Requiem for a One-Gloved Wonder

“So tonight, we’re gonna leave that 9-to-5 up on shelf
And just enjoy yourself.
Groove. Let the madness and the music get to you
Life ain’t so bad at all, when you’re living off the wall.”
-Michael Jackson, “Off the Wall”

I must confess. I have been enthralled with the magical Michael Jackson from the time I was old enough to say “moonwalk.”

It goes without saying that for seventies and eighties black babies Michael was our Bob Dylan. Our Elvis. Sure his concerts didn’t feature spaceships, like say, Parliament-Funkadelic, nor big gilded pianos, like say Barry Manilow. But that was just it. Michael, save his sparkly socks, ever-fresh Jheri curl and glove, came sans props. Why? Cause the cat just didn’t need them. He had electric legs, a killer voice and the ability to get a crowd that spanned generations on its feet. He didn’t have to ask. He didn’t have to beg. He didn’t have to have 40 rowdy dudes yelling into mikes on the stage with him. But the people responded because he was the real deal. Musically, he was all parts included. No assembly needed. And for me, he was magic.

Growing up, every summer we would travel to Detroit to visit our extended family. On one trip, in the mid-80s, we gathered at my grandmother’s house, I remember my Uncle Phil, my mom’s oldest brother, excitedly rallying everyone to the den. There was this show. We had to watch it. In fact, he had brought over his newfangled “VHS system” to hook up to the TV just so we could. Now my uncle was really low-key, unassuming type of gent who specialized in computer repair. He rarely got amped about anything, save his weakness for Strawberry Milkshakes and jazz. This, thought my five-year-old self, must be some video.

Turned out it was a tape of the Motown 25 Reunion special. We sat, watched and sang along as the Temptations, the Four Tops, the Supremes and various other Motown groups reunited on stage to celebrate the musical legacy founded by Berry Gordy in Detroit. Of course we liked them enough. But everyone knew that they really wanted to see the Jacksons get on stage. To me, they were bigger than red Kool-aid and roller skates in the summer. When the brothers – Jackie, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and Michael – emerged, my cousins and I got up and danced and sang along to the classics. And then, at some point the music slowed. The brothers exited. And Michael said to the crowd, I really liked the old stuff. But I love the new. And then a base line started like a funky heartbeat, “Boom, ba-boom-boom. Boom ba-boom-boom.” And Michael started to sing. “She was more like a beauty queen, from a movie scene . . .” And from the little T.V. screen we watched we could feel the crowd pulsating like someone ran through the audience with a cattle prod. Buzzzzzz.

And then it happened. During the bridge, Michael started to dance as if he had some invisible electric source attached to his ankles. I remember the steps like he did it yesterday. Kick out. Pause. Spin around. Push back. And sliiiiiide.

Oh. My. Goodness.

To this day, I have never seen a performer so electric, so captivating, so – alive. In some respects, Michael was superhuman. He sang. He wrote. He danced. He and Lionel Richie, along with the maestro Quincy Jones, were the driving force behind “We Are the World,” Grammy-winning the anthem of the eighties that benefited hunger programs in Africa. (Youtube the video. It’s still a classic.) In my book, anyone who can co-write a song where Stevie Wonder, Kenny Rogers and Steve Perry take turns singing solos and all of them sound fantastic is a genius. Today, we can still recite Michael’s solo hits, like we did our third grade multiplication-tables. “Rock With You”, “Human Nature,” “Billie Jean,” and of course the quintessential “Thriller.” And he had so many others with his brothers. As the Jacksons, “Can You Feel It?” and “This Place Hotel” were tracks that rocked the house. (Quietly, Tito’s guitar solo on the latter combined with Michael’s impassioned voice killed it). Earlier as the Jackson 5, they drummed out classics for Motown including, “I Want You Back,” “A-B-C” and the perpetual tearjerker “Never Can Say Goodbye.”

