Saturday at the theater-The Amen Corner

I have been in love with film, stage, screen and concert hall.  My family would sing along to sound tracks and act out Peter and The Wolf. We had to take acting in summer camp, so I got to perform as well. When I first joined Columbia House I ordered Broadway show tunes like Fiddler on the Roof and Hello Dolly.  I was also the first kid on my block to become a Beatles fan (natic).

I had the honor of seeing my Mother and my Sister in a boffo (google it please)  staged reading of Baba James Baldwin's The Amen Corner.

Presented in a pristine and Black- Centric venue on Chicago's South Side. close to the expressway and Lake Shore Drive.  Talk about a hidden gem...this cozy theater is the brainchild of Marvinetta Penn, educator, show-woman,  Global Girls has been doing good work in our community for 20 years, it was a blessing to find her.

I loved the simplicity of the sets and the mesh of stage and audience space. 

Here's my Mom in costume change number one, she had 3.  Most of her children were in the audience and she sure taught me a thing or 3 about being active and involved in your children' lives. Ever our champion, every our teacher, every our friend.  I asked her why she didn't teach for a living..."Teaching four human beings how to be contributing, caring, fair-minded adults is quite enough teaching for me thank you".  She also showed humor, spirit and dedication to her character.  I thought my heart was gonna jump out of my chest.

Our hostess and the director Marvinneta Pen.  This sister has been about Black Pride, Black Power and Black Art for awhile.

My baby sister's performance was superb as usual, I've been dealing with her drama for better than half a century, that performance reinforced my faith in her ability to carry a tune, a scene or a room with her powerhouse performance.  Soft when she had to be, strong as fit her character and shrill as her soul demanded.  Brava Diva, Brava!!

  The cast was obviously involved and excited.  They knew their lines and hit their marks and delivered true to life portrayals of church folks everywhere.

The costumes were dead on as well.  I enjoyed myself immensely. The dialogue flowed effortlessly and the characters were realistically acted..

It was heartwarming to see young people so eager and involved in their roles.  Some of their performances were almost too big for the room.
 

I am not going to go into plot details, please accept my somewhat biased judgment, if it's staged again please go see it.

Thanks for reading.

Find further information about The Global Girls, go to the website at:

http://www.globalgirlsinc.org/?page_id=2

What's the matter with Mammyism?

When the above photo popped up on my news feed, I was gob-smacked.I couldn't breath for a second, and then anger, shame, laughter and disgust rolled over me.

Followed by pity and perplexity.  What motivated Sis to climb down from her bench and embrace a convicted murderer? Theories abound and I have heard the term 'mammyism' bandied about. What ever her honor's motivation, I am sure she regrets that impulsive gesture now.

Since 1619 Black Folk have had to shuffle and shuck and jive in the midst of unbearable sorrow for the lands they were stolen from.  Under the tremendous weight of chattel slavery relief was rare, and our Ancestors did what they had to to survive.  For that I salute them.

Our enslaved ancestors had to find copping mechanisms.  Singing and dancing were all that was available under the yoke and the whip.

And with that brief history lesson I will get to my point.  This judge has ruined her career for what was an really bad mistake.

Judge has not revealed her motive in climbing down from her bench and embracing a murderer, and there is no argument she could present that I would accept.  Yet, I needed to find out more about this 'mammyism.'

After a little research, I happened upon the knowledge nugget below;

Mammy-ism: A Diagnosis of Psychological Misorientation

for Women of African Descent

Afi Samelia Abdullah

First Published May 1, 1998 Research Article

https://doi.org/10.1177/00957984980242009

Article information

Abstract

AfricanAmerican women can experience somefeelings of self-hatred to the extent that they evaluate and then devalue their physical characteristics (facial features, skin color, hair texture, personal behaviors) referencing beauty standards set by European Americans who imbue White supremacy. These same Black women may find themselves acting out certain behaviors in historically defined and ascribed roles dictated by individual and institutionalized racism, roles that help to maintain the dependency and oppression of Black women. One such role ascribed to a Black woman is that qfmammy. This article addresses the concept of mammy and the maintaining of the mammy cultural image. The diagnosis of Mammy-ism is discussed as an example of one way thatAfricanAmerican women historically assume the role and acquiesce to this socially determined inferior status, demonstrate attitudes of self-alienation, and display mental confision. As a result, African social reality and survival thrust are displaced with European social reality and survival thrust. African women who display the above characteristics suffer from the mental disorder of Mammy-ism. The Azibo nosology categorizes Mammy-ism as a subcategory of Psychological Misorientation (genetic Blackness minus psychological Blackness)."

