Red or Green Pill

Red or green pill, there’s a decision to make at the landing of the dual-floor Bar Nun on Friday nights: what senses do I want to tantalize tonight—the physical/sexual or the intellectual/creative? What do I want to hear tonight—Biggie’s “F*ck B*tches Get Money? Or, wait, is that the original? Strains of the melody cling to the railings leading up stairs. I haven’t heard that before.

You look at your girl, and she peeks downstairs. That Biggie is always hot, reminiscent of sweaty dorm parties—the best college had to offer. But looking back up the stairs towards the door, a crowd of dudes, poised and ready to initiate Mack and Swerve maneuvers at a moment’s notice. You take a quick walk through the familiar, the Biggie you know, mumbles of “Look at that right there,” “That’s what I’m talking about” curl around the cigarette smoke, unfiltered and suffocating. Upstairs beckons.

Cozy and intimate, lace curtains soften the rough exposed brick and divide the long room into nooks for chilling and talking. Against the walls plush velvet chairs and square ottomans. At the end of the room, the bar.

The vibe is sexy in the most understated way. Like the smell of Stella McCartney or Gucci or oil creeping from the collar of a turtleneck. Or a perfectly filed fingernail, round and smooth, with cuticles pushed back… like an unintentional bump followed by a smile—“Oh, love, my bad”—at the bar.

Vibe, says T., is the combination of people, space, and music. Dub Ell is taking care of the music, and taking us there with the music. Old School Tribe for nostalgia’s sake, new Mos Def to remember the mission, Aretha’s original to give props to the elders. We’re grooving.

The people…what the Love Jones generation, lamenting that we arrived after the Renaissance, has imagined and striven to recreate. A few writers, a couple singers, a photographer, a performer. Thinkers. Friends. And a birthday girl. We, friends and strangers, wish her happy birthday, and are rewarded with birthday cake. She smiles, takes pictures with her girls. Dub plays a birthday song for her (not Stevie’s tribute to MLK. Another one I don’t know).

C. and D. cipher back and forth, lyric for lyric. R. sips and sways modestly. They’ve been at another space down the street, where they needed to see ID before exchanging names, where “hooking up” was programmed into everyone’s hips and glances. They were not the ones.

I stare, break out into dance, laugh, and then wonder. Is that the Roots doing Doug E. Fresh?

The space, cozy and intimate, has set a new standard for Friday nightlife venues. If there is birthday cake, will it be offered around the room? Will I hear music so played out it’s background noise? Will conversation stimulate both sides of the brain and the laugh muscles?

Red or green pill.

For JBB.

Laugh Meister

Congratulations to comedian and friend Dawan Owens, who won last night's DC Comedy Showcase at the Improv. Dawan was kick-ass funny, best when making fun of himself and his imperfections, like his birthmark which doubled as a neighborhood map for kid games around the way, and his spectacular college football career warming the bench. The audience roared at his step imitation of the law enforcement fraternity, Fraternal Order of Police, beating the crap out of a victim (none of anyone's jokes were PC). But I cracked up laughing when all 6+ feet of Dawan fell to the floor imitating a narcoleptic Harriet Tubman.

The competition just couldn't keep up. Their jokes were so lame that the audience doled out the laughs: one laugh per person. The fat guys, and there were sevearl, made really lame jokes about anticipating Thanksgiving (aren't surprise and irony key elements of a good joke?). The others clearly didn't know their audience and tried to joke about life in rural Spotsylvania and NASCAR races. Right.

Oddly, and maybe I just don't know so much about the art of telling jokes, the porkers plowed on with their horrible jokes. Are you supposed to continue with a five minute joke if it dies within the first 30 seconds? (Watching them squirm was kinda funny, I admit).

For these poor souls, the stage quickly turned from a comedic Gladiator's coliseum, slaying us with laugh after laugh, to the town square humiliating the village idiot. Crowned laugh-meister of DC, Dawan scored a a host spot at a future show and advances to the finals.

