Four Women: The Marrying Kind

Someone once said that women should become the men they want to marry.

By now, if you're a black girl like becky, you’ve probably viewed the ABC “Nightline” segment on the sorry dating lives of black women.

Featured were four Atlanta women who had, in effect, become the men they wanted to marry—Benz-driving, high-powered, attractive, home-owning, advanced-degree-holding, upwardly-mobile 20- and early 30-somethings.

These were definitely not the embattled “Four Women” of Nina Simone’s 1966 lament, but rather reflections eternal of her late-career “A Single Woman.” Not only were they all single; some hadn’t seen the inside of a committed relationship in a decade.

These sorts of (self-imposed) dry spells are most problematic because intimate relationships move you forward emotionally, spiritually, physically in ways unmatched by even the strongest platonic bond.


According to the doomsday clip, while these Georgia peaches were off becoming prosecutors and publicists, more than a sprinkling of available black men had hauled off to jail, joined the ranks of the unemployed, or failed to secure a high school diploma. The statistics were dire.

But it wasn’t hard to decipher why these friends, like too many, might not have found better halves.

One woman, a 32-year-old, said she’d long kept a list of 50 requirements for potential suitors tucked into her Bible, which she recently pared down to 10.

Good for her I guess, but a sheet of 50 bullet points represents 50 barriers to entry.

How many dynamic black men had she overlooked in that span? Another, a 34-year-old who stands 5’9,” decided to come down from her sky-scraping height requirement of 6’5” to a supposedly more reasonable 6 feet.

Either she’s had special access to the Atlanta Hawks locker room or she’s asleep.

Water seeks its own level. Become your best self…the rice and rings will follow.

Raise High the Roof Beam, Salinger

A corner of my bedroom bookcase is devoted to J.D. Salinger's slim volumes, but winter had me thinking about the classic (and my all-time favorite) "Franny and Zooey."

In it, Lane is a Burberry-coat wearing, insufferable know-it-all who's actually very much in love with his girl, Franny.

He keeps a letter she's written in his inside coat pocket; on one occasion he runs out of places to kiss her and kisses her coat lapel. (Swoon at both of those.)

Anyway, Franny's in the middle of a full-blown spiritual breakdown, but it's the details that get me: They dine on frog's legs and Martinis, rock cashmere like sweats, and get in heated debates over Tolstoy.

The reclusive 91-year-old American author died Wednesday at his home in New Hampshire, to which he'd retired 50 years ago, shirking the literary fame he'd once craved. Rest peacefully.

Gimme Shelter

What's most frustrating about the situation in Haiti is the apparent lack of organization.

President Rene Preval and his cabinet are holed up in a police station not far from Port-au-Prince Airport last I heard, but I don't get a clear sense that they're spearheading anything.

Now comes word that some of the nearly 1 million Haitian residents left homeless and sleeping under the open sky might finally be the beneficiaries of temporary tents that will be set up in outlying areas. Accommodations are estimated to target about 400,000 survivors ahead of the forthcoming rainy season. The operative word here though must be "temporary."

An article in the Times outlines a proposal by the Haitian government and international officials for temporary housing to eventually turn into a second phase that would include a sort of Habitat for Humanity model for permanent housing.

All week I've been thinking the upside of such destruction is the potential to eventually create jobs in a country where unemployment typically hovers around 65%. Just trying to think forward.

Rescue Me

So many horrifying images, everyday I'm processing, you've probably noticed I've had a hard time putting the enormity of the event itself into words.

But in the devastation, at least there have been moments of light. I cried tears of joy when I saw video of this perfect little boy, Kiki, beaming as he was rescued by New York Task Force 1, a US search-and-rescue team, along with his 10-year-old sister in Port-au-Prince.

The siblings spent eight days buried under the rubble of their home.

(Photograph by Matthew McDermott)

The Natural High That the Fugees Bring

Shout to the brother Wyclef, who was holding down his brethren well before it was in vogue. I still remember the frantic running among all my friends to set the VCR the first time 'Clef showed up on a nationally televised awards show draped in the Haitian flag.

This, at a time, when the dirty little secret was that we were still having to forcibly out Haitiens attempting to pass for Jamaican or some such, giving rise to the term "Ja-fakin."

The subsequent success of The Fugees (18 million albums sold) did more symbolically for Haitian self-regard, particularly in the diaspora, than I think can be quantified.

With all of the concerts for Haiti relief that are in the works, I have to say my fantasy is a Fugees reunion.

If comedian Dave Chappelle could get them to set aside their differences for one afternoon in Bed-Stuy, I don't see why the trio couldn't transcend any bitterness for Port-au-Prince.

Shirt Off My Back

On a lighter note, I've been shaking the pom-poms for CNN's coverage, which is nonpareil in my opinion as far as broadcast outlets are concerned. (The journalist in me can't help but dissect how stories are being told.)

