Babe Ruth Moments


Here goes my Babe Ruth moment for 2017. (Explanatory comma moment: when you, like Babe Ruth, point to the sky and alert the Universe that you're about to score a home run and then you, indeed, score the dang home run.)

So, yeah,  2017 this is what I have planned for you:

You're gonna work with me and the Universe and together we're gonna book 20 commercials. I've already got one down for 2017. We can do this.

You're also gonna find me some beautiful magical story and I will become the actor/story teller for said magical story. It shall be Moonlight, Atlanta, Insecure, Hidden Figures, Stranger Things, The Get Down, Queen Sugar, This is Us and Chewing Gum all rolled into one unicorn-like film/show and it shall be magnificent.

I shall have my *Whoopi moment. 2017, I have plans for you.

*A Whoopi in How Stella Got Her Groove Back when she stands and faces the ocean and says "God's here."  or one of the million moments from Color Purple or Ghost... You feel me?


Ain't I A Woman?


Why am I JUST now reading Angela Davis' work? I took a slew of women's studies classes in school. Why was this woman not once mentioned?

I'm gonna remain salty with KU on that one.

I'm in the middle of Women, Race & Class and I swear my head is about to explode with all of this amazingness.

Let me be clear: This is a classic academic textbook read. Ms. Davis came to school. So being that I'm just now getting back into reading...and have been tiptoeing back in with captivating nonfiction to keep the momentum going... you might question my choice, but only if you've never read one of her books. Or if you weren't aware that reading is the only way we're going to solve this hot mess we've found ourselves in called The United States of We're Screwed For a While.

This shit is giving me LYFE. (Blue peg. Starting college first.)

I know basic ish about Sojourner Truth (like she was a feminist...that's it.)

Davis devotes pages to Truth's triumphs at the first National Convention on Women's Rights. She single-handedly rescued the Akron women's meeting from the bullshit hostile men (read: the original trolls.)

The men used a tired argument that it was ridiculous for women to desire the vote since they couldn't "even walk over a puddle or get into a carriage without the help of a man." and that's when Sojourner Truth hurt 'em.

She reminded them no one had ever helped her over a puddle or helped her out of a carriage. Then she asked a question that caught fire: "And ain't I a woman?"

"I have ploughed, and planted, and gathered into barns and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man--when I could get it--and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children and seen them most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?"

The men were shook and desperately reached in their trusty tool belt of misogyny  and pulled some Bible bull out. She came with the best answers that frankly we should be memeing the hell out, y'all:

"Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with him."

Then they mentioned the whole Eve committed that horrible sin bull spit and she came back with, "If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to get it right side up again! And now they are asking to do it, the men better let them."

Ladies and gentlemen, I have found my "new" shero! I need a shirt damn it. Plaster Ain't I a Woman on it in bold letters.  (Yes, damn it. I know I'm late to the damn party, but you don't know what you don't know. I'm patting myself on the back for finding a list in the first place.)

December: Brain Farts Return


December 15th

I was supposed to finish writing my pilot on December 15th. I haven't touched the thing in weeks (maybe months...)

I've been exhausted, but for good things. I've been working a lot. I've been auditioning a lot. I managed to shout to the universe I wanted to book three commercials before the end of the year and this week I booked my third one.

There's something very surreal about actually getting what you wish for. I've never pulled off a Babe Ruth before. I've never pointed my bat to left field and actually hit a homer out of the park. I'm a tiny bit scared...a tiny bit superstitious and paranoid, but also extremely thankful and proud AF.

The amount of energy these auditions take...the driving and juggling of schedules and nights I miss seeing my kid. The fruits of my labor are magically delicious.

So I'm still on page 11 of my pilot. I have moments where my thoughts drift to the women I've created and I frantically grab for my phone to record the thoughts I know will fade just as fast as they came if I don't speak them aloud. Soon I'll have a quiet night and I'll compile all the random notes, the recordings and the emails I've sent to myself and finish it.

New deadline in the works.

The Broad

I FINALLY did it. I told Mark to take a day off. I reserved tickets and off we went to be cool art folk.

Revenge Fit For a Frenemy

A friend of mine came over the other night to watch corny holiday films, but we never got to the actual film watching. It's been so long since I've sat down with a friend and just gabbed about things that don't involve a kid. I'm pretty sure I rambled on--a manic spiral of "what the hell?!" but she humored my enthusiasm (read: thirst for adult conversation)  Somehow we got on this one social media public figure and the woman who made her.

Let me explain: Friend no. 1 had an impressive platform. She saw this young cat (we'll call her friend no. 2) receive a smidgeon of celebrity and saw that she was sinking in stupidity so she took her under her wing...started giving her talking points and help her polish up her thoughts. Friend no. 2 blows the hell up and people start gassing no. 2 and forgetting about no. 1.

No. 1 grew super salty and started dragging no. 2  (for the record she still drags her and calls her out and tells her personal business)

When my friend was telling me about this public scandal my heart went out to friend no. 1. I get it. You've created your own distinct voice. You've created something out of nothing and made a name for yourself. You've decided to help and build up those around you only to see those people use your powers to become super duper fabulous and leave you in the dust. It sucks. The worst part...all that ill will she harbors for friend no. 2 is only going to hurt herself. When you hold contempt for someone and you see that person doing well each success ... each moment of good fortune destroys the soul little by little. It's poison.

