I speak as a – a sister of a sister. Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated on my birthday. And for over 30 years, Coretta Scott King and I have telephoned, or sent cards to each other, or flowers to each other, or met each other somewhere in the world.

We called ourselves “chosen sisters” and when we traveled to South Africa or to the Caribbean or when she came to visit me in North Carolina or in New York, we sat into the late evening hours, calling each other “girl.” It’s a black woman thing, you know. And even as we reached well into our 70th decade, we still said “girl.”

I pledge to you, my sister, I will never cease.

Dr. Maya Angelou’s remarks at Coretta Scott King’s Funeral

So, I was watching the Monique Show last night and Taraji P. Henson was one of her guests. What was interesting about the show was not that they both were Oscar nominated actresses, but that they were girlfriends. I mean Sistergirl girl friends. Sistahfriends whose on screen chemistry spoke of countless nights of belly laughs and “Girl, let me tell you . . .” call and response, “I almost had to take my earrings off,” black girl stories. So, inspired by their on camera friendship and Women’s Her-story month, today I pay tribute to Sisterfriends without whom many black women including myself would go crazy on what seems like an ordinary day. Yes, black girl friendships are a blessing.

Well, Monique and Taraji’s candor and black girl banter reminded me of Maya Angelou’s funeral tribute to Coretta Scott King where she said, “Coretta was my chosen sister.” Her words of remembrance were fresh sap sticky with memories only two women in their 70s could appreciate. I must say, listening to her words one was hostage to the fact that they had been friends many life times. Coretta was her chosen sister. They were chosen sisters . . . two women who knew the power of sharing and trusting other women. In some ways Maya’s tribute to Coretta seems dated in a world where Bravo’s Atlanta House Wives and Oxygen’s Bad Girls Club show black women fighting with each other over men, power, and money . . . and where the terms ‘bitch’ and ‘female’ become deadly assault weapons to wound the souls of women who look like them. Yep, there is scheme a foot to make black women hate other black women. And of course, it has every bit to do with the holy trinity—patriarchy, sexism, and misogyny.

So, when I was a little black girl I was told constantly by my momma that you don’t have many females around cause they are ‘messing’ and they will ‘steal’ yo man. And the one thing I did not understand as a little black girl, but now know as a twenty-something year old woman, is that for the most part all the people who did my mother wrong were men and it was the two girlfriends my mother somehow kept around that would come tend to the wounds that my alcoholic father laid upon her when he felt insecure. Yep, Wendy and Yvette were godsends because without them my mother would not have survived the abuse and the longer term effects of my father’s abuse.

Well, I want to end with paying tribute to one of  my good Sisterfriends, Jess. Mind you I have several good sisterfriends--Tiffany, Chelsey, Melissa, Cemere, Moya, Leigh, Monica, Ebbonne, and Aishah--but I need to give Jess a shout out. Let me tell you she is the one who will politely unclip her earrings unlace her gym shoes and as the young folk say, “Square up” on your behalf. She is the one who forces herself to crawl underneath your bed to weep unknown and known memories with you. She is the one who knows just the right joke and just the right elective to use in all matters of talk. She is the one who pushes me to stand up boldly against those who seek my demise. And yes as Maya wrote, Jess, the little girl from Arkansas, is my chosen sister.

So, today in tribute to Women’s Her-story month, I ask you to leave comments paying tributes to your Girlfriends, Sisterfriends, and Sistah-friends so that the world knows that we love each other and need each other to survive.  It does not have to be anything long . . . you can list a name . . . or perhaps you want to write poem . . . feel free to write whatever is needed to pay tribute to your girls.

So alas, it was your turn. And I was desperate for you to prove yourself. Even said “ha” to all the naysayers when you and your wife emerged to admit to extramarital affairs. Can’t get ‘em now, I said as I was dumb to think the only things tripping up politicians were camera women and interns. Anyway, a blind black man and his cheating wife. This is gonna be good and for a short time–it was. You scored major points with your support of stem cell research and I heard gay people weeping when you proposed a gay marriage bill. You were hitting all the right buttons and then you started slipping. Getting crushed actually, by that big ass budget deficit. So you thought, let’s just charge four percent on everything from music downloads to sleeping outside (camping). Of course, there was the 18% soda tax aka the “obesity tax” that has yet to be approved.

