How is it that they have the right formula to get that man to the altar? What gives? Can you also explain to me why having a chick that’s not his same race on his arm causes a black man to feel like he’s made it? You know what just came to me? It’s not only the man that feels like he’s made it, but it’s every other black man that sees him and thinks that that’s a part of success.

Next thing ya know, people are talking about how you smell due to all the ugly, smelly frogs you’ve been making out with and kissing. My sisters, let me hip you to a thing or two: they stayed frogs. You’d do better to fi nd someone down on his luck. Give him (and yourself after the frog adventure) a bath, a haircut, and enroll him in adult school. Then keep him on ice till the wedding day because one of your skanky friends will not care where you got him from or what you had to do to get him straightened out. They’ll see fresh meat and want him for themselves.

My family was very poor; we lived in East LA. My father had health issues, so he could only work a part-time job. When he did put in eight-hour days, he might not be able to work for the next two days. The one or two times my father saw a doctor, they would only allude to its being a problem with his respiratory system. My dad, Daniel, didn’t have an insurance plan. Therefore, there wasn’t any treatment that he could receive on a regular basis. Every now and then, he would have to go to White Memorial’s emergency room for an oxygen treatment. The doctor’s suggestions were always the same: take it easy and learn to live with a respiratory disease. My mother, Elizabeth, and her mother, Grace, cleaned houses for a living. I guess it was clear that there wasn’t much money, so we were always five dollars short and fifteen minutes too late for everything. Ma was very beautiful; she had a light in her eyes that brightened up a room like sunshine. She never stopped hoping for a better life for me and a healing for my father. My mother told me that when Dad was younger, he spent a lot of time working in the coal mines of Kentucky with his grandpa. But Dad had problems with the dust and had to give it up. She also said my dad loved playing sports, and in high school, he tried to play everything. But he never had the stamina to compete, and by his late teens, everyday household chores took away all his energy. My grandma, Grace, and my great-grandma, Betty Jo, set the beat and tone for the music that our family would dance to. They used to say, as long as you can hear the music, the dance is not over. In other words, life is going to be hard, but if you keep walking toward your hope in the future, in time you will arrive. Betty Jo was a quiet woman and had a special light in her eyes too. It reflected hope and peace. Betty Jo was one of the housekeepers at Mr. Ross’s plantation, and because they were understaffed, she could pick up extra money by working in the fields after a regular day’s work. One evening, Betty Jo was caught in the fields after the sunset and a couple workers raped her.

Because it was dark and it wasn’t just one man, she couldn’t name her attacker, the father of her child. Nine months later, more attention came her way as everyone—from the town to Mr. Ross—wondered who would the baby look like and how would Betty Jo survive this hardship.
Outside of her own family, there wasn’t much help for a single mother; and while
help was needed, it would come in its own time and way.
Betty Jo would hang as close as she could to the plantation owner, Mr. Ross,
AKA the Boss. Betty Jo liked his speech pattern, and when she was alone in the
field, she practiced the phrases that he’d used that day. Prior to the attack, Betty Jo let it slip out to Mr. Ross that she wanted to move north and go to school and find a respectable job. Mr. Ross looked at her and said, "Good for you. Do you have money saved for your travels and school?" Betty Jo said, "Some, but not enough." Mr. Ross said, "Don’t put the wagon ahead of the horse. Be wise, not foolish. Don’t run off half cocked. Make a plan, follow it, and in time, you’ll be on your way."

Betty Jo wanted to improve her manners and etiquette. She had an appreciation for words and wanted to improve her reading and writing. When she put away the books that were left out, she’d flip through them before returning them to the shelf.  She’d collect and remove the old newspapers lying around the house; she told anyone who asked that she needed it to help start the fire in her fire pit at home. Mr. Ross had a soft spot in his heart for Betty Jo because she appeared to be kind and helpful beyond what was required of her as an employee. It hadn’t gotten past him that she was trying to learn, and he caught her reading his books on a few occasions. Mr. Ross hoped Betty Jo’s secret dream would come true too. Needless to say, when he heard of her attack in the fields, he let it be known that if he ever found out who the attackers were, there would be hell to pay. He stated that Betty Jo was one of his best workers and what happened to her was a major setback in the household. But the truth was, it was an unjust act on a young woman that he quietly respected.