I've been friend no. 1 before and it wasn't simpatico.

"The best revenge is massive success." --Frank Sinatra

Podcasts to Love

Making Oprah

Woke With Kids

Code Switch

Octavia E. Butler: She Knew and I Shall Now Have to Call Her Moon Child


This is basically how I rolled while reading Octavia E. Butler's, Parable of the Sower...

Me: Babe! She predicted everything. EVERYTHING!

(goes back to reading)


For the record, that man has never been screamed at so much. Okay, he's never been screamed at that much... while I'm reading a book. 

Can y'all please read Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents? And if you have read it can we please talk about it? I need to talk about this with someone. 

I'm just sitting in all these thoughts on damn global warming, new slavery, water catastrophes, walled communities, illiteracy issues, druggies who burn things and eat people (can we say bath salts?) and I am freaking the hell out. This woman knew too damn much. She wrote this in 1993, y'all. 

Before Mr. Evil Cheetos Chinchilla Head started acting a fool... before the Dakota Access Pipeline and Flint's water crisis...before we started looking at prison labor as slavery 2.0 and folks being elected to positions of power who could do some scary ass shit to our educational system as we know it (google Betsy DeVos and cross yourself.) 

Octavia knew things... She knew. 

This taken from her second book of the series, Parable of the Talents

"Jarret insists on being a throwback to some earlier, 'simpler' time. Now does not suit him. Religious tolerance does not suit him. The current state of the country does not suit him. He wants to take us all back to some magical time when everyone believed in the same God, worshipped him in the same way, and understood that their safety in the universe depended on completing the same religious rituals and stomping anyone who was different...

...Jarret's people have been known to beat or drive out Unitarians, for goodness' sake. Jarret condemns the burnings, but does so in such mild language that his people are free to hear what they want to hear. As for the beating, the tarring and feathering, and the destruction of 'heathen houses of devil-worship,' he has a simple answer: "Join us! Our doors are open to every nationality, every race! Leave your sinful past behind, and become one of us. Help us to make America great again...His opponent  Vice President Edward Jay Smith calls him a demagogue, a rabble-rouser, and a hypocrite."

Y'all... Donald Trump read these books. I know he did. I got chills y'all. Frickin' damn chills. 

So who's read the book? Come on Cletus. Right. This. Minute. Speak up!

I kind of feel like Sebastian from Never Ending Story. I'm just reaching the point where I'm chillin' under a blanket and I'm figuring out the author has been talking to me the entire time.  I see you Octavia. I see you... 

So yeah, if you've been looking for a great book...or you're finally waking up and just now realizing our world is stupid, jacked up (welcome, new woke folk) and you're thirsty for some new perspectives...this is the book for you!

It features a black feminist heroine (who you most certainly will relate to and want to be like.) She sprinkles legit history amongst a crazy dystopian society. So you get sci fi and historical nuggets. It's the perfect introduction if you're down with finally getting that minor in the POC Experience. 

Consider this book club hour. I'll be waiting. 

Peaceful Exchanges


If we're talking feelings: I have felt small, insignificant and unheard. I feel lost and powerless. Like many of my friends and family I've been thirsty AF for information; magic words and magic instructions for how to fix the current chaos. The journey has been maddening. We attempt to start moving in a direction (any direction!) and before the glue has even had time to dry we're berating any and all ideas...they're never good enough...we're ripping the pages out...hitting the delete buttons and we're back in the same.damn.spots. and THAT can mess with your spirit just as intensely as the initial trauma that afflicted you in the first place.

I've been in that space and it hasn't been good so I've been looking for ways I could join the conversation. For someone who has never been super active in the community that was easier said than done. Finding a conversation outside of facebook took some time, but a conversation I did find (shout out to Kim Smith of Kinesis--a gym, workout center, spirit junkie mecca.)

So on a rainy Sunday afternoon I drove my butt down to Culver City and attended an event Capoeira Batuque put on to honor Zumbi (a Brazilian king who represents black liberation and black consciousness.) The discussion consisted of panelists who gathered for a meaningful discussion on current events, providing tools for peaceful actions and solutions. I just couldn't resist the promise of magic i.e. solutions to all the madness.

I wanted to share some of my notes because I think this conversation was meant to leave that studio's walls. Warning: it's lengthy, but collectively it added so much to the conversation and blew my damn mind so I have to share it all. Trust me it's worth it. Get comfy and dive in.

The Panelists:

  • One man read scripture from the Yoruba Bible about the power of community, gathering, and cooperation. He shared passages which explained the divine energy that resides in our heads as well as the significance of putting ones head to the ground to remove the negative energy that clouds our divine energy (something that many faiths practice.) 

  • A professor from Occidental College who teaches history spoke about her responsibilty as a white woman teaching history. Specifically, her responsibility involving centering people of color appropriately. At one point she mentioned that an important objective of slave masters was to destroy the spirit while preserving the body so she read documented examples of slaves (women specifically) who affirmed their humanity while living in a system bent on destroying it. The women who nursed and fed the babies...The women who dressed the wounds of the beaten...The women who stood in the way of the whip to protect young black boys from being beaten. 