Sarah Baartman was kidnapped, enslaved and displayed in public venues in England and Europe.  This role was thrust upon her, she did not choose her situation, but she has become a symbol of black womanhood in the eyes of white folks.  They chose to perpetuate this myth to degrade and embarrass an entire race. I will not be embarrassed by the sacrifices she made to survive.

But I will be inflamed and outraged by a modern-day judge slipping back 300 hundred years to comfort a convicted murder.

I think shaving 12 years off the jury-mandated 22 year sentence for shooting a man in his own home in cold blood is plenty comforting enough.

The inequality in American justice has been documented to death, but this demonstration beats every last one of them.  Does her 'honor' hug every murderer on every murder case she has presided over?

We all know the answer to that...hell naw.  What is it that was so compelling about the heinous bitch?  I will not type her name, will not speak it but I will drag her character and murderous intent every chance I get until one of us dies.

But what about '''''forgiveness""?  What about it?  In order to forgive someone, that person must exhibit regret and remorse and not one whiff of either has the perp displayed.  I have not heard or read of an apology issued by her or any representative of the murderer. But I did read somewhere that she wants to appeal her sentence.  How much remorse does that demonstrate?

I am not gong to speak about the light sentence, the conduct of Botham's brother or the hairdressing deputy.  What I do wish to address is the need some black folks have to overlook the racist climate we are living in.  Pretending that great strides have been made, while knowing any advances that the American Descendants of Slaves achieved were not done out of love, compassion or equality but the repeated pressure from US citizens to 'do the right thing'.

As simple as that, and as complex.   

Saying Goodbye to a Giant

On August 17, 2019 my Father died.  My world will never be the same.  The one man in all the universe that loved me and my siblings with his whole heart, his whole soul and his whole mind would not call me early on Saturday morning ever again.

All the days of my life, since the day I was born he loved and cherished me.  There was nothing my Dad wouldn't do for me.  His love is/was all-encompassing.  No matter what I did there he was.

Donald Mosby was born on August 31, 1930 and it was the luckiest day of my life.  The many lessons he taught me through word and deed will live on in me forever. He has never let me down.


Life was an adventure, and he led us merrily along.  His intelligence, tenicity, pride and loyalty were evident in everything he said and everything he did.  My Daddy wasn't a paragon, he is what paragons aspire to.

He introduced us to Black American culture, horses and social justice.  There are so many stories I could tell, but I won't.  Know that he was passionate, involved and interested in his children's lives.

There were times when we disagreed, but never with rancor.  His sense of fairplay would not alow him to degrade or belittle us.  He was our warrior sans armor, our port in the storm, the rock we could cling to.

I could fill pages with his accomplishments, but the bottom lines is, he loved us and showed it.

Donald was a many of many talents, journalist, radio personality, professor, photographer.  Yet where his star shined brightest was his role as father.

His support was strong and unwavering.  There was no obstacle he would not overcome for his children. I am more than fortunate that he was my Dad.

Once he came and got me released from high school so that I could ride to Milwaukee with him and meet Golda Meir...who does that?

Thanks in a large part to him, my life has been rich and full.  He'd drag us all over the tr-state area to give us something interesting and new to look at or learn.  We spent countless hours at the original DuSable Museum on 38th and Michigan because he and Margaret Burrows were homies.

His love was evident in everything he said and did.  The look on his face when he first held my son is etched in my memory.

His mind was ever evolving and by extension so was ours.   There was no battle too dangerous, no cause too dire that would prevent him from coming to our aid.

No, of course he was not perfect..perfection does not exist, but he was the best father I could have wished for.

My Daddy was a jack of all trades and a master of many of them.  I wished I had listened to him when he tried to get me interested in photography as a teenager, but that is another story for another time.

This time I wish to praise and celebrate the man that loved me, helped to mold me and has never forsaken me, no matter hard I tried to make him.

