TUESDAY THOUGHTS: CHURCH MOTHER MICHELLE

Oh no. 

As much as many would like to affix a "jealous wife" caption, I beg to differ. 

This is neither "angry Black woman" nor insecure spouse, either. 
This is the classic "Church Mother". 

You know her. 

Prim. 

Proper. 

Champion of appropriate behavior--especially in public. 

She's merciful, but one mustn't take too long to get oneself together. 

One look is all one gets. 

One should take that look as a warning. Ignore it, and one would be wise not to get too close-- unless wearing industry compliant, flame-resistant clothing.

Note the stiff posture, the clenched jaw, the extended fingers and clasped hands. Observe the steely, seemingly forward look that masks a terrifying peripheral glare that would pierce one's very soul. 

Observe the rolling up of the sleeves--wait. They're three-quarter. 

She has forgotten. It's a reflex. 

This champion of righteousness, classy though she may be, has been in a fight before—fight to get people to  understand what behavior is appropriate, and what deserves a good shushing, or ass whipping.

The church mother is very interested in the principal thing, and firmly believes that everyone in her personal space should be, as well. Interruptions are prohibited. She was going to buy the tape anyway, but don't make her miss something important. 

Woe to the one who displays blatant disregard, or wanders unknowingly into her environment bearing mischief. 

The Church Mother feels that her trademark "look" should be enough. These days, it's called a "side-eye", but she championed it long ago. It has stopped all manner of ridiculousness in its tracks for centuries. 

The Church Mother expects compliance after the first admonition. She does not ascribe to repeating herself.  She has been known to chastise strangers—big and small. 

She is fearless.

"Church is on". 

That means cease and desist any and all contrariness. Stop the chit chat. 

One must immediately focus. 

"Church is on", yet there is thoughtless playing, laughing, and inattention taking place. It is an inconceivable concept to the Church Mother; it is one of the highest forms of disrespect. It is blasphemy. 

It is the absence of home-training—something that is never to be even an alleged representation of her home. It is a slap in her face, and she finds herself seconds away from slapping back.

As the impropriety continues, she becomes concerned about the negative opinions that others will have. She must act soon. 

The critical words that others will say about someone in her household further infuriates her, yet she maintains her dignified demeanor. 

Her mind is racing. Those around her would be wise to sense the storm that is brewing; the boiling-point about to be reached, but they have been carried away and have forgotten-- not only the seriousness of the occasion, but more importantly they have clearly forgotten the identity and expectations of the person with whom they must soon travel home. 

She prides herself in declaring that she "goes NOWHERE with a fool". 

Many have testimonies of being abruptly snatched by one's collar and yanked back into a pew, having one's upper arm flesh pinched, or getting popped in the mouth with the popsicle-stick portion of a church fan.
No one has ever understood how a 17-foot, leafless branch could fit into a Church Mother's pocketbook, but it is there, and she commands it like Zorro. 

She must be more discreet in some instances, though. 

She must think of the best way to end the foolishness that is flying in the face of the lessons that she KNOWS she has drilled before leaving home: 

“We have to go out. Don't let me have to say anything to you. Don't ask for anything. Don't touch anything. Wherever you act up, that's where you're gonna get it. You think I'm playing? TRY me."

Careful not to be a distraction herself, she acts. Quietly, between clenched teeth, in a manner that would astonish even the best ventriloquist, and with the speed and flow of a skilled rapper, she whispers, "You thought I was playing, didn't you? Get your narrow behind over here. Come...here...now. Get up. Excuse yourself. I don't know about your little friends, but you KNOW better. Don't open your mouth. I wish you would cry. Come sit by me, and you better not move, or I'm gonna haul off and knock the living daylights out of you. Sit here, and act like you got some sense....over there laughing and taking pictures. Didn't I tell you to leave that camera in your pocket? 

This ain't the playground! This ain't Chuck E. Cheese! You wait. When we get home, just go straight to your room and wait for me 'cause I'm gonna.... You done lost your whole mind. 

I told you. Don't embarrass me. You wait. I bet you won't act a fool in church again...

Now sit back. 

Unfold your arms. 

Fix your face. 

Did you hear me? I 

said sit back...Hmph...Say something. I dare you."

On the other hand, maybe she was just sitting there with nothing negative on her mind at all. 

Too bad we didn't see these photos first. 

There's nothing  church mothery, jealous, insecure, bitchy, childish, or annoyed about this elegant lady. Nothing at all. 

Surprise. 

These images are from the same event, and on the same day. No death ray glare here...

Unfortunately there's nothing particularly scandalous about a pleasant, even tempered, intelligent Black woman. 

Why would we want someone to act out, or debase themselves simply for our amusement, or to fit some ignorant stereotype? 

We could all take a lesson from her. 

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but unfortunately the real truth of the context of the picture, and the words written or spoken, don't always apply.

SATURDAY THOUGHTS: REMINISCING: OH, HOWARD...

I was fooled by December this past Thursday. It was a beautiful, warm, but drizzly day. It was December, still, and I should have known better. Although I didn't abandon my big coat, I probably should have remembered my own mantra about night air and how we really don't get along that well.  