..Monique I

Monique was a hairstylist in a salon on Highland and Olympic Boulevard. On a slow Tuesday, in strolled Ms. Cassandra Shaw. She asked, did they take walk-ins? Monique was seventy-five dollars short on her rent, so Cassandra was an answer to her prayers. This woman had a stuck-up attitude coming and going, and she gave you the impression that her bloodline was blue and that "Princess" should be on the front of her name. But she gave Monique a ten-dollar tip, cause her hair was smokin’ when she slid out of the chair. Monique hoped to God she’d never see Cassandra again. Thank goodness he doesn’t answer all our prayers the way we want him to. A month or so later, Cassandra called and asked Monique if she could take her and a friend; they had a late-night date and needed an evening appointment. Once again, Monique had taken a few bad checks, and if the Princess and her "friend" could set things straight and put her back into the black, it was all good. And yes, she added a twenty-dollar fee for after-hours service. They showed up at eight o’clock, thirty minutes late; so all the guilt she felt for the extra dollars fell to the floor like cut hair. Now here’s where it gets good and a new life for Monique begins. The girl Cassandra brought in was Bianca Shaw. This chick was the hottest thing on the Top 40 pop chart and the current "Queen" of R & B. Bianca looked angelic; her skin tone was cocoa brown and flawless. Her smile was from ear to ear; this girl even had a clef in her chin, how sexy was that! Bianca’s shiny jet black hair hung past her shoulders, and it was all real. She was truly nice and gracious, unlike Cassandra, who was actually her cousin.

After she hooked the two ladies’ hair up, Bea, short for Bianca, asked Monique if she’d like to hang for the night. Monique declined. She said she had an early client; truth be told, she wished she had a few walk-ins in the morning. Besides that, she had nothing hanging in her closet on their level. They left and Monique locked up, and that was that, or so she thought.

Three weeks later, Monique got a call from Bea. She had a small role in an independent film with no budget, and she would have to take care of her own hair and makeup. She told Monique her skills were limited. Bea explained it was four days of work, and she’d be so grateful if Monique could help a sister out.

Monique accepted, and on Sunday night, she was sitting in first class on her way to Columbus, Georgia. The flight alone was worth the trip for her. The major cast members and crew members had come out early in the week. Bea was on the edge, this being her first film and all. She wanted to do a good job. Monique asked her why she accepted this role. She said she’d been offered a few roles in big-budget films, but if this was not the venue for her, she wanted to fail quietly. Bea was playing a poor Southern girl trying to get accepted into any Ivy League college.

Bea’s wardrobe was limited to jeans and T-shirts and a dried-out summer dress, and her hair was all natural. Basically Monique was just oiling and platting her hair. Yes, you’re correct; she could have done this herself. On Tuesday night, they flew up to Atlanta for a little nightlife and soul food. On the flight, she wanted to ask Bea, only because she was nosy, where Cassandra was. She didn’t ask, but she found out anyway over a plate of baked chicken, greens, yams, and corn bread. Bea told her all about how she was discovered, singing in church, by an up-and-coming record producer. He signed her, and her first album was a success.

Bea’s mother made her hire her cousin Cassandra as her personal assistant. Her mother said, "Baby, we’re going to keep as much money in the family as we can." Bea couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother that Cassandra was self-centered and no real help to her. Cassandra took advantage of her position, which included dropping her name around to get out of paying for food and admission into clubs, as well as taking liberties with Bea’s funds without consulting her. On the flight back, Bea said, "Monique, my spirit spoke to me the moment we met. We’re gonna be good friends and a blessing to each other." So Bea didn’t need Monique in Georgia; she just wanted to get to know her. Bea was hoping that Monique might bring a new vibe and peace to her inner circle.

That next week, they hung out and hung out hard. Bea had a release party for her new album, shot two video cameos, and was a guest on a late-night talk show. Sunday morning Monique woke up in the Waldorf=Astoria Hotel in New York, compliments of a major label looking to steal Bea from her current label. Bea asked Monique if she wanted to work for her full time. Now we ask you, after 1,600 hours of beauty school, booth rent, bad checks, and working in someone else’s salon for walkin clients, is this anything you need to think about? Boy, was this going to be a hard decision . . . not.