Daddy forgave me all my transgressions and welcomed me back with open arms.  He taught me the virtues of grace and acceptance.

When I was wrong he would tell me, then show me how to fix it.

No man was ever good enough for Donald's daughters.  His protective nature saved us a lot of heartache.  But when my 'right man' came along, Daddy became his loudest cheerleader.

Educator, activist, warrior...Donald was all of those and even more.  A staunch believer in right and wrong he made sure we knew the difference.

Donald instilled a sense of patriotism, pride in our blackness and a loud voice in protest of injustice.

My Father was a lover of art, poetry and all things beautiful.  His taste in music, food and wine were impeccable.  Once, after Dad had been unemployed for a while, when he landed his next job we had steak for dinner everyday for a year.

Warrior, father friend...life is gonna be hard without you.  I knew I could not have you forever, but I was not ready to give you up right now. Rest in peace and power and rest well in the knowledge that your legacy will live on forever.  Thank you.

House Hunting in the Hood

In 1780, a Haitian emigree named Jean Baptist Point DuSable settled on land which bordered on the Chicago River. in Illinois  He was the first non-Native American to inhabit what would be Chicago.

The Native inhabitants of the region referred to the land as "Shikaawa" which means striped skunk or stinky onion.  It's fitting since Chicago has a long and storied history of corruption, segregation and racism.  The first reference to the present name was made by explorer Robert De Lasalle when he referred to the area as "Checagou".

Chicago was incorporated as a town in 1833 with a population of 100, then a city in 1837.  It's location drew settlers from all over the globe who wanted a new life on the banks of Lake Michigan.

With the birth and growth of railroads, came scores of families eager to homestead the county of Illinois.

The first black settlers were escaped slaves, from South Carolina who settled around what is now 12th Street or Roosevelt Road.

As Chicago grew, the boundaries pushed further south.  In 1853, Paul Cornell established Hyde Park Township, which stretched as far south as 79th Street.

Railroad companies were thick on the ground since Chicago was becoming a major transport hub for the livestock, goods and produce grown and slaughtered

On May 5, 1853 there was a horrible train wreck at what is now 75th and South Chicago Avenue.  18 people died and 40 were injured.  The wreck was a direct result of an illegal set of railroad tracks built by a representative of the Illinois Central Rail Company across a competing railway's crossing.  Although the parties responsible were not prosecuted, this tragedy resulted in better safety rules for trains.

One more positive thing came out of this horror, the area was designated "Greater Grand Crossing".  It is bordered on 67th Street on the north, 79th Street on the south, Wentworth on the west and Stoney Island on the east.  This is where we concentrated our house hunt.

Grand Crossing was occupied primarily with Irish, German and English railroad workers, but progress pushed Chicago's black population further south.  Most of the European folks moved to the suburbs, allowing Grand Crossing to become a mecca for the upwardly mobile Black folks, police, fire and postal workers formed the majority of it's Black inhabitants.

When we got married, Hubby and I had every intention of renting until retirement, then moving to a 'deluxe apartment in the sky', but it was not to be.

I wanted to live Downtown near Michigan Avenue close to theaters, museums and attractions. Yet health concerns regarding my Mother In Law nixed that idea, we had to find a home large enough to accomodate 4 adults and our ginger cat, Chaka Zulu.

Thus began our 'House Hunt in the Hood'.  The 'Hood' being the southside of Chicago.  When Hubby and I started our relationship we found a 2 bed, 1 bath apartment on King Drive in Park Manor.  2nd floor walk up that was convenient to transportation and around the corner from my favorite nail salon.

No way were 4 adults and a cat going to live in that tiny space, and my Mother-In-Law's Chicago bungalow was just too darned small.  So I logged onto all the real estate websites, set up accounts and started culling through all those listings.

First things first, we had to figure out how much we could spend on our future abode, yep it was terrifying.  Being first-time homebuyers, we didn't have clue where to start, so I youtubed home buying and was deluged with tips, hints and nonsense.

So we took a step back and decided where we wanted to be.  The southside of Chicago is huge, I knew we wanted to be east of the Dan Ryan expressway, no further north than 67th Street and no further south than 87th and no further east than Cottage Grove.  Sounds simple, right.  Well it didn't turn out that way.

First-time home buyers have all types of resources, simply miles and miles of information.  And sorting through it was a bear.