I found out Thursday night, as I waited for a taxi, that the beloved statesman, President Nelson Mandela, passed away. 

(It's funny how we respond to the death of a stranger as if the deceased was a close family member.) 

I immediately thought back to my college days. I remembered learning about Artistes du Monde Contra Apartheid, and seeing the artists' powerful, thought provoking and educational posters. I even remembered classmate Michael Brown's beautiful mural in the student lounge being whitewashed, but to this day I don't know why it happened. 

It was at Howard that I first heard the names, Mandela, and Tutu.  I heard other names for the first time, too, like, Frances Cress Welsing, Romare Bearden, Lois Mailou Jones, Eugenia Collier, Jacob Lawrence, and E. Ethelbert Miller.

My laptop, TV, and the internet acquired such importance as I nursed myself all day yesterday. 

Between games, articles, movies, online shopping, music, social networking sites, and chatting, one can be completely occupied as the hours pass. 

 The internet is definitely one's window to the outside world between trips to and from the bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen. 

The hum of the dehumidifier, and the smell of Lysol and Clorox in the air reminded me never to underestimate the weather again, but I was enjoying my trip back in time.

I'd searched for an old scrapbook and found photos I hadn't seen in ages. 

Among them were the pictures documenting Nelson and Winnie Mandela's visit to the State Department. My Dad gave them to me when I was about 30 years old.  

They reminded made me of the late Tritobia Benjamin and Jeff Donaldson's Art history lectures, and lessons about political art. Suddenly I was back on Howard University's campus-- in a seat in a classroom on the second floor of the Fine Arts Building. 

I was thinking about professors like E.H Sorrells Adewale, Mike Auld, Raymond Dobard, Alfred Smith, the late Ed Love and Lucille Malkia Roberts who encouraged us to find our passions,read everything we could get into our hands, think critically, and be more aware of the important goings on in our world. Ceramicist, Winnie Owens Hart's piece "The  Last Time I Saw Egypt, It Was In Africa" only solidified the role of Art as a  expositor of truth and a slayer of misinformation.

As I browsed photo albums, I also found a picture of a young, thinner, healthier me. 

The photo was taken on the roof of the Fine Arts Building by my classmate, Barry Wilson. 

We all had the privilege of learning from the very witty photographer and photojournalist, Jarvis Grant. 

I think Barry named his mock album cover assignment, "Monotone Rebel". 

Despite the pose, I was anything but rebellious back then. 

I was a diehard Larry Graham, Brother's Johnson, and Prince fan, and wished I could play that bass, but it was a nice prop. The other reason I got the "job" was that I was able to fit the fatigues our classmate, painter Horace Salmon allowed Barry to borrow for the shoot. ) 

Between the scrapbook, albums, Mandela retrospectives, and Antenna TV, and thoughts of Howard U., I  almost forgot how badly I was feeling.

I sank under the covers once more, after refreshing my tea cup, and propped up my laptop. 

I checked my Twitter account, and a new follower suggested I follow veteran Washington, DC radio announcer, Alvin Jones. I recalled how Jones would faithfully play the music of local bands on his show. One band was called "Backlash". 

Jones helped to promote a beautiful melody called "Soft and Easy", penned by Howard University alum, and photographer Ronald Beverly. 

I used to love hearing the song play on the radio. The first seven notes were lovely all by themselves. Perhaps I was a little biased, because I was actually a lead singer in the band for a little while. 

A few engagements began cropping up as a result of the gracious airplay, and a very shy me was being dragged out of her comfort zone. The band was a nice opportunity because I always regretted not singing much while in college (except at our annual, impromptu Kwaanza parties. Roslyn Bright, Paula Ballard, Claudia Gibson and I would sing in the painting studio where the parties took place. Anyone could come and play and it was always nice to see students from all three floors gathered). 

I remembered the day I auditioned for Howard's Gospel Choir. I remember singing several hymns for the great Arphelius Paul Gatling. I was so excited when I found out I'd earned a place in the choir, but I didn't want to ask my parents for the money to pay for the choir robe.  I still kick myself for that. 

Years later, when I told my late mother why I never sang in Howard's choir, she shook her head.  

I told her I'd thought about the fact that my big sister and I were in college at the same time.  Back then, my tuition was $882.50 a semester. That was a lot of money to me, and I just thought it would be selfish to ask for another penny for anything other than books or Art supplies. She said, "I can't believe you didn't tell me. You could have had that robe." 

I suppose fate smiled on me years after graduation and made up for the singing I didn't do when I was a student. I had the opportunity to be a pit singer and create artwork for several of the late Mike Malone's productions at Crampton Auditorium and Ira Aldridge theater, and I still enjoy being a member of Howard alum, and founding member of Howard's Gospel Choir, Richard Smallwood's group, Vision.

Backlash Band was fun, though. I found myself in nightclubs for the first time.  I'd never understood the club hype. I wasn't a fan of noise, loud-talking, cigarette smoke, or drunken people. My church upbringing naturally frowned on clubbing, (although all-weekend-long house parties seemed to be perfectly okay with the saints and their friends. Go figure.) 