  • An officer attended the meeting as well. He shared local programs the police departments have implemented that teach officers tools for tolerance. He mentioned the coffee with a cop program and stressed the importance of needing the community to know that the cop shootings we all keep hearing about are "mistakes...isolated incidents." 

  • A man who runs programs that advocate and assist foster care youth, children who have been in juvenile detention centers and prisons also attended and shared a heart breaking story of a gifted boy who went to jail. When he was released he was sent to his grandmother's to live, but because of zoning laws that prevented a felon from living there he was kicked out and sent to his aunt's home who happened to be a drug addict. Her apartment was raided. He was there and therefore arrested. He was out of jail for only two weeks before they threw him back in. He encourages us all to locate our local juvenile detention centers and work with them to help these young people.

  • A former mayor and congress woman spoke about needing to see those in the community represented by those who live in the community (read: it's all white men. She is the 5th woman in the history of the city to ever serve as a local official.) She mentioned the quote, "If you're not at the table then, you're on the menu." 

  • Another gentlemen had just returned from filming at Standing Rock for a project Robert Redford is leading.  This Mexican American man quoted Malcolm X, stressing how important our history is. He took it back to Christopher Columbus and the Pope's Doctrine of Discovery that encouraged Christians to go out and take the land of Non-Christians. He spoke about the treaty of 1851 and a Lakota prophecy that warned of a black snake that many believe is the Dakota Pipeline. He mentioned the women who are being shot in the face with pellet guns for protecting their water and how we can starve and destroy the snake by pulling our damn money out of the banks that are feeding it. 

  • The final woman, a white anti-racist activist, made sure to stress that conversations like this demand that her voice be the smallest voice on Black Conscious Day. She spoke to the white audience specifically suggesting they and you (if you're white) use your resources to help. It is not enough to be non-racist. You must be anti-racist. Find other anti-racist white people. Meet! Discuss! Do the work together and learn how to help without triggering people of color because it is not our responsibilty to help you figure it out. 
Once the panelists were all able to speak the moderator opened the floor up for questions. A mental health worker spoke about how society is just now researching trauma. They've learned that the body remembers trauma...we carry it in our DNA. The great grandchildren of Holocaust survivors experience the trauma of a period of time they weren't physically apart of... yet they harbor trauma. 

Another woman shared her story involving the father of her child and how he was locked up for marijuana and came out of prison a completely different and broken man who suffers from PTSD.

They asked us to think about how we can be an activist (and not a slacktivist). I pledge to keep reading and keep sharing what I learn. I also plan to be a conscious parent. It's my start.

My overall thoughts: They achieved magic. They identified roots of the problem and had honest conversations. I learned a lot and that knowledge is power. There's a catch though. This is probably the most pessimistic stance I've ever taken on education, but I believe the more you learn about racism and this broken government and system of ours, the more you realize it's an infinite hole of discovery. You will never stop pulling the scarf out of the magician's hat. You just have to keep pulling...keep learning while honoring and appreciating the progress.

I also learned that if you want to do something you have to study history. (A friend sent me a list of great books if you need suggestions.)

I learned if you have privilege or power you have to speak up for marginalized people. The system can't and won't change without folks on the inside actively dismantling these broken systems.

The white anti-racist woman's words keep popping back up: You're not being a true ally if you're defensive. The gentlemen who just returned from Standing Rock urged people to be proactive and not reactive.

I saw the problems that occur when people forget those nuggets of wisdom. One example: the officer. I appreciated seeing him there and was curious to hear what he would add. He shared some personal stories but overall he was defensive. I left early, but every time someone asked him a question about police brutality all I heard were defensive arguments. I heard scared and hurt people who just wanted him to say "Yes, those cops who are shooting men and women are a problem. We want to fix these horrendous issues just as much as you all want to." Instead he just kept emphasizing that they were mistakes and distancing himself and us from the conversation. (Note: people don't want to hear that people's deaths are reduced to mistakes on the job.  And asking us to do the work of reaching out to police and building trusting relationships fell on deaf least my ears.)

Listen. Learn. Lose your pride. Don't be defensive. This is what I'm sitting with tonight.

Losing A Parent Too Soon


In September I submitted an essay application to apply for a writing grant. I just found out it was rejected. It stung a bit, but I'm not ready to let go of the experience or the words quite yet. I worked really hard on this essay and my friend Bree seriously was THE most generous and amazing friend; editing and challenging me to push further...

So I'm not going to let go. I'm going to share it with you all because I'm proud of this piece...And while I'm tired, tired, tired of hearing no no no I don't see myself stopping anytime soon. This one's for all those who are tired of 'No' but keep pushin' on anyways.

What Remains For My Child

A wise woman who read coffee beans and drank sweet tea, brewed from sunshine told me God had given me the ability to remember because He knew I’d come to count on those precious memories one day.

People never believe me when I say I can remember being two. I remember sitting in my car seat on top of a table while my mother and father argued in front of me. My head followed them as they paced the room. It’s a simple memory, a fragment of a moment, but when I told my mom about the car seat and the table one random day when I was a young teenager she paused and put her hand to her mouth.

When my parents broke up I spent weekends with my father. I remember him taking me to see Pinocchio, burying my face in my dad’s arm during the whale part. He teased me after while driving back to my mom’s. Sade’s “Sweetest Taboo” played on the radio. Her butter-smooth thickness lulling me into a peaceful daze like it always did. He’d stop singing only to encourage me to join in. The sun danced all around the back of his head as he crooned; his hands swayed back and forth.