And right when things were at an all time low, Obama rolls into town and doesn’t so much as wink your way. And you know that was hard. When the President of the United States, the first brotha in office can’t even muster enough energy to give you a pound. Even then, I figured Obama was too weighed down in his own legislative drama to pay you much mind–nothing personal. He needed some good democrats to get things moving and lets face it, this was your one shot because 2010 would not be kind to you.

So here we are, months later and you have seriously blown your cover as a respectable politician. Just when I was thinking you deserve to be Governor you go and show yourself to be New York’s version of Roland Burris. I typically think politicians do stupid things and mostly because they are greedy, horny, and/or power hungry but I still can’t for the life of me figure out how you in any conscience called a domestic violence victim to discuss her “options.” That’s a serious no-no Kwame, I mean David. And to think you actually persuaded two women to join in. Way to go.

I am sure my opinion means little to you, but you gotta go. Don’t even wait until the end. Just walk away. Generally, I find most transgressions to be personal. The John Edwards baby mama drama is personal. The Bill Clinton intern thing is a little personal. But using the system, the state police, other politicians to intimidate a citizen is way over the line and if anyone tells you different…well they must be another desperate politician or a really close friend. Just you know, anytime you have to run to Harlem for a secret meeting in a soul food restaurant, things ain’t going so well.

You are no different from the Kilpatricks of the world. You should have known once the Mayor of Baltimore got in trouble for stealing Best Buy gift cards, your chances of getting away with this were nil. So sorry it had to end this way. Please pack your things.

What?

Is there something distinct about the way in which we move or speak that is noticeably…Black? Before, I would have denied this. There’s no way you can identify movement or speech as distinctly Black. Right?

Maybe.

A couple weeks ago, I read the book This is How We Flow: Rhythm in Black Cultures. The editor introduces the concept of morphic resonance to explain what she describes as a distinct rhythm that has been passed down from generation to generation, a rhythm that we brought to America from Africa with drums. A rhythm that survived slavery and Jim Crow through spirituals and gospel. A rhythm that survives the projects and post-racial America through soul and hip hop. A rhythm that ties together the entire Black experience. The one thing that binds all children of the Diaspora.

Morphic resonance is the notion that we inherit more than genetic stuff from our parents and our forefathers and perhaps rhythm is inherited as well. It’s the idea that we tap into this unique rhythm whenever we move or even speak. And perhaps it is this rhythm that is synonymous with cool. It is our unique ownership of this rhythm that makes Black and cool synonymous. We own cool.

And for that reason, it is a shock when someone who isn’t Black is able to tap into that distinct rhythm, the rhythm that is so prevalent in all of us that it has become synonymous with Blackness.

Do you buy it? Is there a rhythm that is unique to us? Is that why it’s okay to make statements such as “she dances like a Black girl”?

Overall, the lesson from the night, at least when it came to racial profiling when dealing with the police was knowing your rights. When I worked with the ACLU last Summer we would explain to people what their rights were when dealing with the police. Here are some tips to take into account is you are ever stopped by the police.

What to do if you’re stopped by the police

Think carefully about your words, movement, body language, and emotions. Don’t get into an argument with the police. Remember, anything you say or do can be used against you. Keep your hands where the police can see them. Don’t run. Don’t touch any police officer. Don’t resist even if you believe you are innocent. Don’t complain on the scene or tell the police they’re wrong or that you’re going to file a complaint. Do not make any statements regarding the incident . You also should not lie to a police officer.

Ask for a lawyer immediately upon your arrest. Remember officers’ badge & patrol car numbers. Write down everything you remember ASAP. Try to find witnesses & their names & phone numbers. If you are injured, take photographs of the injuries as soon as possible, but make sure you seek medical attention first. If you feel your rights have been violated, file a written complaint with the police department’s internal affairs division or civilian complaint board, or call the ACLU.