Critics have accused the marquee reporters of showboating for the cameras, but the cable network has kept the camera trained on the scene with solid reporting and seamless transitions to other news stories like the Massachusetts special election.

The style reporter in me also quite automatically has been examining the sartorial choices of those assigned to cover the earthquake aftermath. Seems I'm not the only one, as this piece reflects.

I know it's probably not foremost on his mind, but I can't help but think that Anderson Cooper puts at least passing thought into those T-shirts.

And Dr. Sanjay Gupta, so incredibly well-coiffed, also in the now requisite black or grey tee, always gives me the impression that he's fresh from a shower. Rather incongruous given Haiti's sweltering temperatures and the dust and debris.

We Forward in This Generation...Triumphantly

On Wednesday, Oprah dedicated the hour to Haiti and earthquake relief; I caught the insomniac edition at 1 a.m. [Smile.]

Wyclef joined her to illuminate the situation on the ground in Port-au-Prince and surrounding areas also affected by this (un)natural disaster.

He also defended accusations of shoddy accounting practices on the part of his five-year-old foundation Yele Haiti. And the beautiful Maxwell, (finally) repping his Haitian heritage, sang "Fistful of Tears."

By now, particularly if you're of Haitian descent like me, but even if you're not, you've likely been inundated with fundraising-related invites and messages.

Everything from fashion shows to weekly parties to restaurant dining at places like Fatty Crab and Babbo has been re-purposed for Haiti Relief. A telethon, "Hope For Haiti Now," airs tonight.

I couldn't be happier, but I imagine it can be overwhelming to know where to give.

Rihanna's rendition of Bob's "Redemption Song," which she performed on the Wednesday Oprah episode was stirring. I'd recommend downloading it on Itunes.

Another simple, small way to give.

Sunday After the Quake

With a population that is 80% Catholic, Haitians are a prayerful people. The cathedral is demolished but services were held outside.

Jewel of the Caribbean

As my friend A noted: Everyone who even looks at this post should donate or should have already donated text Yele to 501501 for a $5 donation or Haiti to 90999 for a $10 donation to the Red Cross. (Yele Haiti is the foundation, as many of you have learned, headed by entertainer/activist/philanthropist Wyclef Jean.)

A Million Ways to Get It...You Get It?

My family is a "house" divided over the admittedly disturbing, if stunning, "On to the Next One" video. The clip is either an art critic's dream or a satanic ritual in black-and-white.

The diamond encrusted skulls in Jay-Z and Swizz Beatz's collabo clip took me, of course, to Damien Hirst's decadent (macabre?) platinum cast of a human skull encrusted with flawless diamonds.

A writer for The L, adroitly made the added reference to drip painters like Pollock.

But where abstract art lovers see iconography, others see allusions to masonic blood/wine oaths, the evidence of which was first supported by a handful of YouTube video postings gone quickly viral.

It's clearly possible Jay either subscribes or has had serious exposure to teachings/literature/connections related to such, I just am scratching my head at why he would out his "secret society" leanings in a series of music videos to be seen and deconstructed by millions. Hiding in plain sight as a strategy? Build an empire and then set it aflame with populist backlash?

But if he's indeed made vids like "Run This Town" a public declaration, do we have a religious litmus test for rappers?

Regardless of Hov's (anti)theistic proclivities, the Follow the Follower mentality is what irked me initially. Certainly, one should question the ideas that offend. But reading these bastardized 4th-hand interpretations of what Pookie at the corner store said about Jay is just excruciating.

Suddenly, everyone is an expert in semiotics. The information age indeed.

(My as-yet-unconfirmed directing credit goes to artist Sam Brown.)

My Name Is Earl

Earl Nightingale that is.







The "dean of personal development". I largely tend to think the mainstream, latter-day self-help, tell-me-a-Secret, eat, pray, love your way out of it movement is a racket, lacking in purity. (With five fingers' worth of exceptions.) But ol' Earl, like Florence Scovel Shinn, precedes all of that. As with many life-enhancing lessons, I got put on by a friend.

A Little Bit Country (Apple)

For years, I had to stay away from Bath & Body Works. Not just because I was on some "Change Clothes" ish, graduating to fragrances and scents (Marc! Dior! Ralph!) befitting a young woman and not a co-ed, but because the smell of those spritzes had become so inextricably linked to my undergrad years. But recently, I stopped into a store for the first time and it was totally sweet.

Looking back, my friends' B&BW selections were like windows into their personalities. The romantics stuck to the floral notes in Juniper Breeze or Plumeria; the classic, Gwyneth types were all Country Apple, and the more adventurous among us tended to pick up tangy flavors like Pink Grapefruit. Which were you?