Tonight, on the evening of MJ’s passing, hip-hop impresario Sean “P. Diddy” Combs called into CNN’s Larry King Live and summed up what Michael meant for so many in my generation. “He made me believe in magic.” I normally think Diddy, who as awesome of an entrepreneur as he is, comes across more comically than poignantly, due to his antics on MTV’s “Making the Band.” But tonight, I nodded my head in somber agreement as he spoke. Yes. That’s it. That’s exactly it. I thought about my own childhood in New Jersey. If Michael wasn’t magic, why else would I have begged for a red jacket and a jheri curl? My mother, a paragon of foresight, denied both requests, to her praise. And why else did all the kids I knew from my neighborhood all claim to be one person removed from Michael Jackson? (Mmm hmm. Yeah, well, girl, my momma’s cousin’s brother is Michael Jackson’s cousin.) And why did I and every girl I knew gaze at his Thriller album cover imagine marrying him one day? Those dreamy sparkly socks. That smile.

Sigh. If only.

“Could it be I stayed away too long?
Did I leave your mind when I was gone?
Well, it’s not that I’m trying to get back.
But this time let me tell you where I’m at.”
- Jackson 5 “I Wanna Be Where You Are”

After news broke of Michael’s passing, my friends and I exchanged a flurry of texts, calls and memories. One friend in Houston had gotten to see the Jacksons’ Victory tour and years later still seemed awestruck. Another friend in Brooklyn volunteered that if you played “Enjoy Yourself” at any place or time, she would gladly stop her course of business and get down like the rent depended on it. Calling home in New Jersey, I kidded my brother, who had once performed impassioned renditions of “Thriller” around the house. (He was three, so he thought the words were “It’s a go-ri-llla, go-ri-llla night”. We laughed at the memory.) In LA, my cousin purposed to watch some old Jackson 5 clips on Youtube, if they didn’t make her too sad.

As the mainstream TV news media reminded us today, to be sure MJ had some problems. We all do. So while the coverage of his passing today was at times kind (“He made Thriller,” people still said in amazement). At other times, it was not so much. (One network showed clips of previously televised interviews with boys who had spent nights at his Neverland compound.) In response to the latter, I simply shook my head at the speculation and lack of respect. The man is dead. I pondered that it’s often the gifted who give and give of themselves, only to be torn down. It made me ache for his family.

If I could “Give a Message to Michael” (to borrow from the Dionne Warwick song) it would be thanks from that little Jersey black girl. She is now a woman who, if the DJ spins “Pretty Young Thing” at the right time, will still make an awkward “black girl who dances like she went to private school” attempt at Moonwalking. If it’s true that we never really appreciate what we have until it’s gone, perhaps the blessing in today is that we can finally, really appreciate that in Michael Jackson we had a rare supernatural gift. It’s a gift one only sees with the likes of people like Picasso. Michaelangelo. Ray Charles. These are people who take our earthy tactile objects -- a paintbrush, a slab of marble, a piano – and then they breathe life into these objects as only they can. As Willie Wonka told us, “They are the magic makers. They are the dreamers of dreams.” Today, they are also Michael Jackson.

And the magic maker will be missed.
-M. Elle

It's Where You Been and Where You Be...

Cover Art From Mos Def's "The Ecstatic"

"Everybody act according to the season that they born in

Some in the night, some in in the morning.

Some at noon. Some in winter. Some in June...It's all cool."

- Mos Def feat. Talib Kweli, "History" (Now playing)

I was born on a September morning in a Center City, Philadelphia hospital. Just after 15 hours of labor, set off by the evening news the night before. A newly minted brown baby girl. The eldest child born to one who came from a lot. To another who came from a little. As it ended up, along the way, they met in the middle.

*hums* History, history

So, it's not hard to imagine that I am perpetually late, a former journalist, current news junkie and, well, (*considers how to reconcile my love for coonish reality tv shows and Be-Bop*) boughetto. Lol. In his guest appearance on Mos Def's "History," Brookylnite Talib Kweli raps that he lays down the law down like Leviticus. (Dope lyric, btw. Especially poignant considering that his brother was a Supreme Court clerk and is now a Columbia prof. Tight.) But I digress. Talib's musings always get me to thinking. This time I wondered what if he had decided to be a lawyer instead of a rapper? He would have robbed all of us of his witty, incisive repertoire just for the point of being like somebody else. That would have been a shame.

