I almost didn’t see Boyhood, not that I didn’t want to. I, like most people who were anxious to see the film, was impressed by the fact that Richard Linklater had used the same cast over a 13 year period, which would seem to lend some authenticity to the story. Linklater's candid and sometimes frightening assessment of human relationships which he explored in the Before Sunset trilogy; the things that bring us together and keep us together are often the very things which end up tearing us apart, are bittersweet facts of life and I have come to appreciate the way they are beautifully depicted in his films. However, a recent review by Imran Siddique in The Atlantic (Not Everyone's Boyhood)m.theatlantic.com/boyhood) dismissed the film’s most poignant and beautiful points simply because there were no people of color in supporting roles. I find this offensive. First of all, just because a film doesn't portray a “Black” person as the protagonist’s best friend, receptionist, nurse, or cop-the supporting roles blacks usually play- doesn't make it racist. It is also a fact of life that people of color are not as abundant in some areas of the United States as they are in others. It is also a fact of life that a boy might not have a black best friend. This does not make the film racist or insensitive to the plight of people of color. Boyhood takes place in Texas (primarily Austin and Houston) where whites and Hispanics outnumber blacks so it’s not unusual to find less black people in the picture. Furthermore, Boyhood details Mason Evans Jr.,’s experiences not the experiences of people of color that he may or may not have known. The review also mentioned the contrasting boyhoods of African American boys portrayed in movies like Boys in the Hood and Fruitvale Station. While both are tragic coming of age stories for young black men who experience violence as well as class and social inequality on a daily basis. Mason is not African American; he is not growing up with a single black father in South Central LA or a single black mother in the Bay area. It is ridiculous to suggest that Mason’s life experience reflect a world he does not live in. Does this make Mason’s story any less authentic or necessary? As a mother of two young boys who happen to be black, it was refreshing to see a movie where the protagonist’s life was not cut down too soon by gun-violence, usually at the hands of another black man, or the police. I was happy that at the end of the movie my head wasn’t hurting from bawling. I must confess that I wish more movies about African American boys could play out as beautifully as Mason’s did, however that is not the world we live in and I don’t think this movie was intended to be a referendum on race-relations in America. The movie dealt with the issue of race the way America should; as an everyday ordinary, natural occurrence not worth riling ourselves up about. Black, white and Asian citizens were seen in the film as classmates, diners at restaurants living their lives and tending to their normal everyday business. As an African American woman I can say that this is the way I want to exist in the world-conflict, chaos and drama free. I’m black but I don’t always want or feel the need to be a political statement. Forgive me for sounding trite but I think Mason and his dad’s support for the Obama campaign spoke volumes about how they felt about race. It was a non-issue. President Obama was recognized as a presidential candidate they would/should vote for, because they cared about his ideals-his race didn’t come up. But for those of us, like our reviewer who want to drag it into the conversation, there was the scene where Mason asked a man with a confederate flag in his window if he could put an Obama sign in the yard. The man angrily responds, “Do I look like a Barrack Hussein Obama supporter? Linklater gave racism the attention it deserved and that was enough. Fatherhood. Single motherhood. Mason’s relationship with both of his parents. Mason’s relationship with himself. A woman struggling to create an identity and a life for herself apart from being a mother and an ex-wife. A father trying to connect with his children. The loss of innocence…these are