I fancy myself a interior design maven, and I started out looking for a "Fixer upper".  Hubby wasn't having it at all.  He was adamant about a recently-rehabbed home that was still under warranty. He was so right and I was way wrong.

Yeah good luck with that, but we had very good luck indeed. Our present home was the 5th one we toured. Built in 1920, Casa Lee has 6 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms and a decent backyard.

There is a fireplace on the back porch/mudroom.  The kitchen is rather small, but two people can cook at the same time.

I simply adore our house, but I am glad we bought it before I started watching HGTV. This house will be one hundred years old in 2020, and she has creaks, stretchmarks, and is a bitch to dust, but she is steadfast, sturdy and rather attractive in her own way. And I think she might be haunted, but that is another story for another time.

Homeownership has a whole bunch of money snatching issues, but I would not change it, unless that de-luxe apartment gets in range.

Fortunately, I have plenty of room to welcome my family and friends.

An added bonus is the 200 year old tree in my backyard, that I named Charlotte after Mr. DUSable's Native wife, who changed her name to confirm to the norms of the day.

In my minds-eye I watch Mr. DuSable arrive by canoe to the heart of Chicago, the mouth of the Chicago River.

His courage and determination helped shape our fine metropolis.

When I was a child, I wanted to be mayor, now I know better.  I'm just gonna enjoy being a homeowner in the greatest city in the world...Chicago...

Confessions From The CorningWare Coven

Please see above the objects of my domestic obsession, CorningWare.  I'll jump over a six foot fence to grab a piece at a garage sale. I have been known to bum-rush the corningware section at Goodwill like a quarterback.

My addiction to CorningWare began rather innocently, I had to furnish the kitchen of our new home and I needed everything. But I was not going to spend a young fortune, oh no, I am a thrifter from way back.  My Grandmother taught me the wisdom of  shopping thrift stores at the tender age of 12.

Roaming through the racks and racks of gently used clothing at the Veteran of Foreign Wars (VFW) Thrift store at 43rd and the EL was my idea of paradise. I was the only 13 year old I knew with a full length mink coat that cost me $3.00.

A lot of my teenage contemporaries teased and made fun of my 2nd hand clothes, I cared not a jot.
I've always had a high sense of drama and wearing fine silk and satin that I had paid pennies for was and still is a blast.

Love to get that rush when I wear one of my Paloma Picasso leather handbags and someone compliments me on it.

When I started shopping for kitchenware, I hit Craig's List hard, and got lucky first time out.  Went to an estate sale in the 'burbs and got 15 pieces of cware for $20.00.  After doing a little online research, I was hooked.

CorningWare is the workhorse of cookware, you can freeze it, heat it and put it in the dishwasher, it is versatile and beautiful.  Another advantage is it is good for the environment cause it never wears out, take care of it and you can leave it to your grandchildren. Don't drop it on a tile kitchen floor cause it will shatter like a bomb.  It is truly a miracle of modern science.A miracle that was discovered by accident in 1953.  Dr. S. Donald Stookey, a scientist for the Corning Glass Works in New York state tried to heat glass to 900 degrees.  At 600 hundred degrees, the glass milkified, turning milky white with remarkable results.

In 1958 Corning launched CorningWare and made billions.  Dr. Stookey was no one-trick pony, not at all.  He also developed the technology that allows transition lens for glasses that adjust to your environment.  Dude was awesome.

When he graduated from college he got two job offers, one from Nabisco and one from a glass company in New York state he had never heard of.  He didn't want to be a baker, so he went to New York.  I am so glad he did.

CorningWare is so versatile, freeze it, bake it, microwave it, it will never let you down.  You can even put later models in the dishwasher.  Yeah I know that is verboten amongst the purist in the CorningWare coven, but  busy Mom does not have time to hand-wash a damned thing.

CorningWare is in high demand.  I have seen EBay listings for a rare promotion items in the thousands.  Some folks have a serious hard-on for unique items.

Not me, I like the ordinary, run of the mill Blue Cornflower.  Simple, elegant and a beast in the oven.  I had no idea that I could fall in love with cookware and it would love me back.  No muss-no fuss cleanup, multi-functional and pretty to look at.  What more could a girl wish for.

