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Rob Fields Rounds Up Aome of the Best Writing on MJ
06/28/09 12:07 , Categories: Everything Link: http://www.boldaslove.us/2009/06/so-much-michael.html#comment-6a00d83451cfbb69e2011570873be3970c
Please check out Bold As Love if you're interested in what good writers are saying about MJ.
On Michael
06/26/09 11:01 , Categories: Everything I'm just so sad. And, I have to say, the grief I feel surprises me. After all, I would have never let Michael Jackson babysit my son. I wasn't particularly interested in his comeback. He was getting a little hard to look at. And yet...
And yet I am filled to brimming with nostalgia and love and loss. We who grew up with Michael, we Black boys and Black girls who came of age to your sound, we miss you so much, Brother Michael.
Each song stirs my soul.
With Memory: doing the rock with a boy (a boy!) at my friend's basement party. She had a red light on, we wore designer jeans pressed and straight-legged, and "Rock With You" was the ultimate slow jam.
With Pride: "Can you Feel It?" Yes, I did. That video was techno-amazing to me. (It was a looong time ago.) And the brothers made me smile - again.
With Nostalgia: Remember the J5 cartoon? I do. Loved it for the hot minute it came on TV back in the days.
With Joy: I gathered with Angie and Danyella at DuShawn's house to watch the Thriller video on MTV. We wiggled with excitement and anticipation, and then, finally, it aired. Wow. Wow....
With Yearning: What happened to you, Brother Michael? Wasn't our Love enough to sustain you?
Who else felt the complete and utter soul force of a people always always always loving him? Through the bizarre (chimps, Elephant Man remains, Macaulay Culkin); the silly (remember when his jheri curl caught fire?); the insulting (the first nose jobs and skin whitening procedures); and the tragic (the complete erasure of his former, beautiful, Black self).
Even when he pissed us off, we understood him. Who among us doesn't understand internalized self-hatred? Whether we were light or dark, trying to survive in a white neighborhood or trying to survive in the 'hood - we all knew what he was going through. And then, with those boys, even when he did the unthinkable, we still understood him. Who didn't get that his childhood was taken from him, so he tried to take it back, from the young boys he swore up and down he didn't molest? Even when we couldn't forgive him his sins, we understood the sinner. And where else but the Black community do you find the deepest well of redemption?
"Come," we said to Michael, "dip your hands in these sanctified waters, wade in these waters, cleanse yourself and be reborn, as a whole, complete, healthy Black man, the man God made you to be, the man we know, somewhere under all that whiteness where you still are, immerse and emerge in these waters. Here. In our place of Love and Sustenance and Healing. Let us help you cope...
But he was so far gone in those last years.
And now, now that he's gone gone, I'm not focused on the controversy. I just wanna dance with my Aunt Diane to "The Love You Save." I wanna roll my eyes, just one more time, when Little Jimmy tells Grandmom to pop in his favorite cassette with his toddler-sized voice: "Michael Jackson, Grandmom," was all he said from his car-seat in the back of her Mercury Cougar. "Michael Jackson!" She'd push in the the tape, and out came the magic. "Billy Jean" and "Beat It." I just wanna do the J5 as I soul train line at my friend's wedding reception. I wanna swoon over he boy and his brothers, one more time, as they light up the near-mythical Apollo stage with light and dance.
He provided a soundtrack to my life. Mostly, we loved to Michael's music. From 70s 45's spinning at backyard bar b q's to 80s boom boxes blasting from the corners of our childhood, we grew up listening to, loving, the best. The King of Pop. Our Michael. You were supposed to go decades from today, when we will all be old, gray, barely able to rock, to moonwalk, to J5, but still alive, smiling, thinking of when we could. You were supposed to go when we were closer to going ourselves.
Today is too soon, Michael. Please, promise us one last thing as you transition, that you will, always, "be there, be there, in the morning..." We wanna see you again on the other side.
Rest in complete peace, Brother Michael. Our love force is with you. We thank you for everything you gave us. And because we love you so, your voice still echoes, will always reverberate in Our Soul.
13 comments
ernie - thanks for your comment!