*hums* History, history

Now, I'm not a rapper. By any means. Not even a little bit. Lol. But daily-- and maybe Bar preparation has kicked my existentialism into overdrive so I apologize. Lol.-- I wonder if I might have been a better scribe in the past than I might be a lawyer in the future. I'm not certain whether stacks and stacks of memorization of countless minutae is for me in the same way that a great song is for me. In the same way a good book or great article is for me. In the same way a perfect verse over a great track is just, well, perfect. I hear Earth, Wind and Fire, Sarah Vaughan, Pete Rock and CL Smooth, John Coltrane, Stevie Wonder, Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66, I light up. I peruse James Baldwin or Nikki Giovanni or a good piece in the New Yorker, I'm sparkling all day. I read the law of Commercial Paper. Yeah, not so much. Lol.

I am truly thankful for these past three years. Law school has disciplined my mind and honed my analytical abilities like few other things could have. I can read a case without eyes crossed. I can write a memo. I can speak the language. And of course I'm thankful for the opportunities it has presented to earn filthy lucre and perhaps, like Willie Gary, more fame than *insert stage voice,* The Grrreat and Powerful Ozzz!! Lol. But I am more and more coming to grips with as Mos says, "where I been and where I be." Who I be.

Where I've been is everywhere. East Coast. West Coast. Midwest. I try to never forget how blessed I've been in life. In universities. Newsrooms. Covering political protests. Speaking to Grammy and Tony winners. Chillaxing on the Vineyard or in LA. Where I be now is always the harder questions for me, or I guess anyone, to answer. As OutKast says on "Synthesizer," "Life is full of evolution." As George Benson sang, "Everything must change. Nothing stays the same." I suppose the great guitarist and Big Boi and 'nem are right :-) With each change, there is loss and gain. A renting of the old garments to be able to properly don the new ones. But before we change clothes ("and go" - Jigga *smile*), It's always important to look in the mirror. Maintain our essential truths. Silence the noise and ask what God put you here for. What are my gifts? What are my goals? (And how do I line those up together and stay out the bread line? Lol) When we can answer that honestly, I think we're on the right train. One that properly acknowedges the promises in our future and the triumphs of our past. Cause "every soul got history: it's where you been and where you be."

-M. Elle

In My Rearview

The Obamas are in the House! Yay!

Hey family. So much stuff has happened since I've seen you last. So grab a mason jar of lemonade, a healthy slice of cornbread and sit on the porch with me a spell . . .

This year, we elected and inaugurated our first black president. (Yay for last bastion of priviledge being felled. Somewhere Thurgood Marshall is giving Charles Hamilton Houston a dap.) I tried to watch the inauguration as someone who had seen black people for the very first time would have. Or, alternatively the way my great-grandfather, a sharecropper from Camp Hill, Alabama, might have watched.

I was honestly too floored to move when Aretha ascended the podium with her Sunday best on. What a day, what a day. And what a hat! I thought she properly reflected the solemnity of the occassion in a way that only a Detroit millinery could have. (Let's face it, before that day, black folks' inaugurations = Easter Sunday, Mother's Day, weddings or funerals). Go Re Re.

"Time to save the world. Where in the world is all the time?

So many things I still don't know.
So many times I've changed my mind." -Erykah Badu, Mama's Gun

In the months that have followed, there has been a whirlwind in the White House. Michelle O and two little black girls skipping off of Air Force One. Two years ago, who would have thunk it? I pinch myself often and realize how cool it is to live in America. It ain't perfect, but anything can happen. We thought so before, but we really know it now. The possibilities are infinite.

I know it too. I've spent my last semester in law school reflecting on the blessing of being here. Here on this earth, but specifically here in this particular place I'm fortunate to occupy. As Nina Simone once sang, "To be young, gifted and black. Oh what a lovely, precious dream. "

Sure the economy is tanking. Corporate America is questioning the very foundation upon which it was built. Many of my classmates are scrambling for employment, deferred, fired or worried that they will be. In these times, we realize that in many things, the old texts are right. Greed is ever present ("For the love of money is the root of all evil.") But hope is ever present too. ("He came not to condemn the world, but so the world through him might be saved.") From time-to-time, when we're really paying attention, we see slivers of why we're really here. (A plane lands in New York City's Hudson River in the winter's cold, sans fatalities or injuries, even for a tiny baby. *Smile* Yeah, thank goodness someone else sits at the wheel.)