But here I am...I am ashamed to admit that I have 'bowed someone to get to a 10x10x2 roasting pan, but all's fair in the CorningWare Conflicts.

When I started collecting, about 3 years ago, CorningWare was dirt cheap, now thrift stores keep it under lock and key.

In order to keep my CorningWare addiction at acceptable levels I never spend more than $5.00 on a piece, but I have seen eBay auctions that gave me a nosebleed. While I have to admit, Cware is pretty neat.I am not taking out a second mortgage to pay for it.

Only died-in-the-wool super-thrifters understand the thrill of finding cware with lids(!)  on senior 50% off discount day.

While hunting down bargains, we super-thrifters give each other the nod of respect as we search for undiscovered treasures.  I get absolutely giddy when I remove the $1.99 sticker from my latest find.

Hubby is slowly coming over to the cware side, he can spot a range topper from two rows away.  He is truly a super-thrifter's dream come true.  He never complains that I have too much cware, he just helps me find somewhere to put it .

So in a way, cware is good for my marriage, our dates are not confined to 'date night', we 'day-date' at estate and garage sales.  I think he gets a kick out of my cware happy dance when I find a great piece in the wild.

There is something soul-satisfying about reducing our family's carbon footprint by switching from Rubbermaid plastic to cware.  Makes me feel rather smug. Here I am reducing the carbon emissions from my household and everything, go me.

Mid-Century Modern collectors are a special bunch of folks, all the things of our Grandparents  that we threw away, we're scrambling to buy back.

My Grandmother instilled in my the love of a bargain, and the one of the proudest moments of my life is when my son asked to go thrifting with me.  I knew I'd done something right as a mother.


















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Riding with Black History

The Broken Arrow Horseback Riding Club of Chicago held it's 30th Annual High Noon Ride this weekend and I got to shoot it from the back of a golf cart.

My parents were equestrians, and they would drag me kicking and screaming to the stable at 60th and Cottage Grove.  As a child I was adverse to anything dirty and smelly.  And the sheer strength and power of the equines was daunting to my six year old self.

The Hyde Park Riding Stable at 742 East 61st Street was home to Chicago's Black equestrians until it burned down in the 60's.

My Dad bought Mom a roan named Big Sid, but he was gone by the time I was born.  Mom wore jodphurs and rode 'English style.  Dad is cowboy all the way.

That's Mom with my brother's horse Memphis.  They  took to each other right away.  Me, not so much.

What little interest I had in horses faded as I grew old and jaded, but my brother's love for all thing equine has never wavered.  He was the first Black carriage horse driver way back when Chicago allowed horses to ferry tourist around the Gold Coast.

My experience on this year's ride was an eye-opener.  I sometimes forget just how much Black blood, sweat and tears nourished the fields and tended the cattle and livestock of this country.  While there were only 25 riders this year, dozens more brought out their animals and picniced in the park. As many as 200 riders have participated in High Noon Rides in the past.

The woman on Lady is 83 year's young and her steed is 30,that's her in the second photo, I wanna be just like her when I grow up.
They were a game pair on the trail from 52nd and King Drive to 47th and the lakefront and back.  She lagged a little at first, but by the time we got back she was loping along grinning ear to ear.

Vehicle traffic cooperated when a troops of 25 horses and riders crossed Hayes Drive, but were not even phased because of the fantastic photo op.  I was giddy myself, trundling along, hanging on for dear life.  I felt a bit like a movie director, hanging off the back of a cherry picker.  And I have the bruises to prove it.  Our cart his a sidewalk pothole and I hit my head on the cart roof.

The weather was cooperating, the brash tones of the "Bantu Fest" on the Midway was counter-point to the clop-clop of horses hooves.

Everywhere I looked people were smiling, even folks stuck in traffic while we crossed Stoney Island. The group stayed together, supported each other and Murdock was the 'hat catcher' cause the wind was whipping cowboy hats off left and right.

As I rode along our beautiful lakefront, I thought back to all the Black horse-folk who had ridden the bridle paths of Chicago before us.  People like Isaac Burns Murphy, a Black athlete once considered the "Prince of Jockeys".  He won 3 Kentucky Derbies, and raced at the Washington Park Race track.

I remembered the smell of fresh hay and road apples, the whinny of a horse happy to be riding with their manes in the wind.