A word about the Improv: the smoke will kill you. Though they say there's a non-smoking section, that really means there are a few tables between you and the thirty people who can't laugh without a cigarette dangling from their lips and killing the rest of us. Host Allan Goodman, himself hilarious with his potty/booty jokes, greeted us: Hey Smoking Section, Hey second-hand smoking section. He was not laughing. By the end of the night, we at my table had scarves and jackets around our noses/mouths like we were evacuating a fire. I definitely left about a year of good breathing at the table.

Congrats again to Mr. Owens, and to the losers, take notes.

The DJ I've heard so much about

Grassrootz, a bimonthly progressive happy hour, brings DJ W. Ellington “Dub El” Felton to spin at Duke’s City Wednesday night at the “Ipod Listening Lounge.”

Keen to new beats and underground rhythms, Dub El has crafted a playlist especially for the event. Those dope enough to make the list, titled “TraveLog”, include J. Davey, Bilal Salam, John Legend Live, remixed Raheem DeVaughn and others. Dub will give away a limited number of CD copies of the list.

These artists are selected with a discriminating ear. Dub explains that he tries to “play music that makes people want to engage with each other in a positive way.” Because so much club music is aggressive, he wants to “establish a vibe [for people to] put their guards down.” When he senses too much aggression in the crowd, he tunes down his music to something a little more mellow.

Check this familiar situation at Bar Nun where Dub DJ’s on Fridays. Ladies out with their girlfriends, “flock to his floor to chill out.” Guys who follow “bring in a negative vibe” by being overly aggressive and touchy feely. How does the DJ respond? “I play a track by Esthero not on her CD.” Called “I love you,” he describes it as “beautiful—so calming, soothing…it changes the vibe.” Social engineering from the sound system?

With Prof. West like seriousness, he breaks down his deejaying philosophy like this. The point of deejaying is to “enlighten, educate, and entertain.”

Not everyone gets the point. During any session, he may hear “Play Li’l John!” from the crowd, or a personal request for Mariah Carey/Young Jeezy. “If you’ve been here for an hour,” meaning wherever he’s deejaying, and “you ask for young Jeezy, then obviously you didn’t get the point!” he laughs. But he’s serious, and takes the requests seriously. “When people request pop music, I play even more…” lounge, alternative, underground. Essentially what you’re not hearing on the radio.

How Dub El finds his music ranges from the abstract, “life is a source of music,” to concrete CDs in hand from up and coming artists who send him their releases. The title of his give away CD, TraveLog, hints at his method of gathering sounds—from various people in various places. His foundation, though, came straight from home. Father Felton is a jazz pianist and provided him with his first walkman, which played cassettes through both speaker and headphones.

Like the rest of the world, he has since evolved to the Ipod, bought when it first came out and now holds 1,920 songs. It isn’t his primary listening device, instead used on the road to keep artists entertained backstage. The playlist feature of the ipod has, in his opinion, changed the way people experience music because it allows people mix musical tastes that may seem cacophonous, like Garth Brooks and Erykah Badu, and say “I think this is good, I’m going to put this together.”

To hear more of Dub El’s choices and enjoy his vibe, go to www.myspace.com/wellingtonfelton. Guests tomorrow night should bring their Ipods to share their uncommon mixes. Entrance is free with canned food donation before 8 p.m. and $5 after.

Wayna at Cada Vez

The drummer dropped the beat hard, go-go style, for the chorus of Minnie Ripperton’s “Loving You,” --the familiar tongue-flapping “lalalalala-lalalala”—and instantly: Wayna’s smooth voice became staccato, the melody hardcore instead of heartbreaking. Her hand, moments before fluttering innocently, jabbed at the air, and heads immediately began nodding across the intimate crowd of fans and local music family gathered for Soundbridge at Cada Vez on U Street.

It’s obvious why the emcees were flustered with introducing the Ethiopian-born DC raised, (pronounced Way-nah) singer-songwriter.

“She has one of the most beautiful voices…she’s incomparable….” he began.

“Stop flirting!” teased Allison, a singer with Ya’MamaNym, who had come out to listen.

“She’s so smooth on my mind…” he tried to continue, before giving up and imploring applause.

During the hour and a half set, Wayna was smooth on the minds and the mic as she and her band took full advantage of the engaging crowd’s close proximity to sing from autobiographic debut “Moments of Clarity” and tracks from her untitled sophomore album.