the issues worth discussing because these are the things that shape our lives and our experiences. They have made Mason who he becomes. One of my favorite scenes is a car-ride where Mason Sr. asks Mason and his sister Samantha about their lives. They don’t respond as openly as he would like. He tells them he’s not going to be the father who takes them out for the weekend and buys them things. He wants to hear from them. He wants to know how they are doing. They respond by telling him it’s not that simple, they then turn the tables on him and demand that he tell them what is going on in his life. As a parent, I was humbled by this scene. We expect our kids to be open with us-to communicate with us and connect with us but we don’t show them how because as parents it’s our responsibility to make sure the rules we make to protect them don’t get broken, in order to do that we come across as stiff and unfeeling, never showing our human and vulnerable sides to our children. This is unfair and robs us of the most magical and mutually beneficial relationships we will ever have. Who knows us better than ourselves if not our kids? They become who they are because of how we nurture them socially and emotionally, which is just as important as their physical and intellectual development. Even Mason Sr. has some lessons to learn as he seems to come of age at about the same time Mason graduates from high school and is about to start a new phase in his life as a married man with a new baby to raise. We see Mason literally growing up before our eyes. The scene in which Mason’s mom, Olivia drives him to school annoyed that he would pretend to be sick because his stepfather shaves his head. He tells his mother that it’s his hair and his stepfather didn’t even ask him if he could cut it. She looks into his face and recognizes his maturity. We watch Mason pull down the larger than life stills of the girl who breaks his heart from an exhibition at his school and our hearts break too. Our spirits are lifted once again as his father steps in to remind him that he was too good for her. “After all,” he reminds Mason, “she left you for a jock.” When Mason is packing for college, his mother becomes emotional and tells him he’s about to have all of these wonderful experiences while the only thing that’s next for her is the grave. He accuses her of being melodramatic. She says she didn’t expect him to be so happy about leaving. When he finds an old photograph among his things, he asks her why she packed it, and she tearfully explains it’s the first photograph he’s ever taken. He calmly tells her it’s all the more reason to leave it behind, with her. In the scene where Mason Sr. gives his children the contraception talk, the kids would rather not talk about it, but as he jokingly tells them he doesn’t want them to follow in their parent’s footsteps, we can tell from the looks on their faces that they get it. Fathers are not often celebrated and in cases of divorce especially in popular culture and mass media, dad is often portrayed as the bad guy. Mothers can’t walk away from their children as easily as some fathers can, but in this movie, Mason Sr. has proved himself. He truly loves his children and wants to know them and demands to be actively involved in their lives. He reminded me of my own dad who could make sense of a cruel world in a way that enabled me to treat people with dignity, even if they may not have always deserved it. I owe everything I am to who he was. Of course several mistakes were made along the way-but that’s the beauty of the film. Clearly Olivia and Mason Sr. aren’t perfect parents but they did their best with what they had. I am able to look at the world and know that I have a place in it because I, like Mason Jr. learned enough from my imperfect parents not to make the same mistakes. On his first night at college Mason and a friend contemplate this idea; perhaps the moments seize the person and not the other way around. These moments take us where we are supposed to be, teaching us the lessons that are ours to learn. They are the essence of life and the universal theme of the film. Boyhood is not a film about race simply because it doesn’t have to be.