Bea started her out at six hundred dollars a week. The cool part was everything was paid for. That’s a fact, Jack—housing, food, and transportation were all free. Well, they don’t say free, they say covered. Monique had problems on her new job from jump street, day one. It took a few weeks for her to get the hang of the job, so Bea hired someone to train her.

Cassandra cried foul until Bea’s accountant faxed her a copy of all her unauthorized purchases, which included a 1990 325i BMW. Every complaint Cassandra had ended with that fax. Bea’s got a soft heart. She sent her a check for five grand and wished her the best, along with the pink slip for the car.

The following year, Bea’s independent film became the sleeper hit of the year. So along with keeping her company and on time to her appointments, Monique started reading most of the scripts that the studios and independent film companies sent her.

There were many things Bea wanted to do. She wanted to have control of the kind of music she made and expand her career in new areas, learn the behind-the-scenes aspect of the music business and make another film. She also wanted to record a gospel album, but her label said that was out of the question. They had barely let her record her holiday album. Bea’s contract would soon be up for renewal, and she had no plans to re-sign. Her last album went double platinum, and her current one, "I’m a Woman, Not an Angel," had a number one hit: "Have you seen my lost love? /And if you do, send him home to me." That song nested at the number one spot for six weeks on the pop chart. Bea had several collaborations on that album, "You Make My Spirit Fly" with Orlando Blackwell . . . mmm . . . he’s one hunk of a balladeer. That song was in the number eight spot and moving up. There was also a collaboration with Coco McKay Brown, "Yeah, I put your bags on your momma’s porch." That song was about to break into the top twenty-five. Bea also had two low-budget independent films that year that took in $80 million at the box office.

Things couldn’t have been any better for Monique, or so she thought. Bea decided to produce her next independent film, and she let Monique help. Truth be told, Monique did almost all of the work, and Bea’s money paid for it. Monique never knew that she held one of God’s greatest gifts, creativity. While she was reading a book on a fl ight from Los Angeles to New York, she told Bea it would make a great short fi lm. Bea lowered her glasses, tilted her head to the side, and, raising one eyebrow, asked, "How much?" As if Monique was asking her to buy her a hamburger. For the first time, in that moment, Monique questioned herself. She knew this would be a great project, but at the same time, she never wanted Bea to see her and think of Cassandra. Then Bea asked, "How big would my role be?" Monique told her there wasn’t a role in it for her. Bea laughed till she cried, sat up, kissed her on the forehead, and turned off her overhead light.

HI JULLIA,
GIRL I FINISHED THE BOOK AND GIRL YOUR CHICKS ARE ALL THAT AND MORE!  I CAN ALSO SAY FROM MY HEART THAT IT IS NOW ONE OF MY FAVORITE BOOKS. YOU KEPT IT SO SPIRITUAL I THINK THAT'S WHY I LOVE IT SO MUCH. WOW, I
JUST CAN'T BELIEVE I KNOW THE AUTHOR! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SIGNING MY BOOK. I WILL CHERISH IT FOREVER. 

BE BLESSED JANICE Y

Thursday, January 03, 2008

Celeste's date was Ernest, the bookworm from the science club. We didn't care; we were just grateful that our girl wasn't going to miss out on the biggest night of our lives. Her mother took her to a salon, not a beauty shop, and they gave her the works. They plucked her unibrow and pressed that forest that was on top of her head.

Celeste II
Narrated by Monique

Kathy, one of the girls in her dorm, asked Celeste to meet her at the Black Bean Coffee Shop around 10:00 p.m. for some adult entertainment. She told her to bring her journal because she might want to give a reading. Celeste was excited and flying high as a kite. What would she read? What did she want to share? Celeste didn’t have a journal, just drafts. They were everywhere and on everything. Celeste would write a poem on anything—the back of a bill envelope, a restaurant’s to-go menu, even the cardboard inserts in a package of panty hose.