“Does anyone know what it’s like to chase a dream?” Wayna asked. With a rousing affirmative response, she opened “Mama’s Sacrifice,” deeply personal and haunting song about her mother’s decision to raise Wayna alone. Mid-song, she shared with the audience a story of not having the pretty things friends said all princesses are supposed to have, and the moment she recognized her mother’s devotion to her wasn’t in what she bought Wayna, but how she cherished her.

Wayna tucked away her vulnerability to reveal a seductive “Secret Identity,” which put all shady men on notice that femme fatale Wayna is hip to their tricks. “My x-ray eyes see what you’re tryin’ to do to me/my bionic ear hears what you’re sayin’ about me,” she sings with glaring eyes. Despite this line, “trust me baby, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry,” her cooing voice, swirling hips and rapt male attention suggested that a brother just might.

“Straight up,” an award-winning song declares exactly what Wayna prefers instead of games, “I need your loving straight up.” The drummer graciously added a bangin’ go-go hook that justified coming out on the rainy night. And so do local artists, she sings: “We need your loving straight up.” Wayna gave shouts out and stage time to artists in the audience—Alison Carney from Yamama’Nym, Cy Young, her back-up singer, each band member (which includes a ferocious drummer), and the guy working the sound board. “You didn’t think the sound man could rap?” he asked rhetorically.

New material appealed to the “grown and sexy crowd,” as one song lamented the attraction to a fine man with no manners, and a preference for an electric PlayStation than the one Wayna had of her own. “This is not mean to put brothers down,” she reassured them. But a “friendly reminder to treat sisters kinder.” A guitar solo kicked in so woeful it sounded like both women begging for attention and men explaining away their distractions.

Connecting with audience and community distinguished this performance, and Wayna’s approach to music. She has collaborated with many DC artists, as opened for national names when in town: Common, Amerie, Fantasia and others. “Sincere and honest music, being humble and working hard” she believes will move her from opening act to main attraction. Her next album will move away from the personal issues she “purged” in “Moments,” her next will have a “universal perspective,” which she described as a “personal evolution” and the “mark of a good songwriter.”

Ouch.

Just paid a round of bills, and it was painful. The usuals (student loans, Express bill, credit card) didn't cause so much pain, as did the parking tickets. I've been paying parking tickets such regularity about $80 should be automatically deducted on a monthly basis. It's so regular the DMV homepage is bookmarked on my computer. I can hear my dad now, who drives 25 mph after an accident at a stop sign fiver years ago, "gotta learn the hard way?" Ouch. Sigh.

It wasn't always like this. I long for the days when you could park in the middle of the street, run into McDonalds for a quarter pounder, and not get towed. Two hour parking was a joke, and meters were decoration, a suggestion that we had a parking
system.

Now I can't get 15 minutes on an expired middle meter on New Jersey avenue without a pink ticket from--yes, I'm calling you out and possibly setting myself up for being towed--Wright K., Ashe M., and Banks, M. 10:30 pm on Wednesday night in Adams-Morgan (with parking as available as internet service in rural Benin) tickets galore! Like flyers to a concert, nearly one in each desperate driver's window. Geez, have some compassion!

Please Parking Meter attendants, I beg you. Leave Speedy-speedy alone. She's got enough bumps, bruises, dents and hickeys. No need for the garish pink scab, a Scarlet Letter for my irresponsible parking habits, on the windshield. It's traumatizing. Everyday, I tremble and trip en route to my car, destabilized by the prospect of a ticket.

A few months ago, I committed myself to better parking habits, and celebrate each day I don't get ticketed like alcoholics celebrate sobriety. Day by day, one day at a time. Sometimes I falter, like today, and sometimes I'm successful, like Saturdays and Sundays.

Anyone interested in contributing to the Ciudad Public Works fund, hit me on the comments. It's not tax-deductible, but I will give you a shout on the next blog.

Let the Music Play 2

The crowd that gathered at Republic Gardens Sunday night wasn’t ready for the students of Duke Ellington’s Literary Media Program. Seated on stage, minutes before the show where they were both performers and beneficiaries, they looked smart, edgy, intellectual in jeans tight and baggy, shirts big and teeny, hair curly and locked.

