Didion Reading at Folger

In a mumbled voice, Joan Didion began reading. Then she ended. Then she said “Thank you.” The questions began, the questions were answered. The reception began, and then the reception ended. In these ways, we the audience had a glimpse of going through the motions of bereavement. You do what you have to do. This evening was a PEN/Faulkner reading at the Lutheran Church of the Reformation.

The quality of her voice surprised me. A small woman should have a small voice, or at least a sweet one. In my mind I heard inflections, questions, pauses, a winding cadence of words through her experience of loss. The reality, like all realities, was far more grim. Her voice was rough, and droned through the reading

She looks as small in life as in the pictures. If not smaller. The publicity tour for “The Year of Magical Thinking” has produced many pictures of Joan Didion, an author I didn’t know of until I read the excerpt in the New York Times Sunday magazine. Give her a roll of quarters and she may tip over. No matter, it was a part of the message, the experience, the work.

Through the reading, the woman in front of me tossed her head back every couple minutes. I wondered if she was bored, restless, or got a new haircut and liked the way her hair felt on her neck. Restless seemed more plausible, since at the very ending of the reading, she had her coat folded in her lap as if ready to leave. Only when I saw her dab her eyes did it occur to me that she had been holding back tears.

We clapped at the end of the reading, and it seemed oddly normal after what we’d heard. What we heard transformed our collective and individual understandings of reality. Life isn’t what we think it is, neither is death. Both are more and both are less. Do you perform as routine a gesture as clapping when someone has elevated your thinking? Reoriented your mind’s thoughts on relationships, love, and sanity? Adhering to this routine also signaled the end the moment, that Didion’s reading had ended. Susan Stamberg, the moderator, called for questions, and no one wanted to be first or last. Being in the moment, in the circuit of questions and sharing was far safer than initiating or concluding the journey.

Such as the beginning of accepting death and grief. At some point you do, you acknowledge the loss, and remain in that place for however long. And then at some point, you conclude that period of grief, and have to move on. To the reception, to another city, to another year, another way of thinking…

Drawing Faces

In an elementary school today, I sat with a young boy as he drew a pumpkin. Halloween is just several days away. He considered what kind of eyes, nose and mouth the anthropomorphic fruit should have, and I offered my wise counsel, having seen a few more Halloweens and all of its accoutrements than he had. I was wearing a sleeveless turtleneck, the kind that confuses my friend (“If it’s cold enough to need to keep your neck warm, why have your arms out?”)

Maybe the student was thinking the same when he commented, “You don’t have muscles.”

Well, I looked over at my limbs, they are a little flabby. I agreed with his innocently blunt assessment. “No, I don’t.” He continued to ask my opinion of other important matters, like how he should draw mean eyes for the pumpkin, but stopped to clarify something he’d also been thinking about: “You’re light-skinned, right?”

I blinked, looked at him. Smiled. “Yes.” I chuckled, amused at his confusion. Again I looked down at my skin for any sudden transformations in color, like a mood ring or a person who easily blushes. I wasn’t a mood ring and I don’t blush easily. Apparently, though, my limb was endlessly fascinating, as he continued to comment on the semi-translucent quality of my hands that revealed raised green veins. Since the theme now was “Ms. Henderson’s Multicolored Arm,” I turned it over for the real treat. Lighter than the outside of my arm, you can see veins from my wrist to shoulder (though we stopped appropriately at my elbow).

“If we were to cut ourselves right now, would our blood be the same color? Or would mine be green?” Initially he seemed to accept the possibility that I could have blood a different color than his. Quickly, he dispensed of the idea. No, he shook his head. Even the noses on the pumpkins are fake.

His question later struck me as funny in its obvious nature. Of course, I think to myself, I’m light skinned. Did he think I was dark? No, my co-worker explained. He was asking (she lowered her voice) if you were white. It never occurred to me. Why not ask, “Are you white?” Yes, it’s rude, and I fully expect anyone I meet to do it (even as part of the introduction. Hi Rhonda, are you white?)

She continued to explain that maybe he hadn’t been around people of many different backgrounds and was trying to get straight what qualified as light skinned, and what was white. Since no one is really white, especially not to a child familiar to Crayola crayons, maybe he genuinely didn’t know.

Yesterday I spent a bit of time thinking about residential segregation and residential integration, and how it’s possible in this city, in any city, for black and white folks not to know very much about each other. Though this child’s immediate surroundings are predominantly black, communities ten blocks away are rapidly changing, have expanded to include people of various shades and languages. This is the new DC. How will he make sense of those individuals when he meets them? What crucial life lessons in diversity, multiculturalism is he missing as a consequence.