Then there was the night he performed at the top of the stairs, moonwalking to “Billie Jean” for my stepsister and me, sparkly glove included. I remember laughing as he effortlessly lifted one foot and then the other, moving into the spin and finally landing on his toes. The man could dance.
I remember him teaching me how to brush my teeth. Standing by his side as he instructed me to move the brush from one side to the other in circles. He stressed the importance of touching every tooth with your brush. I loved standing on a chair beside him, both of us facing the mirror. I loved doing it The Dad Way.

...Or the one time I got blisters from my new church shoes. He carried me into the bathroom, took off my shoes and made me put my feet in the bathtub as he poured rubbing alcohol on them. The cool liquid hit my foot, seeped into my blisters and began to burn intensely. I screamed in pain as he fumbled with band-aids and apologies. It was the first time I realized maybe, possibly my dad didn’t know everything. Yet, I still thought he was magic. How else could he make me laugh even though I was in extreme pain?

Those were the type of memories I held onto as a small child. They were sweet and easy. They all followed a visual pattern. They centered on my father, always radiating warm light. I never recall others being around us, even though I’m sure there were people. My brain chose to remember him how I felt him. The memories are hazy and simple, possibly because I hadn’t known they’d bear such importance later. When they popped back up, they brought smiles and a happiness I took advantage of. They were fresh and untainted and useful. It’s amazing what you purposely choose to see and retain when you know what you’re experiencing is rare and precious.

When I was four I moved to Texas with my mother. That was the last year I physically saw my father. My mother treated our move like a new chapter. She never mentioned my father or the life I had with him. The only way I could preserve my family was to rely on the images I had unintentionally, but thankfully, kept.

Once when I was nine I went searching through my home for a book only to find my mother, eyes swollen and tear-stained, in her bedroom being consoled by her mother. She sat up in bed and told me, through choking breaths, that my father had died. This memory
always comes back to me painted in violent reds. Her words pushed their way out, tears and spit flying, clearly heartbroken and crazed. I stood calm and stoic, unable to process or emote. I wasn’t hugged or consoled. Neither my grandmother nor my mother moved from the bed. Instead, I walked to my bedroom alone, closed the door and sunk to the floor.

Then the memory shifts. I remember being cold and still. I searched my room, willed the carpet and wood to teach me what to do; teach me how to grieve and exist. The room was silent and unyielding, empty and alone. Only then did I begin to cry. It was the first time I felt and understood loneliness.
It was also the first time I truly understood the concept of a father. For the first time, I felt his distance. I felt the emptiness of the last five years without him and an overwhelming sense of guilt that I’d never gotten to see him again. I’d never hear him sing again. I’d never have a daddy to love me the way I felt he had.

With my back against the door, I held my head in my hands as sorrow, grief and anger filled the cracks splitting through my chest.

On that day, up against my door, the wise woman’s words came back to me. That night I gathered up Sade, the silver glove, and tooth brushing lessons, and let each one play over and over again. I allowed the warmth of those memories to blanket me in the comfort of my past. I allowed them to block out my mother’s words as I sang Sade songs over and over again... “So if you want it to get stronger you’d better not let go. You’ve got to hold on longer if you want your love to grow. Got to stick together, hand in glove. Hold on tight. Don’t fight. Hang on to your love.”

She would swirl the ice in her tea like she was consulting crystal balls. “When the sugar sits it’ s time to stir things up, baby girl.”

After my father passed, I thought about death constantly. I gravitated toward stories and conversations circling the topic. I watched Beaches and Steel Magnolias on repeat, paying special attention to how those affected by death reacted. I became obsessed with my dad’s last day, what he thought about in his final moments. I developed an insatiable need to know about him, but no one in my family was willing to help. Everyone stopped talking about my father. It was almost as if he never existed.

Their silence made my memories more important. I took them and constructed a man I could relate to, one I could love and keep alive in my heart. I lived with a father made of memories. Though if I saw a father and daughter sharing a moment, a friend hugging her father goodbye, bits of my creation would chip away. Deep down I knew I didn’t have enough.

I’m not sure if it was practicality or pessimism that drove me to keep a journal, but even when I was thick in my own delusions I’d write. I wrote about everything: every insecurity, every passion, every dream, every heartbreak-- all for posterity’s sake. I wrote the reasons why someone would label me as moody (because I never felt like I belonged with my all-white family). I explained why I was insecure about my looks (because my family nicknamed me ‘Ugly’). I wrote about the meaning of friendship. Why I wanted to be an actor when I grew up, and how I felt when I got to perform. I was brutally honest; exposing insecurities, jealousy, anger and weaknesses. I understood the kids who sprayed their names on the walls of the world in hopes of being remembered. I wrote with a
specific audience in mind, an audience that would crave the why and scoff at anything less than the truth. I knew my children would read my words one day and they would never have to fill in the gaps of me with the memories of others, or the lack thereof. At nine years old I began to write with the journalistic integrity of a woman whose truths would be sought after and pursued with vigilance. I ignored the dangers associated with writing it all down. On more than one occasion I was grounded for the details of my writings. Still, I never censored (though I did learn early on never to refer to my mother as a bitch). Even with security breeches, I kept writing. I wrote for children who would want what I wanted from my father: a complete person made whole by a breadth of personal information.