Youthful insight was expected, a little satire or biting criticism about parents, boundaries, and violence. It was a poetry reading, you know, finger-snapping, cat calling, jive talking. There was art on the walls and women dressed in all black. The vibe, a word repeated often through the night called for something provocative to be said, The anticipation grew with each beat the dj dropped.

But a gay Piglet? Is this the Chappelle show?

You “wanna go to school naked”? Sounds more like Sapphire, author of Push, than high school student.

“Let the Music Play” raised more than money for Duke. From the gasps, shocked laughs, and steps back, the evening raised adults’ consciousness of the new adolescence. The new adolescence discovers life’s complexities—race, class, sexuality and deviance—in the time it takes to log onto BlackPlanet or theFacebook.com.

Curt Midkiff, of co-sponsor Smokin Grill Promotions, promised the youth had something to say. Youth always do. But how about:

Tigger, with all his dancing, bojanglin’ and yellow and black fur, is a rhyming N-word, the poet concluded. His upturned hands and half-smile chided us to accept the inevitable truth.

In addition to nude academics, the same poet “wants to make love to as many men as” she pleases. (Is Ms. magazine on the curriculum now?) “Yeah!” roared a woman in the crowd who was probably present during the Feminist Movement. Unruffled, if not charged, the petite poet laughed and declared, “Most of all I would like to be free.”

What’s the pedophile next-door thinking? Wondered her colleague, as innocent a query as the author of a book or the weather that morning. Pedophile? Parents turned to look around, for a TelePromter or a script. Did she just say “pedophile”?

Yep. Calmly, conscientiously, or boldly, the nine poets confronted the audience of young professionals and parents—often addressing the “ladies and gentlemen” directly—with the thoughts, images, and realities of being a teenager where love and violence take on new meaning, proportions, and definitely require“precautions.”

Their confidence, awareness and presence, characteristics of established writers, should not surprise. Patricia Elam, published author and director of the Lit Media program, explains the students enter the program already thinking as writers. To apply, they submit a carefully crafted portfolio of writing. Not something they have thrown together the night before, she clarifies. Once accepted, they demonstrate their commitment to the craft by completing four years of basic study, in addition to additional classes in writing, poetry, and media.

The poets hope to use the funding to expand their opportunities and coursework. The department is really small, says Ashley, the poet who—in contrast to her peers’ realities—reminded us of the simple pleasure of going to a party with “friends family and enemies all on the dance floor.”

“We want to make a documentary, explained Tierra, whose poetry considered the definition of love, a topic she admits to studiously avoiding. “We want to tell people things,” and their present equipment allows for only three minutes of recording. From this brief introduction, that is insufficient time for what they have to say.

With school the next morning looming, the students departed and the evening continued with performances from the luminous Nimat, and Anthony David, whose guitar-jamming roused the crowd alternately into foot stopping and coupled-up swaying. Both voiced encouragement for the younger artists before them. Said Nimat, who took music lessons in school, “I’m a musician, and I understand how much support is needed.” David, a post-performance smile dazzling his face, wanted to contribute to an education he never had. “I always wanted to go to school of arts, but never did, so I should support.”

The organizers intend to sponsor a second fundraiser in February for Ballou High School, and plan to establish a Let the Music Play Foundation.

"Let the Music Play"

On a ride home from tutoring a couple nights ago, I was bragging to some of the FLY Youth about how great Banneker was/is as a school.

Banneker, I pompously argued, produces lawyers, doctors, and scientists.

Yeah but what about artists and writers? they, a pair of twins, challenged.

Hah! A guy from Banneker has written three books.

A guy, they said, emphasizing the singular.

Then they stumbled on a more compelling reason not to be an Achiever (really, that’s our mascot).

Why would we want to go to Banneker? So we can grow up to be Rhonda?!