RETROSPECT Back when i didn't care what i said, or what i did I lived I was beautiful. I was young. I was confident. I was stupid. I was free I was unafraid to go in the direction of my dreams Even though I had no idea where the fuck I was going, or how to get there. Now I'm stuck. You got rid of your panther, I always knew you would. I couldn't afford to get rid of mine so here it is a hideous stain of what once was that i can never get rid of. When people ask me what it is, I chuckle and remember the story so perhaps-in retrospect-it was worth it. On the other hand, in retrospect, It reminds me of you and it reminds me of the simple promises we made to each other that seemed impossible to break like us. Or so we thought. Retrospect is a luxury that along with many other things I've had to give up, I can no longer afford.

It's been a long time...

Yeah. I know. Craig this is for you. The unfortunate thing about this post is that I don't really have much to write about right now-the kids are asleep-finally-after fighting with me over who is going to hold the book and turn the pages during story hour-they actually won, ripped one of the pages (my husband is going to kill me-he gets so upset when the boys get after the books) and in a fit of rage and misunderstanding, I just don't understand why they won't sit with me, thoughtfully engaged like they do with their father-well, that's a lie. I know why. I started to let them hold the books when I read to them because I think it's a good practice. It's like they are actually reading; the way they flip through the pages and talk to themselves, pointing at the pictures and stuff. However, they started to get overexcited, fighting among themselves for who would get control of the words and the colors, in essence who would wield the power that reading and learning is. As I said, they tore a page in the book, the one thing my husband begged me not to let them do, so I tore the books away from them and they were left without a story to put them to sleep. To my surprise they bawled for about two minutes and then complete silence as they fell fast asleep to the sounds of Singers and Swing on Music choice on t.v. My poor babies...I'm sure they were tired. Today was a long day and their naps were continually interrupted. At least they got to hold the book and flip through the pages, which they wouldn't have been able to do if daddy were home. The book they were fighting over is pretty awesome so I don't blame them for wanting to hold it. It's called "One", by Katherine Otoshi and it deals with colors, counting, bullying, self-esteem and it's just so brilliantly done. So colorfully poignant! Then there's the classic "Where the Wild Things Are," by Maurice Sendak, which I hoped would distract them and well, what can I say? I don't blame them for wanting to take that from me too. I can't wait until they are truly old enough to understand that one. I guess the real issue here is the difference in our parenting styles. Sometimes I think hubby is a bit too rigid; and I think I'm right-mommy always knows best, but then when I see the obliterated books, ( "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," by Eric Carle is another victim) I understand his point-the books need to be around for when they can actually read and understand them. Right now they aren't talking, I know they aren't actually reading or counting but I'm anxious and I want to give them a head start. I actually got them "Mama Bear, Mama Bear," also by Eric Carle, which is a fabric book, which is perfect because they can eat it if they like, which they seem to enjoy- try to tear it apart, smash it, step on it toss it in the garbage, but of course they have no interest in destroying that book because of course, it can't be destroyed. So what the hell is my point with this blog post? Nothing really...I just wanted to do what I've always done. Reintroduce myself and I'm not making any promises, but I will try to keep posting regularly. You see, it's not that I haven't been writing-actually, I've written more since my kids were born then I did before I had them. I guess there's a sense of urgency now. I've been writing. I can assure you. Besides, it's a late night, I'm home alone and the kids are asleep so it's an opportune time to do some stream of conscious writing. Well, maybe this is not true stream of consciousness but you don't want to know what my consciousness is streaming right now. That being said, it's time for a night cap. Hey Craig-are you listening? Oh...and I apologize for that grotesquely humongous head of mine that takes up way too much of the screen-I can assure you I am the very antithesis of what that stupid picture represents. I'm trying to get rid of it...so bear with me. Good night. Talk soon?