On the flip side, has he already begun to understand who’s who, and like the pencil drawing of his pumpkin, was just practicing with me?

Living with G (?)

In response to David Nicholson’s Sunday Op-Ed

Like Nicholson’s friend, I can’t wrap my brain around white people feeling comfortable enough to stroll down U. Street, North Capitol, or Martin Luther King Avenue. On a bike. The accumulated years of perceived rejection of everything I knew to be DC inspires more than a head scratch. DC was a highly segregated city of clearly established white and black (then colored, to include Latinos) neighborhoods. The metro stops were accordingly color coded in ways the map didn’t capture, but a simple ride on the Red Line--like holding paper to the light for a secret revealed--made clear: Cleveland Park: White. Fort Totten: Black.

Now white folks are getting off at Columbia Heights, U. Street, Takoma, New York Avenue. I'm really surprised by this development, because for years there wasn’t anything on New York Avenue that healthy white person (or any healthy person) wanted.

Gentrification is doing it’s thing around DC. No I don’t think it’s a conspiracy. I do think the country’s history of conspired residential segregation lends credence to black folks’ attempt to read into cowrie shells across the floor. Nicholson’s own wife was an unknowing participant in residential segregation by buying a home within a racial covenant. Banks redlined potential customers, white residents pooled funds to buy vacant homes before a black person did, real estate agents refused to show blacks homes in white neighborhoods. Given the history, is it really misguided to suspect a conspiracy here?

Whether gentrification is yet another creation of the multitalented Man isn’t the most unsettling aspect of this phenomena. The more interesting question isn’t why it’s happening but what is unsettling about it. Frankly, why does it piss me off? These are initial thoughts to figure that out.

It comes down to power. Gentrification is an exercise of power, and yet another declaration of the power some people have that others don’t, and that they have over others.

To move into a dilapidated neighborhood, have it made safe, habitable, and even desirable for your enjoyment after years of neglect when inhabited by other residents is an exercise of power and privilege. When you call the cops and they come, THAT's power.

Gentrifying neightborhoods--Shaw, Columbia Heights, Petworth, Mount Vernon Square, the alley behind my parents' house-- have been neglected by the all of the city’s functions for years, when they were black and lower income. The coincidental appearance of a white face and the garbage man’s suddenly regular schedule…maybe it ain't coincidence.

Along with the power to sway response time of city response time is also the power to sway and influence the culture of the city.

I often wax romantic on how DC has been a haven for blacks from more racially charged cities (though we have plenty problems in that area). Friends of mine would visit DC and remark, surprised, at the options for restaurants, nightlife, and shopping. They felt...comfortable, like they could catch a breath from running from the Man. It felt good to not be the minority anymore, to not have to wear a shell that protects from racism and ignorance.

Recently I drove by the Lincoln Theatre and noticed a long line of white patrons outside. Will the theatre continue to provide the black comedy shows, gospel plays, and hand-dancing lessons my mom goes to?

Let's not pretend our country, and cities have a history of integration that would lend my raising the issues fearing change unjustified. How did whites react to the possibility of cultural integration? Bombingham, remember? How have communities reacted to gays and lesbians in their neighborhoods? Fear of change in power, and change in culture and community is real. Of course, I don't expect to have to duck for cover, or caution white friends to do the same. We've changed our reactions. The sentiments remain the same. I do understand, respect, and utter the question, "What's DC changing into and where do I fit in?"

The Good Life

So i was sitting in Dos Gringos, a little neighborhood coffee shop in Mt. Pleasant, eating the breakfast special: oatmeal with fruit, orange juice and toast. (It was $8 and definitely not grandma's oatmeal).

Anyway, i over heard this snatch of conversation:

"So what are you going to do today?"

"Well, my cleaning lady is cleaning my house now, so I had to get out of there. I was thinking about going to the movies later. I heard ... was good."

Must be nice to escape YOUR CLEANING LADY for a coffee shop and a movie.

Pay Attention

Suffice to say I devoured the juicy, dripping Swiss cheese burger. It was the last, and certainly most painful moment in the cycle of cow to pasture. My buddy's lamb gyro fell apart within seconds of aiming it at his mouth. A saucy piece of lamb tumbled onto his suit. We were having an early dinner at Cap City Brewery with a full crowd of the usual: Hill staffers yukking it up, non-profit interns splurging on a cold night when pasta won’t do; and tourists fascinated by the copper cauldron’s of beer and all the colored people. Between chunks of burger and sips of Sprite, I watched closely the people keeping us all happy, the wait staff. Women, men, blond brunette, short, tall, black, while, straight, and “trying not to show how too fabulous I am for this place—learn it!”