One evening, the late comedian, Wildman Steve was the MC at a club called"Triples". I loved comedy, and had heard Pigmeat Markham, Moms Mabley and Sandy Baron recordings at home, but I wasn't in any way ready for the rather racy, albeit funny "Wildman". I thought I'd be polite and catch his act before the band was scheduled to go on, so I took what I thought was an inconspicuous seat in the back of the club. When I thought I was quietly excusing myself, (I probably put up the church finger, I don't know), he spotted me, and the improvisation commenced. Suddenly, the lady who dared to walk out (who wasn't really walking out) became a part of his act. He heckled me unmercifully, to the delight of the club patrons, and I, and my mortified self, hurried for the door to find the band. 

To everyone, it was harmless comedy. It was a little more than a very sensitive me could handle, though. (It's really not easy being so very green.) 

When the band took the stage, I was still a bit shaken up. I sang, but I also told the audience that, perhaps, certain situations were not for me. I remember being chastised by one of the band members. "Never, ever do that on stage! Just sing!"
I think that's when I decided I wasn't quite ready for show biz, and wondered if I ever would be. 

As I propped pillows for the umpteenth time, yesterday evening, I became more curious about the band of which I'd been a part. What had become of them? I wondered if any of the music was online. The internet is notoriously wonderful about resurrecting the past. As I searched, I remembered how I fell in love with singing in a recording studio (even though hearing my own voice is always a little creepy to me). I remembered how much fun it was to contribute to the background noise on a fun, funk song titled, "Hang With The Gang".

I recall being summoned to the third floor of the Fine Arts building and learning that Ronald, who played trombone in HU's Jazz Ensemble, could also play piano very well. (The only time I'd traveled to the third floor was to attend a wonderfully informative 8:00 AM, mandatory, freshman class titled, "Blacks In The Arts", facilitated by professors Lorraine Faxio, Sandra Bowie, and Frank Smith.)  

He handed me a piece of paper on which he'd written the lyrics, and told me to just sing what I felt. 

I learned and liked Ronald's song, and consented to record it. It was my first recording experience, I think. I'm not sure where my vinyl is, and until I stumbled on the Backlash Band's website, I hadn't heard the tracks in about 30 years. 

At first, I hesitated at the thought of listening, but I donned my headphones anyway after the download completed.
It was quite therapeutic listening to my 19 or 20 year-old self. It was a bit of a lesson, too. 

I heard that young woman sing:

"Raised by my elder's affection
Guided in the right direction
Unaware of what the future would bring to pass
Time moves on; the years roll by
Taking advantage of every step I try
Looking ahead, but never seeing an end in sight... "

What did that very naive young woman know? Could she even imagine what was ahead? But she sang just the same. I wondered, as I listened, if the fears and insecurities are still hanging around today, but in a different form. (She sure didn't seem to mind singing soprano, that's for sure.) A few things we still do share, though. We hate feeling yucky, we enjoy reminiscing, we agree that 1978 to 1982 were life-changing. and, after all these years, we still just like to sing and paint. Today, though, I think I'll give the singing a rest.
If you'd like to hear the band, here's a link.

Backlash

BIRTHDAY WEEKEND

Phenomenal pianist and composer, Monsieur Alexandre Bugnon...Drummer extraordinaire, Charles "Poogie" Bell...The versatile, Vincent Henry...Beast on bass, Carl Carter...wow...just WOW! I REALLY appreciate good, live music (LOVE piano!!!!)...and don't get me started on safe, drama-free, stress-free environments...Whew!

I can't play NOTHIN' but the radio; ASK me what key ANY of the songs are played in! I have NO idea! But I'm honored to be on the playground, just the same...wow...Thank You, God for every opportunity; for every open door.


It occurred to me that when it comes to the caliber of musicians I've been blessed to work with, I am completely spoiled ROTTEN!
  
Alex Bugnon's Annual Thanksgiving Weekend concerts conclude tonight at Georgetown's historic, live music venue/ restaurant, "Blues Alley"
It has been such an honor, and lots of fun to work with such gracious, delightful gentlemen whose musicianship is phenomenal. 
When you're a fan, you just expect to keep on purchasing music as it's produced, and concert tickets when favorite artists come to town. Clapping and singing from your seat is a treat in and of itself. You never think you'll end up on stage...with permission...by invitation...and holding a live mike...It's kind of how I STILL feel about being a member of "Vision".
Friends in the audience are always nice, too. You may not be able to see them, but the saints have a VERY distinctive way of letting you know they're in the building: "You bettah play that!..."Saaaaang, Va-nes-SUH!" lolol....That just cracks me up! I'm so grateful today. This has been one of the best birthday weekends ever. It's nice when the calendar lands my birthday on Thanksgiving Day. It only happens every once in a while...Fifty-three has begun quite nicely...: )

P.S. Every once in a while, when you don't recognize the number on the caller ID, answer the phone anyway. There may be a lovely opportunity (or, perhaps, a magnificent French accent) at the other end of the line.