internet cafe, and despite the no-smoking stickers everywhere, I swear there's cigarette smoke coming out of the vents, or there's a hobbit smoking a cigar behind my monitor. )

Not only could this disaster have been prevented through more responsible physical maintenance of the levees around the city, but also through a significant investment of skill and social capital among the residents. If we thought investing in communities of individuals was important as we lead our self-centered lives.

To support the relief effort:
Things to Do DC is sponsoring a fundraider at Lulu's tonight. Stockholm1976 is in the works for next Friday.

From Olsson's Bookstore:

This week, 400 families have started to arrive at the DC Armory from New Orleans. The DC government is asking that people don't make individual in-kind donations directly to the Armory. Instead, they ask that you either give money to the Red Cross or volunteer in person after signing up with the city's volunteer agency Serve DC.

There is however, a police station in SW accepting in-kind donations from individuals of bottled water and basic toiletries (toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, etc...) to take to evacuees at the Armory. The delivery site is: First District Station, 415 4th Street, SW, Washington, DC 20024, phone: 202-698-0515, fax: 202-727-4026. Deliveries accepted 24/7. More details later as we get more information.

International Bibliophile

Yesterday I made a point to visit a few bookstores, where I spend too much time and money. From Montreal:

On Rue Cote de Nieges at the Livres et Musique, a Dutch photographer snaps my picture reading "Eroticas Universals," erotic drawings through the ages (did you know drawings of threesomes are part of the esteemed Renoir and George Groscz collections? I did not). The photographer is snapping photos for an exibition of people reading in various places, like bookstores, coffee shops, parks, etc. I sign a waiver that French-reading and speaking Antonia reads and approves (though she acknowledged a patriotic yet friendly disdain for her Dutch neighbor).

The exhibit will be in Montreal, and if included, the world will know I was looking at drawings folks from ancient Greece to modern New York City doing the nasty in ways that would impress and educate R. Kelly, Tommy Lee, and the authors of the Kama Sutra.

Today, on Sherbrooke, I pop into a used bookstore, Academic and General Book Shop, where the owner is trying get a reluctant patron to buy a couple of books. While i'm browsing around, I hear the patron begging off, "no, no, I'll come back later, I can't buy it now." Owner says adamantly, "you should really take it now, i'm going to sell it." They go through this several times with the patron getting out with barely her life. Owner turns to me, smiles and hands me bookmark with all vital information.

We have this conversation:
Nosy American Rhonda: "Is this your shop?"

Suddenly shocked Canadien: "Yes."

NAR: "Oh, how long have you been here."

SSC: "A while. Thank you, bye-bye" (mind you, I haven't bought anything and she's letting me get away.)

NAR: "It's always been here on Sherbrooke?"

SSC: "Why do you ask me these questions? I don't know why you want to know? Why are you asking these personal questions. It is not polite." (Except she used some fancy French word I didn't understand.)

NAR: "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm from the United States It's customary there to talk with owners about their businesses."(Eye daggers start flying toward rude American).

SSC: "Well, not here, it's like asking, 'Are you Canadien?'" (she is very flustered at this point, readjusts her big black glasses over her mousey, wrinkled yet distinguished face.)

Suddenly Surprised AR: "I didn't know."

SSC: "Well, now you know. Bye-bye."

And out I went.

Une pour Montreal

I know I'm not in the US now, cause there is serious cigarette smoking going on in this Internet cafe. What's up gang. As much as I love Chocolate City, I had to get out for a few days. On the Vermonter I sat for 8 hours, crossed the border where a customs agent gave me shady looks (big ups to me for looking menacing, if only for a minute) and here I am in the smoky yet stylish cafe, where guys in front are spending their $4 pr/hr playing some computer game that keeps going "Danty dooong!" Or something like that.

So Montreal is absolutely beautiful. I wish I could give this compliment en francais, but it is not to be. These lips haven't uttered discernable French since the eighth grade, and yesterday's feeble attempts reminded me I should stick to English and Spanish. (Si, hablo un poquito). Fortunately, I shared a room with a German gal who speaks French tres bien, and we've been walking these streets ragged: Quartier Chinois, Quartier Latin, the Port, Sherbrooke. If it's in Montreal, I'm about to find it.