“The truth is like tea. It needs time and sugar.”

For years I was allowed to believe my father was a saint. He was handsome and loving, intelligent and fun, but then I turned eighteen and my family decided I was old enough to hear the truth. The act itself sent me spinning. The realization that I was holding on to thin strands of him crushed the universe I had created for myself to function. My father hadn’t wanted me. He wasn’t always the most respectful person. They told me why he took his own life, a fact I had painstakingly wondered about for years. I’m not sure there’s ever a right time to divulge that type of information, but allowing me to pay tribute to false memories for years felt corrupt. I had created this great father figure in my head. He would have done all of the great things I saw other dads do. He would have avoided doing all of the terrible things I saw fathers do. It’s incredibly difficult to pretend you’re okay with loving a fraction of a figment of your imagination. The truth
blurred my resolve, which blurred my dreams. I had found so much strength in my version of my father, all lost.

I didn’t know what to do with a father who had initially not wanted me... who said I wasn’t his when he saw how light-skinned I was when I was born.

I still spin. Once you know the unknown is infinite, disappointment comes anytime it wants. Now having a child of my own, I try to tackle the unknown for her. Life is fleeting and unpredictable. I know I could pass before old age steals me away and if that happens, God forbid, my writing will pick up where I’ve left off. If I do get to see her reach adulthood, she’ll still have my work when she goes out into the world and makes a life for herself. I can think of no better gift than a mother’s road map. I think my life will make more sense if she’s given the editor’s notes, firsthand. It will be easier if she forms opinions of me herself instead of having to rely on the filters others give her. I hope she reads and learns why I am the way that I am. I hope she sees how her mother thought and felt about the world and most importantly how I feel about her. It’s no secret that motherhood swallowed me whole and spit me out as a deranged, sleep-deprived shell. I hope she’s able to read my words and see the person I was before I became pregnant, how I experienced motherhood and what it was like after the shock wore off (I’m waiting to write that any day now). I write about marriage and the handful of loves in my life before her father. People spend so much time hiding their true feelings and emotions, so when we experience something powerful we question if we’re reacting appropriately. It leads to questioning the carpet and the wood for the answers that humans are too scared to share.

When you lose a parent at a young age you experience two extreme losses. You’re robbed of the parent and of the opportunity to know the person who’s half responsible for your existence. I journal to right those wrongs. I write so my daughter will never lack in her quest to understand and know her mother. Some may call it morbid, but it’s the most optimistic perspective I’ve ever taken regarding the relationship I’ve held over the years with that of memory. My father’s passing may have left me only a handful of memories, but he gifted me with a lesson: I’ll never know my father, but the notebooks I’ve filled over the years will ensure my daughter is never left wondering if the sunshine dancing off my back is enough to carry her through the years without me. 

My Tired is Tired


Woo weeee! I've gone THROUGH IT this week, y'all. I'm tired of going through it now. I'm tired of anger. I'm tired of indifference and dismissiveness but also of the walls and the inability for all of us to listen. I've BEEN tired of the hate, racism and ignorance. My tired is tired.

The conversations are still evolving and (at least among my friends and family) it seems like we're moving into the how arena. People are finally getting that we haven't listened to and heard a large group of our neighbors, friends and family.  New conversations are beginning. It's still a big pile of poo. We still have more work to do (dear God help us all) but it's something.

I'm desperate for news that gives me hope or at the very least doesn't piss me off. Enter Van Jones stage right! Both sides get to speak and by golly what they accomplish is a start. It's a start.

Pantsuit Codes


Okay... we're processing...

Here's where I currently am: Many of my friends and family have been having the same thoughts. My conversations are repeating because we're all in this thing called grief together. (Cue Prince... "Dearly Beloved")  We've shared our stages of grief and cried the same tears all damn day.

We've all experienced rage and fear and sadness...we're going through the phases of grief with crack-like speed. We've reached the part where we finally decide to get out of bed. We're showering and leaving the house and suddenly a brand new realization hits: A SHIT load of people who walk among us believe and support a man who has said racist, bigoted, misogynistic, xenophobic, alarming, no-good, terrible things. These people are condoning and supporting a way of life that puts us marginalized folks in harm's way.

So we're out running errands and we get weird looks. Many friends who are marginalized (i.e. people of color, women, LGBTQ+, non-Christian, etc.) are suddenly scared. Folks have already reported hate crimes and it hasn't even been 24 hours yet. My white female friends and family are terrified, too. They're terrified to know these people voted against their rights, concerns and values, but they're also terrified we (the marginalized) will look at them with fear...questioning if they voted for hate.

We're stepping out on egg shells. We're looking for clues that will help us figure out if we're safe or not.

We need a code. We need some sort of secret language, a nod, SUMTHIN' so that we can exist in our bodies comfortably and know others who surround us support us.

Safe spaces.

I've cried entirely too much today and drank entirely too much wine (before 5pm, too. Judge me.) so the brain is fried. I can't come up with the secret handshake today and we can't all wear pantsuits for the rest of our lives so I need some help.