As often happens, we close enough to the grill to get duck grease stains, and so close to the stand with the punch-in-your-order machine. Every few moments, a long line of waiters would form as they waited to punch in orders of spinach and artichoke dip and fries, ex-out the crab cake somebody didn’t want, and so on. Tuptuptup. Shuuuush the receipt slides out of the printer. Rip, the waiter grabs it and steps off to the floor. They completed this motion in almost complete silence.

Oddly silent, I thought. Queer guy looked stoic—“What the f*ck am I doing here?”—blondie, pretty chill, and our waitress, the sista, patiently formulaic. Her thoughts were less easy to read. Maybe she was holding on to her orders—“Two burgers, one shake, one Coke, hurry up please, what’s my code?, remember the extra ketchup for” the she steps up to tuptuptup machine, grabs a black pleather sleeve and next move on. She learned and executed the skills she need to take care of customers, handle the receipt and collect a tip.

The ketchup was for our table, and she brought it within moments, her face just a shade away from blank. Clearly her mind was elsewhere, but still needed to appear as if it were right her at our booth.

My burger was really good, and I told her as she approached. In that moment, I thought "why would she care?" and in the same moment she reviewed manual in her head and smiled pleasantly, appropriately. Slightly genuinely. Next.

The most exclusive

Damn, Cam'Ron, came to the D-dot and got all shot up. Really sorry to hear Chocolate City did you that way. I hope this incident doesn't grow into some larger beef between NYC and DC. Like Tucker said, "Letitgo, letitgo, LET IT GO. It's not worth it."

And too bad HU's homecoming was scarred by the incident. I'm sure folks preferred the taste of the chrissy chrissy instead of the smell of gun residue lingering in their mouths and noses. I'ma stay tuned to what happens next (if anything).

I passed up the lines and club fees at H20, Republic, Pearl, Love, CVS and everywhere else for a more exclusive venue: my girl J's apartment.

J. and I are road-dawgs. We've taught together, allowed each other space on a sale rack at H & M, rolled from under bar stools and limped off dance floors from the backside, sore as hell. But I'd never been to her place, the Makeup Factory, the Bat cave, the Bitty-Crib.

See, there's J., "throw a pashima and grab my LV clutch, I'll meet you in 15 mins.," and then there's Bitty, "Naw, n*gga, it's windy outside. I got some smut to read." (Bitty does not do elements other than a light breeze. Bitty also has a tendency to get in bed before 9 on any night of the week, ass-shakin' be damned).

And when she's holed up, she's holed up solo. Two people outside of family have gone up the elevator. Anyone who tried, she stabbed with a stilletto and that was that.

Friday night, though, something bout the rain, and a bottle of pasta sauce got to her. By seven, we're sitting in front of a "My Wife and Kids" rerun dishing up Uma Thurman's love life. Dancefloor-J gone, Bitty in full effect. My girl fixed up a full dinner, complete with wine and peach cobbler. Damn, that peach cobbler.

Well worth the wait, and definitely better than a night at the club.

In Search of Understanding

If the suburbs are cut out of an LL Bean catalog, then Logan Circle is a future Banana Republic Home.

Clearly I'm having a hard time with DC gentrifying. And so I've taken baby steps through this new place, trying to acclimate myself with new shops, restaurants, and all the white people who walk with assuredness through neighborhoods where, ten years ago, my boys were buying weed. It's been rough.

But. Last Sunday, the beautiful day that it was, beckoned me out of bed (a feat given my late late recession into it, and the hug that was my new flannel sheets) and onto the streets for a six hour marathon walk through the city in search of understanding.

Through our meanderings, I got a good look at the new 14th and P Street area, Logan Circle, with its newness that the neighborhood itself seems to be just getting used to. Not just that the ladies of the night are elsewhere with the drug addicts and dealers (may they find their own salvation) but that it seems as carefully envisioned and choreographed as a designers Spring collection. I could be wrong (and encourage you to post with comments). The streets have been cleared, a team of designers called in, and now on the runway: Whole Foods, Logan Circle Tavern, Starbucks, Mekado, and the yoga place on the second floor above the liquor store.

All to rave reviews from the Wilson Buildings and the newcomers who love DC's latest incarnation.