Straight up, I took this trip K-solo. (Remember him?) Thought it would be just a post-feminist blast to travel alone, see a city that's been on my to-visit list for years. (F*CK! yells some guy too old to play video games at 2 o'clock in the afternoon). That is until I was at the all-but deserted St. Albans, Vt. station at 10 pm and knowing not a soul. City folk know how crazy life gets when the lights go out. Because no one else knows me to ask, I say to myself, "Rhonda, really, what are you doing? You do not come from a long line of Amelia Earharts. Though brave and fabulous, your people stay put." But, being true to me, I gotta go. Go find out what's out there. So.

Next morning, I put my nice face on, make a friend and off we go. Today's visit: some beautiful church on the blue subway line. Will fill in more details later.

Au revoir!

Toast and Strawberries

Mid-afternoon found Rosemary sitting at the counter sticking stamps on postcards advertising the “Last Blast Sale and Show Party,” September 25. Her clothing store, Toast and Strawberries, is closing, and I came to chat-up a goodbye.

I’ve seen and known Toast and Strawberries since my first independent ventures through Dupont Circle, but never went in until recently. On that sophomore visit, I was asked to be in a fashion show. “Why not?” It was a fun, low-key affair in which I tried on dresses and outfits in various degrees of stunning, shocking and classically conservative Washington. Lots of friends, regulars and a few strays came through for the show.

Though most of the fashions are for older fashionable women, Rosemary’s engaging personality and crafty pieces invite anyone with an ounce of curiosity to come in and browse around. I invited myself to sit for a spell while she busied around the store, affixing labels, welcoming customers…

The name Toast and Strawberries… What’s the story? (Rosemary has been lots of places and tells great stories)

Rosemary had been working in Jamaica as a writer for the Amsterdam News, a New York paper, with plans of writing a book (that later materialized in a different book, Threads of Time, The Fabric of History: Profiles of African American Dressmakers and Designers 1850 to the Present). She also did craft design and sold jewelry made out of local woods, and sold to boutique sections in department stores.

She and a girlfriend hosted a dinner party, and at the end of then night, had dessert strawberries left over. Strawberries were expensive in Jamaica at the time, and so decided to eat them the next day with breakfast. They had toast and strawberries. The two words sounded like the name of a store. (Another name she loves is the shoe boutique on U St., Wild Women Wear Red.)

Her boutique showcases local designers and carries unique clothes. “It’s not too much fun seeing the same thing on someone else.”

Shopping in DC …
In the 70s, DC had two extremes—department stores and boutiques, what she called “owner-occupied stores,” where the owner lived above the store, “sometimes with the owners in the back making the goods.’ (Rosemary is also a great source of DC history).

This was the way Georgetown used to be. In the 70s, Georgetown was like a little village of small independent boutiques, “owner occupied.” The stores sold interesting things, interesting stores” and generated foot traffic. The foot traffic of course tipped off big retailers, who moved their stores into the area and subsequently moved out the little people.

She’s been in the Dupont area since the late seventies. Her first store was on P. St., where folks sip tea at Teaism, then moved to its current location. Civically responsible, she’s taken in interns from local high schools, and donated fashions to school fashion shows. Rosemary was also a member of a small business owner association that used to meet occasionally.

What’s next for Toast and Strawberries?
Rosemary considered moving, and looked to buy a location. The zip codes that she sells to are all over the Washington area, and while she has options, she’s not fully committed. She’s thinking of writing another book.

The challenge, however, is that she’s still planning her September activities. “It’s easy to keep a train running. It’s hard to stop it.” That’s the truth. While we’ve been chatting, a few women have come in to browse. Rosemary blooms into fashion maven, “Was there something special you were looking for?” The customer is en route to Atlanta and needs something weather appropriate. Rosemary ushers her to the rear of the store, pulls a few pieces…

So, for now, she will continue to do alterations, sell clothes on-line, which she says has been profitable, and continue to schedule T & S events. Just before the “Last Blast Sale” there is a book reading at New Carrollton Library on September 24, and she would welcome trunk shoes from local jewelers.