I do not write "the rest of our lives" carelessly, either. I don't know about y'all, but four years from now when we vote again I'm not going to suddenly have a change of heart and say "Okay, I'm down to be friends with casual racists and bigots because the screaming orange blister is gone."

We're witnesses a fundamental shift.

I need to know who I'm dealing with and then we'll hit the stage of grief where we're all ready to fight, defend, respect and support equal rights for all.

This is giving me some goodness tonight so I thought I'd share.

Luv & Kiwi, y'all...

Love and Light


I love every positive, uplifting, moving moment of this. I wish us all love and light on election day.

I hope the worried are wrong. I hope hate and fear sleep in tomorrow. I hope the time change discombobulates the senses and all we have left is love, understanding and peace.

Tatted Signs


The plan always was to get a tattoo once I booked my first film.

...But then I went and got gangsta and decided I needed to live my know that whole "fake it 'til you make it"?  So I stopped waiting and tatted my wrist with "dream" while on my honeymoon. Sweet sentiments in the moment, but every time I have an audition I have to cover that mess up.

I swear I'm going crazy because I think my tattoo is actually getting darker (instead of fading like normal ones) No matter what coverup I try I can't seem to get the darn thing hidden. I sat and cursed the faint 'd' poking thru while waiting for an audition today and that's when it hit me.

My dream is hurling signs at me. It's getting super hard. I need to book so bad so I'm accepting EVERY DANG audition that my team throws my way. I'm rearranging schedules and running myself into the ground, collapsing at night in a heap. Friends with children are telling me they're giving up because it's too much with a small child and I flirt with that dream...being able to stop running around like a mad woman and do normal stuff like work only one job and take care of my kid.

The tattoo is reminding me that there's no fading happening any time soon.

I'm on two avails. I have three callbacks. My head is spinning, but I'm desperately holding on to the faith that sooner or later the good stuff is going to start flowing in.

Thank GOD for supportive partners like Mark... and waterproof mascara.

This is after coverup...

In Real Time For the First Time


I'm a dreamer.

The type of dreamer who prefers her dreams to real life because I'm damn good at dreaming...reality has never lived up to my beautiful expectations. It's a blessing and a curse. Yes, I'm easily and always entertained by my imagination, but I also, more often than not, find myself disappointed when things happen IRL.

Exhibit no. 1

I dream of driving a car for two years. When I finally get a license and a car it is nothing like I imagined. I wasn't cool like Brad from Teen Witch. Or Cher with her white jeep. I drove a Cougar to and fro my job and I was good and terrified for a damn year. I never had my moment of cool behind the wheel.

Exhibit no. 2

Motherhood...I always imagined motherhood would be super easy for me. I bossed babysitting. I was Kristy, Claudia, Jessi ALL OF THEM and then some. I knew kids. I was open minded and full of ideas about what would go down and how cool my daughter and I would be. I'm shaking my head while typing this mess. Yes, I was naive as hell. Mothers probably wanted to strangle my dumb behind when I talked about it pre-baby, but that's all in the past. Basically motherhood hasn't been a cake walk. I eat crow and humble pie on the daily.

The idea of motherhood has really thrown me for a loop, y'all. I just never had a moment (even now...with a 1 1/2 yr old) where I started feeling like a bonafide mom. I don't feel like a mom. I honestly expected this new mother energy to physically plop down into me (much like ghosts did to Whoopi in the movie Ghost) I just never got possessed by the holy mama. Isn't there supposed to be some magical moment where motherhood will seep from my pores and I'll rock mom jeans and identify as Mother Earth incarnate like a G? (G for Gaia...can I get a high five for that awesome word play?!)

I didn't have that. I mean, I definitely do mom things. I mother the shit out of my daughter, but if you ask me to describe the inner me I'll tell you I'm a 14 yr old kid who still appreciates a good poop joke.

I digress.

I haven't felt consistently mother-like at all. I sometimes get twinges...

I did have a moment, though. Yesterday Beyonce's Blue came on. It's the song that played when Z was born. I had the whole room tearing up when that song started to play. I swear the melody started and the labor and birth came rushing back.

I had an epidural which wasn't what I dreamed so you can imagine how it went down. I sat there, not feeling any of the things I had envisioned and/or seen in the movies...but then, even with my spine tapped with the good good, I started to feel her pushing her feet into my ribs and trying to kick her way out and the disappointment faded. In that moment I connected with her in the sweetest way...and let my unborn child do all the damn work.  I hardly had to push. I just helped her stubborn little independent self come out.

The song reminded me of that moment...and that's when I realized I had to let go of that ideal mother image I had created. The way in which my child entered the world was the perfect metaphor to teach me to let go.

I'm trying to get comfortable being the kind of mom who just rolls with the punches and learns as she goes. There are sooo many women out there whose butts will twitch reading that. There's a whole crew/sect of mothers out there who live to judge other moms. (If you don't believe me join a mommy facebook group. I dare you to get on one and say you co-sleep with your baby. Get on another and say you breastfeed and drink coffee and eat gluten. Get on another and say you cuss with abandon in front of your child. They will eat you alive.)

Letting go is the only way I'm gonna survive. Hopefully when she gets mad and spazzes out whenever I offer to help I'll remember that she pushed her way into this world (with me helping just enough to feel like a punk) and golly damn it she'll be just fine. I don't have to worry that there's no Motherhood For Dummies  for women like me. No pictures for reference...of what I'm supposed to look like as a mother or how I'm supposed to act. Winging it and totally allowing myself to learn as I go. No room for disappointment when you're experiencing the surprises in real time for the first time.