Celeste arrived at the Black Bean Coffee Shop at 9:30 p.m. For some unknown reason, she felt that if she got there early, she could get a feel for the crowd and maybe, just maybe, she could stand in front of the mic and give a reading. At 9:45 p.m., the lights went down in the back room of the coffee shop; and for a second, she thought she was in a nightclub. Green and gold strobe lights lit up the back wall, and Big Jack stepped up to the mic and said, "We are going to have the privilege of hearing a few tunes on the piano from Alexander McNeal." Celeste was very grateful for a distraction from her own personal fears, but she was not prepared for this. This brother was breathtaking. She watched him stroll over to the piano like he was going to meet a lover. Before he sat down on the bench, he ran his hand across the top of the piano and then held them to his chest as if he’d just touched a miracle. He had on these black slacks with a black turtleneck, a single silver chain around his neck, and a fedora hat tilted to the side. He lifted the lid on the piano, revealing the keys, hunched his shoulders over like a man reaching into his new baby boy’s crib and smiling in the delight of his gift. Alexander was something to behold; the music that came from his hands was soft and warm. For the first time, Celeste understood why her father said, "Good music has a life and soul all of its own." Boy, was Daddy right! Two other musicians joined him on stage after his first two songs—a flute player and a guitarist. After their set, the trio headed to a table in the back.

Kathy showed up, and Celeste wasn’t sure she wanted to tell her what she’d missed. Kathy, unlike Celeste, was fast and forward, and she had no problem walking up to a guy and introducing herself. Kathy told her, "What won’t come to me, I have no hesitations going after it." "It" being whatever guy that’s catching her eye. Big Jack came back to the mic and asked if everyone that was going to give a reading had signed up. Kathy was the third poet to go on, and of course, she was sharing her personal thoughts about what all a fine, skilled man could do for her, making sure that every male in the room felt free to apply for the job.
Then it happened: they called Celeste up, and with slow, small steps, she made her way to the mic. Celeste dropped her head, and when the light hit her face, she spoke.

I was walking along the beach, and all at once, I was drawn toward the rocks. I took a seat, and I watched the waves roll in and out, and I let my mind fl oat like a small boat at sea.Then all at once, all these memories came flooding back on me. Sitting there quietly, still on the rocks, I realized I opened Pandora’s Box I could feel the tension that showed on my face, Most bad memories, time cannot erase. It’s a funny feeling when your emotions are out of control You can’t stop the tears when they start to roll. Then you start to realize some things can’t be changed. What do you do? Bad memories, sad memories; face them you must. Review every one of them, and be clear on every question and judgment. Be clear what is real, what is not. We’ve lost time and lost love in the past, But what we have to look forward to is the most important of all; New times and new love and a new future. It is a sane thing; to search for the unanswered questions, Oh yes, the answer will come, and with time the box will once again be closed. But you lock it, and when you find the need to open it again, Open with the correct key, the key of proper perspective.

The room was silent, and Celeste was not sure what to do at that point, so she hung up the mic and slowly took a few steps toward her seat. Before she could take five steps, the room blew up in applause. She waved and lowered her head; as feet hit the landing, she made eye contact with that man, Alexander McNeal.
A man walked up to Alex from behind, and for some unknown reason, Celeste bolted for the door. Before she could make it out, Big Jack called her back up to the mic. Kathy, unbeknownst to Celeste, had put her name down for a reading when she signed herself up. Celeste went up again, and this time she decided to make it short and sweet.

I remember, was it yesterday we, you and me, together as one, we had lot’s of fun. You, me, and them, no longer us; not together. Different us, but a part of each other we were Something has changed, not much but enough to see we are no longer you and me.

This time when Celeste walked off stage, she headed straight for the door. Outside she could feel a chill in the air due to the light perspiration that was on her forehead and the back of her neck. A few more folks came out, and she decided it was time to get back to her place; she had a Saturday class in the morning.
Celeste woke up and had the feeling that the night before had been a dream. She couldn’t believe that she had read two of her poems before a packed room, and on top of that, they liked her material. Celeste’s mind drifted to Mr. McNeal. No wonder Kathy was always heading to the coffee shop on Friday nights. It sure ain’t for the coffee; must be for the cookies. No, not the kind that are hot and sticky, but the kind that hold you close and kiss your lips and leave your mouth tasting like pure brown sugar or cotton candy. Speaking of cookies, Celeste thought about Alexander. What planet was he from because she was sure she’d never met a man like him before and . . . Would she ever see him again?