There's nothing wrong with the new development. In fact, the stores bring tremendous economic vitality and the street traffic an exciting energy. There are folks out and about at all hours of the night conducting legal business.

But. Aren't neighborhoods supposed to evolve according to the residents' tastes, needs, lifestyle? Don't neighborhoods grow? I think of humble 12th Street, with the 3610 Lingerie shop, the Animal clinic, the mom and pop dry cleaners, the rusty hardware store, going strong. These places developed with the neighborhood, and of the neighborhood. Not from the pages of an urban development catalog.

Since when do urban communities respond to the call of condo development planners? I can picture an ABDO want ad: Sexy condo development ISO urban hipster. Must be 29-45, read Real Simple and the Onion; travel to Guatemala and India to visit friends; and appreciate a five minute walk to the theatre. Previous residence in DC not required, transplants preferred. Clearly, if you built the condo they will come. And a new neighborhood is born. Authenticity not an issue.

Truth to power, I would love to live in Logan Cirlce, and love it even more after I accepted the fact that I was living in Washingtonian magazine. But how much of the area is me, and how much a planner's vision? Who"owns" the block? I've got a lot more thinking to do about this.

Emerging with an appetite

Recently briefly resurfaced to indulge in edible decadence (and to see a horrible movie). First things first.

For a righteous peach cobbler a la mode (how else?), visit the lovely Georgia Brown's on 15th ank K. The host was gracious, the waiter genteel, and the peach cobbler...oh the peach cobbler.
I went rather late in the evening and had the pleasure of a the staff's considerate attention, though they must have been tired.

I am a committed coffee drinker (though I could quit at a careless moment's notice), but the chai at Artizen was truly divine, and made after-work Tuesday feel like Friday evening. Rakesh, the owner, explained that he was the pickiest of picky when it came to his chai. Lovely.

Both the cobbler and the chai replaced the bad taste of "In Her Shoes", which should be in the garbage with half-eaten bags of popcorn. Contrary to reviews, the movie offered little for men or women, or for anyone who has had a fight with their sister or has listened to black men rant about basketball. (How can you get that wrong? Do your research, and watch Barkley on TNT). Dialogue was weak, quality acting spare, and lots of Cameron Diaz leg and rear end to make up the difference. Um, legs? Yes they go on forever, but 90 minutes is a bit much. There are other places one could go for a more interactive limb experience. That's the last time I crawl out of indie world for a chick flick (though I know chick lit, flicks, mags are taking over the world holding a Kate Spade bag and stomping in a pair of Jimmy Choos).

Lost in the City

One of my favorite words is anomie. Of French origin, I think, anomie means a lack of purpose or morals. For some reason, and I'd love clarification, I've thought the word explains the sense of feeling alone when surrounded by lots of people. (Dictionary.com says something else entirely). The scene in the AmEx commercial where DeNiro is walking town a stark New York City street, surrounded by cabs, delivery folks, Wall Street types evokes this word. Surrounded, but alone.

I love that feeling.

In New York last weekend I absolutely relished knowing that NO ONE knew who i was, or cared. (Ego check: I am not that popular of a person.) No one would stop to say hi, or anything. 125th carried on about it's business paying nobody no nevermind, except the po-pos who sent the DVD-hustlas scrambling. Both knew that was gonna happen, and the street sign turned to walk again.

Chocolate City is not so stark. Not so self-indulgent. Lots of folks speak, say hi, chit-chat it up. And you never really feel unknown. Or at least I don't.

Yet I'd like to. I'd like to be able to disappear for a while into the unpredictable, I'd like to cop a stoic visage and move through the city's shadows, observe without being seen. (I remind myself I am not that popular of a person, but am someone who engages with others on the street, in Au Bon Pain, in Starbucks.) I'd like to try not knowing this place so well, and seeing what happens.

Being unknown is freeing.

The Passing of August Wilson

August Wilson, the eminent playwright of Black life and culture, died in his home in Seattle.

Wilson's plays nurtured my love for the theatre. They were the first, and often the only productions to feature an authentic black experience. Authentic not because they dealt with poverty, death, love, and the urban environment, but instead because he did not omit that reality.

Personally, Wilson was more than a favorite writer. He was the authority on listening to black America, and transcribing her voice for the stage. Wilson was and shall remain a North Star of inspiration for me, as well as generations of people who strive to study and preserve culture.

Fortunately, he leaves behind a complete cycle of plays on the black experience. The Times and the Post offer appreciation.

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And if La Ciudad Chocolat goes on unexpected hiatus, it's because I've been called to serve in the Judicial Branch.