Personally, that assurance has never been more real to me. In two weeks, I will walk across the stage at my law school graduation. It was something that my father first dreamed for me when I was nine and told him I wanted to be the first black woman Supreme Court justice. Lol. And so it will be a (tears up a little) moving experience to be doing it without him in the audience. I want to know what he would have said. I want to see how he would have looked at me after I shook the Dean's hand. It gets me still when I repeat his old mantra ... I remember him saying it each time as if it were the first: "The sky is the limit."

I have been through a lot since he passed three Novembers ago. Worked alot. Learned alot. Sometimes cried. Two Saturdays from now, I know he will be watching from afar. I will celebrate in spirit with those of you who have willed me through school by sending good thoughts. Or sending up big prayers. Or little prayers. Or emails, calls, smiles, or blog comments (like Mahogany why does your monkey tail only post three times a year!? Lol). Know that I am eternally grateful.

And to my Dad, all I gotta to say is watch me fly!

xoxo,
M. Elle

*sings* "That's all I have, ain't got no' mo." (Erykah B.)

PSA: Naps at the Bar

Anyone who knows me knows that I love Philadelphia. The Roots. Grover Washington. Patti Labelle. Jill Scott. South Street. Water ice. Cheesesteaks. Sigh. Just, the whole deal. Being here for the summer has been grand, in general.

But there are just some things about the City of Brotherly Love (and Sisterly Affection) in which, I would rather not partake: 1) It smells when it rains. 2) It smells when it doesn't rain. 3) The homeless men are very aggressive in trying to spit game. (But most times, they just spit.)

But aside from all of that, there really is just one thing I cannot stand about Philly...

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Exhibits A-Z: Men with Thick, Nappy Beards!!!

A Huey P. Newton, H. Rap Brown-sized 'Fro growing on the bottom of your chin and cheeks is not, I repeat, NOT okay. The Honorable Elijah Muhammad does not approve!!!!!! So, let me tell about this afternoon. It was lunchtime. So, I went to Cosi to get a Greek salad. Once I got inside, I looked at the row of people standing at the Salad Bar, preparing the food. The three people appeared as if this was their first stop out of the correctional facility, as all suffered from disgrunted expressions and excessive tattoos. But this was all very minor to me compared with one man, who had to be Rick Ross' illegitimate brother. I'll call him The Boss.

So, I noticed that the Boss, who later dumped vinaigarette dressing in my bowl, had a six inch afro around his face. Aside from that hirsuite having to be extremely unpleasant in the summer, I can't imagine having to wash comb and dare I say Blue Magic grease that mess every day. Anyway, impolite as it was, I couldn't help but stare in spates in between discussing it with my co-worker friend with whom I stood in line. A quick recap:

Me: Do you think I'll have crispy naps in my tomatoes and tandori chicken? I really don't like naps in my food.
Her: [Laughing] He has a net around it.

But like Doubting Thomas, I did not believe. I tried not to stare at the beard as The Boss asked what kind of dressing I preferred. It was then that I realized -- great day in the morning -- she was right! Sure as I'm standing, The Boss had a hair net around his beard. Pop, pop, pop went my mind to quote LeVert. I looked closer to confirm, eyes blinking incredulously as if I had happened upon a pot of gold. Or a unicorn. Surely not a full-sized hair net was requried to cover this nappy monstrosity? But alas. It. was. As I struggled to remain standing whilst silently humming "Nearer My God to Thee," I hoped for inner peace. The end of the war. For the sun to always set in the west. For birds to fly back north for Spring. And for nappy afro Philly beards to just please, please go away!!

As I closed my eyes, a Public Service Announcement came to me in a dream just like I was Joseph with that Coat of Many Colors (but better shoes). The PSA read "Notice to all: Thou whilst not weareth a nappy beard unless your job includes bringing sugar plums and joy to all the children of the world on Christmas day. Amen and Amend"

And with that, I clicked my heels three times and went on Home to Glory. *Cough* I mean, of course, back to work...