Poetry is a matter of life, not just a matter of language. People wish to be poets more than they wish to write poetry, and that's a mistake. One should wish to celebrate more than one wishes to be celebrated. ~ Lucille Clifton

...As for my writing: I've been averaging a paragraph a week and it's killing me. 

I have this story I know needs to be told, but I get so caught up in the fear. 

...The fear of being a screenwriting novice. I freak out trying to figure out how to share it once it's completed. I've shared what I have so far with women in the industry whom I respect. I  haven't heard anything back...which terrifies me. Does it suck that much?!

I have a story to tell. I have no plans to be the next Lin-Manuel Miranda, but I do have a story that I know a lot of women will relate to. I don't wish to be the next poet of the people, but I do have some thangs on my mind. 

That being said I still write despite all the logistics I haven't figured out. 

I get these random little emails each morning from "The Universe". Today's email pokes holes in the theory that the early bird gets the worm. The Universe would like the world to know that the late bird and the bird in-between gets the worm, too. "Because, by design, there are always more than enough worms. In fact, the only bird that doesn't get a worm is the bird that doesn't go out to get one." 

I'm gonna role with that today and hope the fear that has paralyzed by ability to break through the writer's block takes a hike. Just gotta have faith there's a worm or two out there for me...Ms. Late Ass McGee. 

type, type, type

Food for Thought


...Because I hate saturating my page with a bunch of links.

Eyes and Ears

Damn it. Now what do we use? Paypal owns Venmo...which supports the Orange Goblin

This gave me hope and terrified me simultaneously The White Flight of Derek Black

My favorite podcast..that I will continue to pub and pub and pub Woke with Kids

One Drop of Love


I have so much admiration for Fanshen. (Which is good since I named my kid after her.) 

This is a great play to see. Go see it!



Have you heard about the film Loving yet?

I had just one word when the film ended: simplicity.

My brain refused to quiet. I kept thinking how unbelievably, beautifully simplistic Loving was and how thankful I was that someone was finally sharing this oh-so extraordinary story with the world.

I find it so sad that so many aren't aware of the Loving Family and what their love did for us all. As one gentleman pointed out, "History is forgotten too soon".

In case you've missed the trailers, Loving is the true story of Richard and Mildred Loving: the interracial couple who's landmark case, Loving vs Virginia, invalidated laws prohibiting interracial marriage. Basically it's the case that kept parents like mine from ending up in jail.

Y'all I can't praise this film enough. Emotionally, it broke me down but it was done so gently that I wasn't aware that I had tears streaming down until the lights came up. I struggle to find the words for how delicate this story was. The pacing...the tone. It's as if they took sweet Mildred's soul and somehow made a blanket and covered the whole script with her essence...her demeanor and spirit. The first line of the film and the very last scene... I love the thoughtful intentions we were all allowed and expected to feel throughout the film.

What Loving did right:

  • There was no white savior. (Thank God.) Instead we see Mildred and Richard save themselves.

  • It was honest. There was no Hollywood glaze sopped all over the story. Jeff Nichols, the writer, did an amazing job of letting these people be who they were. Their love, their reservations with publicity, their fears, their strengths... he allowed it all to be included and he did so with integrity and respect. Their humanity was allowed to breath and itt was done so with such subtlety and care.  They were able to capture so much... 

  • It was fair and balanced. We're able to see the grey areas brilliantly. Themes dealing with isolation and otherness aren't ignored. You're privy to their families' reservations but also their support. Race and privilege aren't skimmed over. We see how their community responded, the mistreatments they bared, the fears they lived with and most importantly what that kind of injustice looked like and what it felt like without all of the horrendous spirit breaking techniques some other films have used in the past. (My favorite example: The N word was only used once. ONCE! Yet you're still able to grasp the unjust hell they live in. Imagine that.) Bravo, storytellers. Bravo! 

I had the opportunity to see this film because of an amazing sister friend of mine, Fanshen Cox DiGiovanni along with an organization she's a co-director at called Mixed Roots Stories.  I love organizations that create opportunities for our communities to come together to discuss, share and grow. The Q&A after the film was thought provoking. One man shared how his parents had done the very same thing the Lovings were forced to do in order to legalize their marriage. He wept because it offered him an opportunity to see his parents' story. Another gentleman shared the relevant parallels this story has with gay rights and the conversations we're still having regarding marriage equality. One South Asian mother told us her family had stopped talking to her for ten years when she married a black man.

I felt like I had come home. It was the conversation I needed to be a part of. You know I'm about to get super duper involved with Mixed Roots Stories now, right?

You must see this film. With #OscarsSoWhite and the obvious dangers of a single story it's imperative that we support films like this. If this movie does anything it will prove that sharing our simple stories leads to complex and wonderful change.

The Q&A ended with a powerful question: In a world bent on convincing us we're post-racial...a world that swears up and down that mixing will end the hate (that's a doozy of a statement we'll have to discuss in a different post) what role does love play in social change? I encourage you to see the film and then come back here and share your answer. I can't wait to discuss!