I too am surprised at my level of grief. The Jackson 5, and later Michael Jackson, were part of the songbook of my youth and young adulthood. Only now as an adult do I fully appreciate his special talent -- a gifted, soulful child singer who moved us kids and our parents -- who evolved into a phenomenal adult entertainer. An unprecedented career that set the standard for so many who came after. His song verse, "You're just another part of me..." rings true for me right now.
eloquently. Eventhough I hail, by birth, from
the small Central American country of Belize,
Michael was oh so ever present in our music
and the many happy memories through high school.
"I want to Rock with you" was used by our senior
class for a dance number. We were all so thrilled
by his music. Then I came to NY and was amazed that
I got to see him on award shows, etc. and see him
belt out the tunes that we used to croon over
as young girls, teenagers and now women. I am
fill with sadness for his children, family and
friends, but happy that his voice and music will
live on for many days to come.
Thanks for your beautiful peace on such an icon of
our times and a legend in his own time.
Hilda
.
He will be missed...
Bliss Broyard's Elle magazine Article on Street Lit and Author Maisha
06/24/09 12:31 , Categories: Everything Here's part of Bliss Broyard's article:
*****
Miasha, a 28-year-old novelist, is walking through the Los Angeles Convention Center, home to the 2008 BookExpo America, an annual publishing conference. Sporting large diamond hoop earrings, sequined Manolos, and a short lime green dress with a keyhole neckline that reveals impressive cleavage for her tiny frame, Miasha, an African-American novelist who is one of the biggest names in urban fiction, looks as if she has wandered by mistake into the crowd of predominantly middle-aged white women clad in comfortable flats and faded lipstick.
With her husband, Rich Coleman, in tow, Miasha bypasses the booth of Simon & Schuster, parent of her publisher, Touchstone, and heads straight for the African-American Pavilion.There,Coleman hands out a calendar of Miasha’s 2008 events—which include, in one month alone, the release of her fifth novel, Never Enough, and appearances at the Essence Music Festival in New Orleans, the Black Expo in Indiana, a book fair in Harlem, and, back home in Philadelphia, opening night for a theatrical production of her first novel, Secret Society. Meanwhile, Miasha greets fans, fellow authors, and publishing execs with the nonchalance of a starlet. I wince as they wrap an arm around her and press their cheeks to hers. Her jaw is wired shut; she broke it in a car accident the week before.
“Hey, T,” Miasha greets Toy Styles, head of the Cartel Publications,in a clenched-teeth whisper.Styles shakes her head in admiration. “That’s my girl Miasha. Out here hustling with a broken jaw.”
That was last June, and Miasha, whose jaw healed nicely, by the way, hasn’t slowed down. Her latest novel, Chaser, due out this month, focuses on a love triangle set in the underworld of accident-insurance fraud (inexplicable, perhaps, until you know that tow trucks are her husband’s business). The couple is scheduled to do their usual drill at the 2009 BookExpo, with a few new twists. Samples of a rap song Miasha’s written, “Money in Your Pocket,” will be on offer, as will raffle tickets for her 2005 Maserati (the proceeds go to the Ask Miasha Foundation for underprivileged kids).
Although Miasha has sold a respectable 200,000 books, she flies herself to the BookExpo and all the other literary and African-American festivals she attends. She prints (and pays for) T-shirts and tote bags she gives away. She maintains her website, produces a webcast featuring scenes from her life, and has begun staging “street plays” of her novels—all on her own dime. She also foots the bill for lavish red-carpet release parties—complete with naked-models-in-body-paint re-creations of her book jackets—which sparked a trend among her urban fiction compatriots. “People in the game always commend me for that,” she says.
Growing up with two crack-addicted parents in Philadelphia, Miasha had to learn how to hustle to survive. “Anything you can sell, you sell,” she explains, gazing from underneath bangs that tickle her eyelashes. “We’d make Kool-Aid, freeze it, and sell it as water ices. We’d put potato chips from a big bag into little baggies and sell them.” Once, her father asked 11-year-old Miasha to panhandle with him. He didn’t do it in the end, she says. “Thank God.”
*****
Read the full excerpt of Bliss' article here, and pick up the magazine, on newsstands now, for the full feature.
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