One Night Only...

It's the Grammy's and Mahogany's Hitting the Red Carpet

Being the law student that I am, I didn't get to watch the show this year. (Darn you jurisdiction cases.) But you know I caught up on all the highlights this week. And who needs to tune in when she can just watch You Tube and peruse the stunning (or utterly piss poor and lackluster) fashions sur la Red Carpet. So as my muse Jigga says, "Just my thoughts, right or wrong... Just what I was feeling at the time... Give the drummer some."

Solange: (or Solan-jay as I like to call her, because what use is a name if it doesn't rhyme with that of your supremely more talented, has everything you ever wanted sister?) However, unless little sister-in-chief is adept at casting magic spells, I don't understand the stars on the black clog-heeled shoes. I suppose she is the bad witch and Beyonce is Glinda the Good. If only we could grab a couple of munchkins (JD and Musiq, where are you in this shot?), we would be well on our way to Oz. Theme music: Can't You Feel a Brand New Day?, "The Wiz" soundtrack. I know I can.

Fantasia: For a girl who can't spell her own name, I would think that she would spend more time with the Letter People and less time making herself look like a poor man's Pepe Lepue (I actually think the cartoon skunk would be offended by her hair display.) Also, is it me or does Fanny's Kool-Aid smile (not as evident here) always suggest she would be a better fit on a Jerry Lewis telethon? Theme music: "It's a Small World, After All", Assorted Disney soundtracks.

Keyshia Cole: Where do I start? The bangs? The hair color? (I think blond actually works for her, so she should have stuck with that) That big freakin trucker tattoo?? Theme song: Ownlee Eue, Kwame. Cause only Keyshia would attempt this...
Ms. Keys: By all accounts, a pretty girl. Pretty on her left. And pretty on her right. One might even argue that she's so dang pretty she can't sleep at night.... (*Clutching the pearls.*) Navy works well on Alicia, but this looks like a dress she borrowed from her older, taller, more svelte sister. She's not a big girl by anyone's standards but the cut makes her look wider. Her hair looks like they put it on top of her head while she sat under the dryer, but forgot to take it out to finish it. I'm going to give her a pass because everyone has an off day. But fret not. No one remembers Ms. Ross's fashion mishaps in Mahogany, only her many triumphs. Live to shine another day, that's what I say. Theme song: Do You Know Where You're Going To?, Diana Ross, "Mahogany" soundtrack.

Ne-Yo I like him alot (he kinda reminds me of Michael J in his hey day). This is why I'm not going to talk about his old man hat. It's why I'm even okay with the shiny suit and church deacon shoes, actually. He has an old soul, goo gobs of talent and a genuine warm spirit, so the whole getup fits. *Singing* And I hate how much I luv youuuu boy. Aww, little Ne-Yo. Lol. Theme music: We are the World, Artists for Africa.

Jay-Z Shawn Carter really looks like the Chairman of the Board here. The grown man's lapel pin is a nice touch too. Theme song: Imaginary Player, Jay-Z. "I mean like I'm the pioneer to this ish, you know? I was popping Crystale when all y'all thought it was beer. Wearing that platinum when all y'all thought it was silver." Yessir.

Rihanna looks very "urban Tinkerbell". Electric blue works very well with her skintone. And I love the bracelet! (I gotta find a cheap version of that somewhere). Shoes are on point too. My pick for best dressed. Theme music: "The Glamorous Life," Sheila E. "She wears a long fur coat of mink, even in the summertime." Rock it girl!

Dee Dee Bridgewater looks like a strong gust of wind would send her airborne, but somehow I like it. Sue me. Lol. Not everyone could pull this off, but it works for her artsy, easy breezy naturale aesthetic. Kinda makes me want to hit up Tendrils in Brooklyn like back in the day when I still had natural hair and forked out $125 for twists. Before I sold out to the man and his counter-revolutionary ways. Lol. Dang you, no-lye Mizani. Theme song: "Dream on, Dreamer," Brand New Heavies. "Hate to put your two feet on the ground/So go on and step aside/ Release yourself and fly."

Well, that's all lovely gals and gents! Till next time, I remain yours truly.
-Mahogany Elle