What you say to the police is always important. What you say can be used against you, and it can give the police an excuse to arrest you, especially if you badmouth a police officer. You don’t have to answer any questions, with one important exception: the police may ask for your name, address, and date of birth if you have been properly detained, and you can be arrested for refusing to give this information.

You should never consent to any search of yourself, your car or your house. If you DO consent to a search, it can affect your rights later in court. If the police say they have a search warrant, ASK TO SEE IT. Do not interfere with or obstruct the police – you can be arrested for it.

IF YOU’RE STOPPED FOR QUESTIONING

1. You are required to provide your name, address, and date of birth if a law enforcement officer asks. You may refuse to answer any additional questions.

2. Police may “pat-down” your clothing if they suspect you are carrying a concealed weapon. You may not physically resist, but you should clearly state that you do not consent to any search.

3. Ask if you are under arrest. If you are, you have a right to know why.

4. Don’t badmouth a police officer or run away, even if you believe what is happening is unreasonable. This could lead to your arrest.

Her low budget production of The Hurt Locker wowed the critics and viewers at the Academy Awards, winning 6 Oscars out of 9 nominations, including Best Picture and Best Directing by Bigelow. She is the first woman to win Best Director at the Academy Awards and after 82 years, as Barbara Streisand declared when presenting the award, “It’s about time.” Bigelow accepted the award, hoping to be “the first of many” female Academy Award winning directors and advising any young filmmaker not to give up on dreams.

That’s the kind of encouragement young people want! Kathyrn Bigelow has broken one enormous barrier in filmmaking and set an example for aspiring artists. Her accomplishment in winning the award, in addition to her repeated declaration that she thinks of herself as a filmmaker, as opposed to a female filmmaker, has certainly got a few more people shaking their heads at the gender stereotype behind the camera in show biz.

So what an appropriate way to kick-off March (Women’s History month) by adding to the female list of first’s and better yet having that moment broadcasted as a part of one of the most widely publicized events of the year.

I’ve always been a fan of Dwayne Carter Jr. Before Young Money Entertainment existed, before all the Carter albums, and even before the “bling bling” phenomena I liked Weezy.  The pint-sized rapper from Hollygrove, New Orleans had a guttural delivery that was edgy and catchy at the same time. I can recall watching Hot Boys music videos after school and quickly turning the channel when my Mom walked in the room. In all honesty, I wouldn’t want my ten year old watching the “Block is Hot” either.  Nevertheless, I grew up in the age of “Rap City the Basement” and “106 and Park”, it was hard to keep most of my friends from this music too.

I digress.  Back to Mr. Weezy F. Baby, please say the baby.  So today Mr. “No Ceilings” was sentenced to a year of nothing but ceilings and cinderblock walls in New York’s Riker Island.  Although he plead guilty to criminal possession of a weapon in the second degree in October of 2009 he has been more evasive than O.J. Simpson in a White Bronco. Well that’s not too evasive. He’s been more evasive than Amy Winehouse at a detox center. That’s more like it.  The first time he was scheduled for sentencing the judge postponed it so that he could get dental work. I guess the sparkly grill needed to get fixed up for state funded toothbrushes. The second time a fire in the courthouse postponed the sentencing. I guess the former “Hot Boy” was too hot for justice.  Some of my friends have been monitoring his sentencing date. With all the wars, famine, and injustice in the world the last thing I cared about was Lil’ Wayne going to jail. Nevertheless I couldn’t escape it. One of my friends kept telling me “5 days until Weezy goes to jail”. In the back of my mind I was wondering why he was so happy to see his favorite rapper go to jail, as if it were some rite of passage (but that is for another blog).

I’m sure I’m probably the “umteenth” person to blog about this situation, but I think the fact that this is on my mind speaks to a greater problem. Why is it cool for rappers to go to jail? Why do people celebrate it? I’ve already seen the “Hold it Down Weezy” t-shirts. What does that even mean? I’m so tired of hearing about what his cell will look like, or if he’ll get special treatment. Dwayne Carter Jr. broke the law and now he is paying his debt to society. Get over it. Hundreds of thousands of people go to jail everyday. Of course most of those people aren’t award-winning artists, but they are still people and their lives are worth just as much. It bothers me when we condemn one man for going to jail but celebrate or hype up another man. I read a status on facebook today that said “T.I. out and Lil’ Wayne in, I can dig it”. In Vibe’s magazine online edition they went into detail about his first meal and what he plans on eating tomorrow for breakfast. I hate to sound like Bill Cosby but “Come on People!”