All the luv,


I came home and immediately wanted to find footage of the Lovings. I just love them soooo much.

The Cadbury Lion


So I recently shared this with twitter:

We're not gonna discuss how my twitter page hears crickets way more than it hears the sounds little blue birds make when they love something. Y'all...I'm smelling something. It's a mix of mediocrity and disappointment and it's coming from my life.

When I was in the 2nd grade I remember watching the kids play and having this definitive moment. I watched a girl smoke a whole crew of boys in a race and I saw her greatness. I started seeing lots of kids' greatness and I developed a theory that everyone was really great at something; you just had to find out what your super talent was.

I started out strong. Teachers all through my educational journey praised and encouraged me. They enabled my little big fish/small pond ass. I was going to be great. I was going to be a leader. (Shout out to Mr. Older, Teresa Fernandez and Ms. Winters. You were the wind beneath my big fish wings.) Hell, my family had some woman read coffee beans and that woman said I was going to be this larger than life phenom who would command great audiences. No pressure, no pressure.

I've wanted to be an actor since I was four so I figured that's where my greatness would spring forth. I'd come to LA, struggle a tiny bit (just enough to make my mama cry during my Oscar speech) and then I'd take my seat upon the throne of excellence. Oprah was going to have me on her show and we'd have an Oprah moment that would involve her giving me the Oprah high five...

Exhibit 1

 Exhibit 2

She'd invite me to her Legends slumber parties and we'd be tight. When I wasn't filming something magically moving and uplifting I'd sit under her big tree and help her garden. It's what friends are for.

I've been in LA for eleven years now and I'm auditioning for dog breath commercials. I spent actual energy wondering if my disgust with Pipin the dog's breath was believable. Where did I go wrong?

I've been attempting to get back into writing just so I can feel like I'm doing something good...ish in my life. I applied for a writing grant and yesterday I submitted for a fellowship. After I hit the send button I started reading the bios of this year's fellowship writers and I immediately wanted to pull whatever magic plug I could to take back my dang submission. Those people are gonna laugh so hard at my mediocre butt.

I'm realizing it hella late but I never really became great at anything. I'm okay-ish at life. I'm an okay okay actor. Do okay people ever accomplish their dreams?! Shit. Don't answer that!

You know how that zombie in I Am Legend is hella pissed because Will Smith has just knocked his boo the hell out and he can't do a damn thing about it because he's allergic to light so he just stands there roaring like the lion from the Cadbury Easter Bunny commercial?

I am that zombie. I swear I'm allergic to that divine light all the hippies are talking about. You know the light I'm talking about, damn it. It's the light that Beyonce, Oprah, Ava, Shanda, Quinta, Gloria Steinem and Joanne the Scammer stand in. I'm allergic to it and I have no idea what to do. I see people standing in the light; doing the damn thing and I stand off to the side in the shadows wondering how in the hell they were able to do it.

I have no idea what I'm doing. Obviously, since I made it all official and tweeted it. Moment of that positive, hippie stuff, though: I plan to at least try to find my greatness. When I'm not slabbing butt paste on my daughter or gulping wine because a one year old has hurt my feelings I shall find my light.

I'm apparently a mediocre optimist too.

Texture , Candor and Heart: Queen Sugar’s Winning Recipe


Annie Q. Syed’s definition of story is one I keep close to my heart. In her book Collection of Auguries she shines a light on society’s misconceived notions of intimacy:

“Showing is not sharing. A telling that stirs something within yourself and another is sharing. Just like slicing a thin layer of the cornea cannot be done without a slight flinching for the onlooker and the one on whom the eye surgery is performed, so is the case with truly sharing—both feel the pinch of a truth no matter how far removed.”

Cue the slow clap for Queen Sugar. I wasn’t prepared to be moved quite like I was. A pilot episode is supposed to be great. It’s supposed to be so compelling, so ripe with interesting character and plot that you’re hooked. Rarely have I ever watched a show that’s been able to slurp me in and swallow me whole.  I can no longer count how many times I’ve turned off the television and said, “Welp, it’ll get better in a couple of episodes.”

This pilot made no such mistakes. You shall find no hiccups. Just perfection. This is the kind of storytelling my soul has been longing for. The kind of story that demands a blanket, maybe something sweet to drink and your full, undivided attention. 

I swear it’s as if Ava somehow found the magic formula. The planets aligned. She got THE best writers, producers, actors…she got the best team PERIOD and created this crazy, beautiful show.

I already want to be Nova. I can’t wait to see how Charley and her beautiful MBA is able to help with her family’s farm woes. I’m rooting for Ralph Angel. I adore Blue. I love Hollywood and Aunt Violet’s love.  How were they able to develop these characters so quickly and so well?!  I’ve been waiting for these people! I’ve been waiting for THIS type of storytelling.

I can just taste the goodness to come. I can tell these writers were ready to give us something real...something textured. And they infused love into every last detail. There are no one-dimensional stories; everyone's deliciously complex.  Flaws are hinted at and I plan to slurp up that realness, too.  I’m addicted to the pinches.

Queen Sugar has me feeling some kind of wonderful something, y’all. (My Meshell Ndegeocello albums have come back out to play.)

Are you watching? If you don't have OWN, fear not! Mama Oprah showered mercy on us all. You can watch the show on her OWN TV app.

"There is a God."

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