They burst out into laughter that spilled out the window, and I was chucklin, too. Not just at their stone cold diss--teenagers are so good for the ego--but also at my secret truthbut also at my secret truth that would not gain me cool points:This weekend, I’ll be supporting their school again at “Let the Music Play,” a fundraiser featuring raising talent from Duke Ellington School of the Arts, as well as established singers Anthony David and Nimat.
founded in the 70s by current School Board President Peggy Cooper Cafritz.

The event, co-organizer Curtis Midkiff says, will take guests on a “journey through art, music and the visual.”

Explains Midkiff, young people have a lot to say. The performing poets will speak on current events such as violence in DC, poverty and Hurricane Katrina.

Let the Music Play emerges as a fusion of personal commitments to youth, the arts, social justice and community network from the “synergy” between Midkiff and partner Bobby Cato. Both manage independent ventures—Midkiff’s Smokin Grill Promotions, and Cato’s urban lifestyle webzine Urban Eckoz –but knew a collaboration was in the works. Stockholm1976, a monthly social event that raises funds for DC-area non-profits sparked their imagination, creating Grassrootz Tuesdays, a “happy hour with a purpose,” to bring together young professionals and community organizations. The happy hours raised funds for Hurricane Katrina Victims, DC Scores, and Tamika and Friends.

Still there was a personal desire to support art and music programs. Cato remembers scarce resources limiting his lessons plans when he was an elementary teacher, and Midkiff sees music as a unifying force to uplifting communities. Grassrootz Tuesdays expanded from a night for one charity, to an evening of poetry, music, and art for a DC high school.

Why Ellington? “Why not Ellington?” Cato responds. The school is “fostering the next generation of artists, poets,” adds Midkiff.

But isn’t Ellington well funded already?

If so, not entirely from the city, says the website. Though Ellington receives the standard per-pupil funding as other schools, an Ellington education costs more than an education at another public school in the city because of the arts curriculum. The school must raise additional funds to provide the art lessons, dance classes, technology, music instruments students need to develop their talents. The Ellington Fund, created the same year as the school, exists to raise funding.

“People think Ellington has a lot of money,” says Cato, “but it really doesn’t.”

Midkiff elaborates there are still programs within Ellington that need more financial support to offer higher quality programs, like the Literary Media program, Curt explained. The sponsors would like to take the students on field trips for greater exposure. A plan called for an activity fee to finance the trips. Not all students can afford the extra costs, so raising funds ensures greater access.

Perhaps more importantly, choosing Ellington as a beneficiary was a strategic decision that looks forward to the next fundraiser.

The Ellington name, Midkiff and Cato anticipate, will attract the crowd that lesser-known Smokin Grill or Urban Eckoz wouldn’t, and create a following who will attend future events for Ballou, Eastern, Anacostia and other DC high schools with anorexic art budgets yet equally talented students. Says Cato passionately , this event is a “launching pad to showcase schools where no one cares until someone gets shot,” referring to recent homicides at Ballou and past shootings of high school students on DC streets.

Their target, ultimately, is the underserved school.

And why the passion? “I just love the kids,” says Cato, who is a former elementary/middle school teacher and mentors five boys aged 8-15. “I understand what happens if you don’t have [creative] outlets…but you are hella talented.” Not having outlets for creative expression “causes boys to displace aggression and become deviant. So I’m trying to help my youngin’s who are crying to write it, sing it, rap it.”

Testament to their “synergy,” Midkiff explains a similar perspective. “We all have a responsibility to support…and sustain the schools.” Acknowledging community activism is an “individual decision you have to make,” Midkiff and Cato commit to “create opportunities for involvement.”

“Hopefully,” Cato sums up, “people will understand that it’s imperative that we start to build, to make [the events] part of the community. Do something!”

The Banneker Influence

This week’s Education Review tells stories of influential teachers, the relationship between student and teacher. I thought about influential teachers from Benjamin Bannker Academic high School. High school masqueraded as the the most magical time in life, when anything was possible, an opportunity around any corner. (It was also tragically confusing, but that’s another essay). I remember my daily schedule and all of my teachers from each year I was there. Two teachers come to mind now.