This reminds me of about five years ago when 50 cent blew up. Although his music was catchy and Dr. Dre provided him with some great beats, it seems as if he was just as popular for being shot 9 times and surviving. Don’t get me wrong. That is a blessing. I don’t want to get shot once. Nevertheless, why does taking 9 bullets make you a better rapper or a more interesting person? It’s sad to say, but I think Lil’ Wayne and T.I. have and will continue to profit off of their vacations behind bars.

I wish Weezy the best of luck behind bars. Prison is no place that anyone should ever want to go. Yet, I’m afraid that as long as we continue to praise celebrity incarceration, many young people will trivialize going to jail. Remember, “no ceilings” only exists mentally in penitentiaries.

The last thing Daniel Merriweather wants is to be compared to Amy Winehouse. And that’s perfectly understandable; what artist needs media coverage of their work that consistently fashions links to a well-known, better peer? But when you’re white, not American, possess an emotion-drenched, Otis Redding-inspired vocal style, and Mark Ronson (the man responsible for producing half of Winehouse’s Back to Black) laces every single one of your tracks with that familiar Stax Records-meets-Phil Spector-meets-Hip Hop sound, you’re sort of asking for it.

Hailing from Melbourne, Australia (not London?!), Daniel Merriweather’s rise from down-under obscurity to potential Soul superstardom might have seemed unlikely, were it not for the unprecedented success of his not-so-distant, musical older cousin, Miss. Winehouse, and the almost immediate procession of like-minded/Caucasian artists that followed (i.e. Adele, Duffy, etc). Blue-eyed Soul is in ladies and gentlemen, and as long as these artists are putting out quality shit, I’m down with it. Besides, Merriweather’s been an active musician since the early 2000’s; there’s no sense of any sort of calculated opportunism going on with Merriweather’s debut album, the charming Love & War; just a handful of knockout compositions, some mediocre ones, a couple forgettables, and a big, wide-open space where Merriweather’s singular musical personality should have been, but isn’t.

Overall…not bad for a first try.

When Love & War is good, it’s really good, particularly it’s at times flawless balladry. The Elton John-inspired “For Your Money,” is the perfect opener, taking it’s time and building steadily to a righteous climax. Later, “Water and a Flame,” a gorgeous duet with Adele, works marvelously. Everything comes together perfectly, from the swirling strings and haunting backing vocals, to the masterful, complementary vocal performances from both participants (although Adele outshines our man Merriweather here). “Giving Everything Away For Free” will definitely remind you of Prince, but effectively so, maintaining a fragile, elegant musicality that effortlessly supports Merriweather’s solemn testament to unrequited love. He croons, “Everyday that I love her/I kill myself/It happens over and over/There’s no one else/And I’ve tried to forget her/But look at me/Giving everything away for free.” Mark Ronson can still conjure something truly magical as a producer, and deserves equal credit for Love & War’s many high points. These songs have an irresistible warmth and depth sonically; the somber, Otis Redding-reminiscent “Live By Night” has a hazy, dreamlike quality to it, like a smoke-filled room.

The album’s clear standout is its balladic centerpiece and most recent single, “Red.” Beginning with gentle acoustic guitar, the song builds gorgeously, accented by mournful strings and a steady backbeat. The chorus is pure, emotional catharsis, with Merriweather lamenting bitterly “I can’t do this by myself/All of these problems/They’re all in your head/And I can’t be somebody else/You took something perfect/And painted it red.” “Red” is a surefire hit, if you ask me, and clearly Merriweather’s finest moment on Love & War.

Of course, the album is not without its failings, particularly some undercooked compositions, like the “California Dreaming”-reappropriating “Could You” (ala Winehouse’s “Tears Dry On Their Own”) and the admirable-but-bland, Stevie Wonder-styled, socially-conscious finale “All of the People.” And while Love & War achieves a potent synergy between the rich production and impassioned vocal performances, it seriously lacks the kind of fascinatingly-complex personality and painfully-detailed lyrical content that made Back to Black so definitive and essential.