Symphony of Tears

-Random fact: This pic was taken at Notre Dame Church in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. I didn't know it at the time but I was pregnant with the boys on this trip. Ray and I were planning to start a family but it was still pretty far from my mind during this trip, even though I took the time to pray for guidance on the path my life might take... And I'm still praying. I'm still bending surprised I haven't snapped yet. In previous posts I explained my frustrations at being a first time moom to these unbelievable boys and all of the intrusions on my privacy that came with them. I was pretty harsh on my in-law's and my circumstances. I realized that I'm a bit lonely...I know, I know...duuuuuh...it's to be expected considering the only friends I can talk to are two six month olds who smile even though I'm explaining how frustrated I am at their incessant crying and that I'm going to throw them out the window. It really doesn't help. I could talk to mom-in-law, but she's elderly and I find myself agreeing with whatever she says to be polite. Thankfully most of the things we discuss we agree upon but, sometimes I want to curse and stuff, and tell her how frustrating the kids make me sometimes but she'll take it as a sign of weakness and of course, her grandchildren are angels. They can do no wrong. Yes, in the grand scheme of things my kids are great. They really don't cry unless they are tired, irritable, hungry or if they are left alone. Also, they are beginning to teethe, so I assume they are fussy about that too. ( I must admit, I expected worse) I am pretty good at catching all of these things before it escalates but these days the boys personalities are developing and man, Zachary hates to be left alone for too long. This morning, I was trying to get a little bit of a work out, (another frustration to add to my growing list) his father was getting ready for work so we put him in the crib assuming he'd fall right asleep since he was tired. He barely slept the night before. Not so. As soon as I put him in the crib and left the room the whining started. It crescendoed and didn't stop until about an hour later when I broke down, came back into the room and picked him up and put him in the living room where he could see me. His father tells me to just leave him alone. He thought the boy would fall asleep shortly because he had just been fed. "Leave him," he tells me. "He knows you'll come running the minute he does that. He'll be fine. Go work out." I did...for about five minutes until the crying became unbearable. And this is becoming the routine these days. He just won't fall asleep. Then, he wakes his brother Noah up. Noah is pretty calm. He doesn't get all whiny when mom or dad leaves the room. He's content as long as he has something to do. When I left the room, Zach was wailing and Noah was sleeping. Now, Noah was awake because his brother woke him. I feel bad for my little Noah because I'm always going to Zachary to calm him down, but Noah's a good boy. He always gives me this knowing smile. Like he's giving me permission to do what I have to do. But this is short-lived. At the time of writing, Zach begins wailing again. I look down at him and say a few words and he stops and smiles, for a second. I start writing again...the wailing starts until I pick him up and he starts to giggle with glee. This is a problem. Noah is not so accomodating this time. He starts to object to my holding Zach but then he manages to occupy himself-in fact he has just gave me a reassuring smile, though it was underscored by a brief whine. A warning... Needless to say Zach sits in my lap as i type with one finger-for the moment he is subdued and drooling all over me-gross. but now, Noah has had enough. And so have I. Zach is starting up again and I feel like throwing both of them in the hamper. (Noah has joined his brother in the symphony of tears) Maybe their hungry-it looks about that time. Once again I beg forgiveness for any errors. I have no time to proof read. Only write. Sorrll about you now. Why the hell won't you stay asleep?

Someone

I want somenoe to dance with (besides the kids) Someone to rock out to Ben Harper with on my air guitar Someone who doesn't leave the room because he doesn't dig the songs I keep putting on repeat that mean so damn much to me How is it after all these years you still don't seem to get me Or my fascination with Girls I can tell your judging me You claim I go someplace else when I write-that I'm not there And you need me. Babe please understand I have to go there to get it right I always come back; this is my reality I can't escape it though I may try every once in a while Here I am, with you but alone Sitting in the living room in silence playing with our future-and they love it all giggles and smiles You lay in the bedroom, stuck in your pride We planned this, remember? Maybe you wanted it more than me. But now that I have it, I can't let go. I won't let go Although, sometimes I feel stuck here Like I'm settling, ill at ease, unhappy I've done it my whole life. Fortunately this time there's no running for me. Unless you come. and we can bring the kids.