Ms. Eileen Davis. My English teacher. I entered Banneker sophomore year, and had already read the assigned 10th grade book, the Oedipus Trilogy, to this day one of my favorites. Instead, she handed me a work by Aeschylus and I agreed to read that. I remember the moment with crystal clarity: “You’re going to be so advanced!” She was beaming. Mrs. Davis was a thorough woman who believed in expanding our vocabulary in both knowing definitions and spelling. She believed in logical arguments and examining the texts’ themes. I loved the order, the predictability of her class schedule, amidst the unpredictable and disorderly world of books. At some point during our two years together (she also taught English III for juniors), she said to me, “You are a writer.” Professionally, I’m not but I treasure her confidence, and hope that it propels me to pursue the dream.

Mr. Boyd, a legend who taught AP American History. To pass his class was a badge of honor on Euclid Street. From his desk—no shenanigans like walking around the classroom, or sitting among the students—he delivered his lectures on American History with such authority that I believed not knowing Roosevelt’s conversation programs to relieve the country of the Great Depression was equal to starving oneself of bread and water. How could you get dressed in the morning without understanding the influence of the Marshall Plan on the revitalization of Europe into the 20th century? And before you leave the house, you have to be able to write a coherent five-paragraph essay to analyze how Roosevelt’s plans created social welfare system, or the weaknesses of the Marshall Plan. Committed to developing the same knowledge, I devoured our textbook with ravenous hunger. Literally, numerous pages in my textbook were stained with spaghetti sauce, mustard, orange juice and anything else that dripped from plate or cup to my mouth. I believed so much that knowledge of history was the answer that I taught American history for a few years here in DC.

Other teachers I remember with reverence and appreciation: Mr. Mulcahy, a walking contradiction of jovial and caustic who taught us a method for writing papers that I used even in graduate school. My creative writing teacher, (I remember his first name was David) who loved the Grateful Dead, had a son, then moved to Montgomery County. I wrote my favorite poem ever in his class, and he edited essays that helped me get into college. Mr. Nickelson, the first Asian teacher I ever had, who loved playing tennis and being around young people. Dr. Day—the first person I knew with a doctorate, and who introduced me to the joy of Sunday morning talk shows (I still watch them today).

Recently I spoke to a group of students at Anacostia High School, and confessed that I loved school. I really do, and it’s because I spent it with teachers who loved it, too.

On the Memorial of Rosa Parks, 10/31/05

Memorials and eulogies are exceptionally challenging to deliver. Often the individuals defied description because of their unique act of courage, foresight, or generosity. The words often fail to say something insightful about the dead, and fail to inspire the living in our grief. Shrouding the dead in word is difficult.

I think of Ossie Davis' eulogy to Malcolm X as the classic tribute. His voice, if he were reading a TV guide, already shook your soul. In honoring Malcolm X as our "black prince," he encouraged us to respect and nurture the black princes among us, especially in their periods of moral failings. The tributes I heard yesterday, as I heard Ossie Davis (granted at the end of Spike's "Malcolm X"), didn't leave me moved as much as they moved within me, within my psyche.

I arrived in time to hear the final strains of the youth gospel choir. There strong voices were encouraging. I went to the memorial to be encouraged, uplifted. All of us, and there were hundreds, stood outside to be among the humble who honored Rosa Parks.

"I owe you to be successful," Oprah said. She'd first heard of Rosa Parks from her father, and if her accomplishments were an accurate indicator of her physical accomplishments, Oprah thought she was a giant. The lesson to us: physical size bears no relationship to one's potential for greatness.

Instead of being defeated by the ever increasing number of required signatures on a petition to honor Parks with a Congressional Medal, Sen. Stabinow called on Tavis Smiley and Tom Joyner to rally the country. Her "cousins" she called them. Of course, the pair's combined charisma and confidence in the mission made supporting the bill an obvious decision, and collected more signatures than needed. Use your resources to challenge the system.

Finally, everybody's uncle Sen. Ted Kennedy. Though Catholic, I did not expect that his reference to Parks' faith to be as powerful as it was. She believed the Lord was with her, he said, and knew He would protect her as she defied the law. I shivered. Listening to roaring red-faced Kennedy, I shivered.

Racism. Iraq. NRA in DC. Oil. Gun violence. Hurricanes. Bush. I have to believe the Lord is with me, and with us all.