So as it stands, Love & War is more than a respectable debut for Merriweather. It may not separate him from the pack the way a truly classic release would, but it’s impossible not to at least like.

But if he digs a little deeper next time, this Australian soulman could have something truly powerful on his hands.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

--Maya Angelou

So, how do you make a little black girl believe that all she has gone through does not determine her ability to take flight? How do you “teach” her that her wings are beautiful and that the risk of flying is a marvelous growth enriching endeavor? How do you make her see that her cadged song and flight will one day inspire others to freedom? How do you “teach” a black girl to fly?

You see, it’s not an easy endeavor because so many things seek to clip their wings, silence their voice, and keep them cadged. It takes a special kind of spiritual intervention to release little black birds. It is not a task for the faint of heart or for those who benevolently (i.e. good white women) “swoop” in to save de Negro children from the pathology of their colored communities. Hmmmm . . . it is a task well suited for wise black women like Baby Suggs in Beloved who said, “Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it . . . No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands . . . You got to love it,” and Minnie Ransom in The Salt Eaters who said, “Are you sure, sweetheart, that you want to be well? Just so’s you’re sure, sweetheart, and ready to be healed, cause wholeness is no trifling matter. A lot of weight when you’re well,” and my 8^th grade colored school teacher, Mrs. LaVern Colvin, who said, “Now listen here, Fallon, if you do not know by now how much I love you . . . you will never know, dearie.”

Yes, Toni Morrison, Toni Cade Bambara, and Mrs. LaVern Colvin all understand the power of wise if not spiritually medicinal black mothers—godmother, other mother, adopted mother, lesbian black mother, church mother, or just an old colored school teacher—to heal the ailing souls of black women and black girls. I know many of you reading this blog are probably saying, “Not all old black women are caring let alone wise,” perhaps not. But, it has been my experience and I will even venture to say the experience of many black women that we all have been touched by the wise words of old black women if not though the “chance” bumping into her in the hallway, reading her words in books like Audre Lorde’s Zami, or eating pound cake at her table as she seeks to reassure you that no matter what ABC News says life does not end because you are single black woman in America.

Yep, these old black women will heal you by teaching you how to fly even if it means pushing you off the ledge limiting the choices you have—either you’re going to flap or you’re going to die the choice is yours. It’s that simple. And now that I think about it that’s how I learned to fly. I was pushed. I was shoved. I was called everything my godmother knew to say while playing spades. Because I did not want to leave my cage I did not want to have to deal with my father’s alcoholism, my mother’s desperate retreat, and all of the other things that come to scare you as a little black girl in a family of unhealthy men. I wanted to be safe and my self-made cage gave me that reassurance. I was safe.

Hmmm . . . I know why the cadged bird sings.

But thank God for colored spiritual medicinal women like Marie Stewart, Ella Baker, Big Momma, Auntie Clara Mae, Fannie Lou Hammer, and my godmothers who have lived long enough in this society to know how it can make you sick and caged bound, but who also know how to heal you whether you want the healing or not. They would say, “Fallon, you have legs just walk . . . Fallon, do you want to spend your life being a 40-year old fried hair beauty queen . . . Fallon, your mother’s story is a part of your story, but it does not determine your fate . . . Fallon, you are stronger than you know you are . . . Fallon, Fallon, (shouting) Fallon.”

And somehow I started to see that I am something special and I deserve to be free. Mark my words; there is something special about wise old black women. But because we live in a patriarchal racist society, old black women’s knowledge and wisdom is greatly devalued. We see them as nagging forgetful asexual hags or as comical gun toting Madea(s) when their sheer age alone says that they sho-nuff know something about weathering a racist and sexist society.

So, the question is how do you teach a black girl how to fly? You teach her to fly by finding her some old cantankerous soul to spend a little time with because I fundamentally believe that there is healing power in our grandmother’s stories. In general, teaching little black girls to fly is a spiritual enterprise where often older black women are simultaneously doctor, therapist, mother, teacher, disciplinarian, preacher woman, and healer.