A Black "Girls" Friend

When Girls premiered, I had already made up my mind I wasn't going to watch. It came right after they cancelled Bored to Death and I didn't think there would be another show based in Brooklyn that could move me that way again. I tried to get into Girls, but something about Shoshanna, Jess and Hannah pissed me off-it looked to me that the show was going to be some sort of hipster Sex in the City and I wasn't interested. And, I'd read countless commentaries about the series lack of ethnic diversity, so I figured I'd do my part for as a representative of said under-represented group and boycott the show. Cut to 5 months later on a Sunday night. My husband and I are getting ready to watch Enlightenment. O.k., I’m getting ready to watch Enlightenment. (He just doesn't get it) but Girls hasn't wrapped yet, so I watched. My husband noticed that "look" I get when I begin to develop a new habit. "Oh God," he starts. "Please don't tell me that you can relate to this shit." Yes. I could. But as a black girl, I know I’ll have to prove how. So, I went back to season one. I was watching the episode where the gynecologist examining Hannah says: "You could never pay me enough to be twenty-four…" and I began to wax nostalgic about that age. It was certainly a tumultuous year for me. I had just moved to New York City and I was going to make it as a writer. I had a job in publishing and I was fierce, fearless and stupid. I remember lying on an exam room table, having the exact same conversation with my doctor, scared to death because the guy I was seeing was a weirdo, like Adam who justified his pretentious, freakish behavior on the fact that he was an artist. In reality, he was a condescending, self-indulged, megalomaniac (who couldn’t write for shit) that I was a slave to. When Marnie confides to Hannah that she’s worried about being barren because she never had a pregnancy scare, even though she’d have enough irresponsible encounters to warrant it, I became hooked on the show because it was like Lena Dunham read my diary and changed all the names and faces to protect the guilty. I remember having the same conversation with my best friend and I was worried that I could never give my husband children right until I became pregnant with my twins. I'm no longer a twenty-something struggling writer trying to make it in New York City-- I'm a thirty-eight year old new mom/wife/struggling writer trying to make it in New York City. I no longer live in trendy, gentrified Clinton Hill; I live in hard knocks Bronx, as a wife and mom with responsibilities. I no longer have the luxury of making those awkward, degrading, and humiliating albeit exhilarating, life experiences/ mistakes, which by the grace of God did not kill me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss those days. Often I wonder how I ended up in this life-when did I become a grown up? Now I’m married, changing diapers, doing laundry and wiping (two!) drooling mouths instead of becoming intellectually stimulated and simultaneously wasted at SXSW in Texas. I don’t rock out anymore. I live in my husband’s mother’s basement apartment and sometimes it seems that he just doesn’t “get” me the way other’s in my past did-regardless of how reckless they were or bad for me at the time. My husband doesn’t get my fascination with the show and that frightens me. What if I made the biggest mistake of my life? These are the questions I ask every time I watch the show and I feel a twang of envy because as messed up as things are for them at times, it seems that they are going to get it right. They have good-looking futures ahead. In my case, it seems the die has been cast. So, I live vicariously through the show. Clearly, I can’t relate to everything; my parents would never be able to support me for any length of time while I pursued my writing career. I'm not white, no longer in my twenties, and of all the things I have smoked, crack was never one of them. I did spend my twenties living in Brooklyn with a roommate and hanging out all over the borough with girls who were Marnie, Jess and Shoshanna and of course, I was Hannah. Those were the best and worst years of my life. Girls gives me some semblance of the life I yearn for as I find myself laughing (and crying) all the way down memory lane. So who cares if there are no black girls on the show? There is a black boy! Sandy, Hannah's black, Republican boyfriend was a clever addition to the cast. Hannah claimed that color was never an issue for her because she didn't live in a world that made "those kinds of divisions,” this is the essence of Girls and why the show is brilliant. Girls seek to define/find itself on its own terms despite societal conventions based on race, class or gender, where we live, what generation we’re from, how we dress or even how we speak. The ensuing conversation/argument between the two of them was one of the most hilarious and honest discussions about race I’ve ever heard; Hannah quoting Missy Elliot- but not understanding the reference-classic. And, despite criticisms of her affinity for getting naked, Ms. Dunham has no problem baring it all for the camera; she has a healthy body image, which is refreshing in an industry that promotes grotesquely thin, gorgeous models in leading roles as some sort of standard of beauty we are supposed to attain. Speaking of cultural diversity, I’d like to point out that hip hop is practically featured in every scene of the show, (the girls even dance to it) Ray prompted Hannah to talk about the “urban” issues of our day: gentrification, urban sprawl, social injustice…Beyonce’ is imitated, Rhianna’s ass is referenced, and there are countless black, and other extras in the background from every walk of life representing Brooklyn. Unfortunately, not everybody has a black friend, but guess what? Girls just made one.

Different Eyes

Though I've travelled this path many times, I'm seeing it through different eyes Though I've seen you every day, I've never seen you in this way Glorious, majestic and full of life Amidst the drab, amidst the misery, among the strife You are bright white velvet snow covered branches glinting in the sunlight I see God's promise in the trees I finally hear Her speaking to me Perhaps she always did I just wasn't listening.