There is a kinship among horse people that is rare and beautiful to behold.  All differences set aside, there was nothing but the blue sky, wonderful weather and laughter in the summer air. We ambled along the one of the world's greatest backdrop, Lake Michigan.

The riders were polite to vehicle and pedestrian traffic and stayed on grass as much as possible, but if you step in a road apple, I extend profound apologies on the horses' behalf.

This experience touched me deeply.  Between photos, I channeled the first group of escaped slaves from South Carolina who arrived at Fort Dearborn, Chicago in 1832.  I tried to see the mighty lake through their eyes, the fields of wild onions stretching out for miles.  I could almost hear their sighs of freedom, safety and deliverance.

I choose to think they would be proud of this group, on a beautiful Summer afternoon, enjoying a High Noon Ride.  I certainly was.

The Prom

I grew up during the Age of Aquarius. Proms were tools of the bougiuose.  Nobody had time to stop smoking weed and protesting the police in order to fall into that capitalist trap of gowns, and hairdos and flowers. We were too busy stopping the Vietnam War.

Don't misunderstand me, I did go to one prom, when I was 6.  I carried the Prom Queen's crown and was so proud and happy to do, see the photo below:

It was the 1961 Prom for the graduating class of St. Elizabeth High School, any all girls school on Chicago's South Side. My Mother and Father were married at the church, and that's where I had my first communion.

 I was in first grade at St. Elizabeth Grammar School and my Grandmother was a great favorite of the nuns.  She gave cashmere-lined gloves and silk scarves as Christmas presents and could always be counted on to buy/sell/volunteer for any and everything.

 My name was 'magically' drawn out of a hat and there I was gussied up like Shirley Temple, tasked with transporting the coveted Prom Queen's crown across the ballroom floor.  I can close my eyes and remember the beautiful young black women in their pastel gowns, sleeveless with dyed to match elbow length satin gloves and peau de soie evening pumps.

Their dark, dapper dates were barbered within an inch of their lives, tuxedos impeccably tailored.  I don't remember much except it was enchanting.  I recall one nice escort asked me to dance the Twist and it was the highlight of my young life.  Don't remember his name and wouldn't recognize him if he bit me, but it was magic.

Fast forward to the present.  Prom season is just wrapping up and boy are things different.  Being a photographer has given me first hand knowledge of the hoops these 'Prom Moms and Dads' jump through to make sure their children's prom dreams come true.

It is touching and terrible at the same time.  According to my research the average cost for a senior's prom is over $1,500.00.  Fitted dresses (we used to call them custom)for the girls and tailor-made jackets for the guys, red-bottom shoes, elaborate manicures and pedicures.  You get the drift.  

New style parents are setting up balloon arches, thrones, stages and throwing 4 course feasts for 50 of their closest family and friends.  I have seen opening night klieg lights punching the sky on the south side of Chicago.

Red carpets, shrimp canapes and lots of liquor for the benefit of the brave souls that stand outside in the heat waiting for the prom-goers to make their royal exit to an exotic car rented for the night at $500.00 and up. Smart Moms and Dads are renting stretch limos that hold up to 20 passengers and splitting the cost.

Some prom send-offs are so crowded streets are backed up and tempers flare while little children weave in and out of their Mamas legs high on sugar and pure excitement. This an event for the ages, and it shows.  It has been a pleasure capturing these seminal moments in young people's lives, but exhausting.

Proms used to be simple affairs in the over-decorated gym of their high school, but not now.  Prom cruises on Lake Michigan, ballrooms at 5 star hotels, penthouse suites for the after-party all make for a majestic evening.  I don't know how majestic it could be when feet are swelling in their Louis Vuitton's before they even get in the car.

Despite the excess and over the top drama, the look of pride in the prom-goers eyes makes me happy.  So full of hope, so full of promise, smiles that could light up Broadway.  An enchanted evening where they are the stars of the story.

Grandparents wipe tears from their eyes and shake their heads at the custom-designed sweets tables and six foot long sandwiches being picked over by friends and neighbors.  The wide-eyed looks of awe and envy from every little girl in the crowd. They are imagining themselves in similar splendor when it's their turn.

While I look at the big business of Prom preparation with a jaundiced eye, the little girl in me wants to be just like them when I grow up.