So, today on this first Friday of Women’s History Month I honor Old Black Woman Healers because without them many of us would have spiritually, mentally, and physically died long ago. So, I ask you the reader to name an old black woman who said a word or two that enabled you to continue getting your degree, that taught you to continue to fight for love, that comforted you as you shed a tear or two, that hugged you when you felt unlovable, that prayed for you when you thought you would lose your last strand of sanity, and that said, “Baby, you got legs just walk.”

So, let us honor our wise old black women today.

My Great-Great Grandparents

Beyond my great-great grandparents, I had no names. Most importantly at a certain point in history, Black people in this country didn’t technically have distinguishable last names, or really any last names. I was frustrated and the last thing I wanted to do was turn to government records but that’s just what I did.

I used bits and pieces that I scrapped together from various public records such as the census, population schedules, slave schedules, and marriage records to rebuild a family history that I thought was lost. Using the Census is not an easy task, especially since the 1890 Census was destroyed in a fire. And of course before 1870, the only way to use the Census was to track the name of the person who owned my maternal ancestors but it worked.

Lewis LeJay--My "I lost count of great-greats" Grandpa--he's on the left in case you were confused...

I’ve traced my family back to 1795. The trail runs cold there but the journey has been an amazing one. It has led to several discoveries about my family but also my resolve. Along the way, I met a cousin who has made our family tree a bigger project than I ever would have imagined.

The fun of using the Census is the jolt that I get every time I read the names of my relatives. It brings up more questions than answers: what was her middle name? What was his favorite food? Did he have a favorite color? Did her eyes look like mine? Did she have the same freckles on her hands? As rewarding as this project has been, it has been just as painful to realize that I will never know my ancestors but at least I know they actually lived.

Last week a student was arrested in the reg. So clearly if a person is arrested in this beautiful post-racial, progressive, and inclusive society, then it must be some just cause. Right? Witnesses say that this 5’6 black senior at University of Chicago was “wrestled to the ground and put in a headlock.” This must mean that he was threatening someone’s life or at least doing something minutely illegal. Right?

Wrong.

The student walked into the library and was told he was too loud and if he didn’t quiet down, then the police would be called.  The Chicago Maroon reported that the student was arrested in the basement of the library—where usually everyone is loud. He was charged and spent a night in jail because he refused to show officers his identification or leave the library for unruly behavior, witnesses deny that police asked the student for ID or that the student was causing a disturbance. They also said the arresting officer was inappropriately aggressive.

Here is a comment that one of the ignoramus students at University of Chicago left on the Maroon Website.

“There is justice in the world! That guy is extraordinarily loud and obnoxious. We can only hope that this sets a new precedent for the treatment of people who routinely disrupt the academic sanctuary of the library, rendering it veritably uninhabitable for the likes of the studious and the civilized.”

I didn’t realize being loud and obnoxious was a means to arrest someone. This situation is about more than one student in the library. This brings to light and surfaces the stories I heard as a prospective student, the experiences I had as a first year student, and what I continue to hear from others now as a second year. This outrage is about how the police treat students of color on this campus. It is a symbol of why police-black and white- slow down when they see a black or brown male walking down a street in Hyde Park. It is a representation of what needs to change at the University of Chicago. Last year I was just walking down the street (in front of my dorm, Max) and I got stopped by the UCPD and they asked to see my I.D. Some say this is protocol, but my question is if I was a white student doing nothing else but walking down the 56th street would I have been stopped then?

Tonight I attended the community forum, which was held by the University in the name of talking with administration about what was being done about the situation.

There was a new police chief who didn’t realize situations “like this” happened, a scapegoat assistant director of the library (the director apparently had “previous engagements”), and the staff member of student campus life. Between the three all I really heard was how unfortunate the situation was, how they are going to do some investigating, and how they are going to look at all the “facts” and decide what to do. In other words, no solution was made. Some students were talking about protesting in front of the library, but I personally think action needs to be demanded on an administrative level.

Well, so much for that post-racial society people were all excited about.