The End of the Purple Reign (Prince Rogers Nelson, May He Rest in Purple Peace)

I was just leaving my sister The Writing Diva's  job when she called me on my cell phone.  I was thinking I left something behind.  In less than a breath, she said:

"Prince died."

I asked, "Prince the musician?"

She replied, "Yes."

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I was shocked.  Last I heard, he had just briefly come off his "Piano and a Microphone" tour to battle the flu.  He was, to my mind, young.  He had always seemed fit.  I figured I'd catch him the next time around. Now here I am, learning the same lesson I learned when Etta James and Ray Charles died -- go see the artists you love while they're still living.

And I blame Kimberly Hancock for all of it.  She introduced me to Prince's music, which was the slow death of my innocence and the birth of my appreciation of his genius.

Kimberly Hancock was my age and my race and lived down the street from me in the 1970's.  As I recall, she introduced me to Prince when we were both preteens.  She gushed over how cute he was, cute as the Sylvers.  I questioned her taste, since every teenage black girl knew that the Jacksons where way cuter than the Sylvers.  She had a copy of his first album, "For You."  I'm pretty certain she played "Soft and Wet" for me.

I. Was. Hooked.

For starters, even as a kid, I'd always been a sucker for a good bass line.  "Soft and Wet' was like nothing I had heard before.  But what got me, more than the falsetto, more than the bass line, were the album credits.  Yes, I was THAT kid who read album credits, even as a preteen.   I was the kid who had to know what instrument was making the sound of a tennis ball being hit on Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On." (Moog synthesizer, if I recall correctly).

The album credits stated that all the instruments were played by Prince.  All the songs were written, arranged and produced by Prince, with the exception of "Soft and Wet," for which he shared a writing credit, I think.

There was only one musician, one artist, one person I knew of at that time who wrote all his own songs, played all his own instruments, and produced and arranged his own music:  Stevie Wonder.

That's when I knew Prince was a genius.  He was a musical badass before there was even a name for it.

But, my oh my, was he taking an early toll on my innocence.

I fell hard for what sounded like synthesized bass lines in "I Wanna Be Your Lover" and "Head."  It wasn't until I started college at Stanford when my friends, who took great joy in bursting my innocence, explained what exactly was "soft and wet," what the double entendre in "I Wanna Be Your Lover" meant -- "I wanna be the only one you come for" -- and explained what "Head" was talking about, to which I responded, "EEEUUUWWW!"

By the time "Controversy" came out, I didn't care whether Prince was black or white, straight or gay.  No one did.  We were having too much fun dancing to his music.

It was after "Controversy" came out that I went to my first concert ever (Did I tell you I had a very sheltered childhood in Sacramento?) with my college friends to see Prince, The Time and Vanity Six at the Oakland Coliseum.  It was and remains the best concert I've ever attended, with each act trying to outdo the other and none being able to hold a candle to Prince.

I remember seeing the movie "Purple Rain" and thinking that although the acting was okay, the music was phenomenal.  I wondered how autobiographical it was and felt saddened by what I thought might have been Prince's life before stardom.  I know I was shocked that he won an Oscar for the song "Purple Rain."  More shocked than I was when Isaac Hayes won for the theme from "Shaft."  To put it mildly, I thought of Prince's music as a black thing, and I didn't think white folks were ready for him just yet.

I was wrong.  So wrong.

I'll admit it -- over the years, I didn't buy all of his albums.  He was simply too damn prolific and I couldn't keep up.  But every once in a while a song would just hit me and I'd have to have it.  What I adored most about Prince was that, through all his phases and changes, including the symbol phase, his music was unmistakably his.  He wasn't trying to be anyone but himself.  He didn't chase trends; he made them.  Even the rise of hip-hop didn't shake his game as it did other stars of the 1980's.    When he wrote "slave" on his cheek and tried to get out of his contract with Warner Brothers. I rooted for him.  I thought, "Why shouldn't he have the full benefit of his genius?  He's Prince!"

Prince was generous with his genius, sharing his spotlight with the likes of Mavis Staples, Olympic gymnast Dominique Dawes ("Betcha By Golly Wow" video, anyone?) and the most unlikely Sheena Easton.  Yes, Sheena Easton, of "Morning Train" fame.  I loved "U Got The Look" because it was so unexpected and yet danceable, taking her game to a higher level.  I also doubt that Sheila E''s "Glamorous Life" would have happened but for Prince.  When she kicked that high hat with her foot in the video? All I could think was, "Well damn!"  Thanks, Prince.

My musical memories of Prince are too many to name.  My favorite songs tend toward the early ones, like "How Come U Don't Call Me," which I first heard performed by Stephanie Mills.  It is still timeless because you hear the black church influence in it.  Another is "Little Red Corvette."  Yes, it was yet another nail in the coffin of whatever was left of my innocence, but that song was straight up feminist.  In that song, Prince portrayed a woman who totally owned her sexuality and pursued sex for sex's sake without commitment or fear of judgment.  Her sexuality clearly intimidated the narrator in the song -- "I guess I should have closed my eyes when you drove me to the place where your horses run free . . . I felt a little ill when I saw all the pictures of the jockey who were there before me . . . . " To my mind, it was the first musical acknowledgement that women's sexuality could mirror that of men, that women were sexual beings without guilt or shame, even though the narrator warns that she "needs a love that's going to last."  Thanks, Prince.

When I was going through my very bad dating phase during the 1990's, the chorus to Prince's "Anotherloverholenyohead" became my anthem:  "You need another lover . . .like you need a hole in your head."  It was so true.  I needed to do what I eventually did -- stop dating, regroup, and figure out what I really needed in a man, as opposed to what I wanted.  Once I became clear, I found that what I really needed I had had all along:  Black Man Not Blogging.   We reconciled in 2001 and married in 2003.  Thanks, Prince.

But my favorite Prince song?  "Kiss," and for one reason and one reason only:  My late mom.

I love the song's lyrical nod to grown women, "Women, not girls, rule my world."  But "Kiss" means so much more to me.  You see, my mom worked really hard trying to house, clothe and feed six children and keep us in school and out of trouble.  She loved music, but she didn't always embrace what we kids listened to.  She certainly didn't embrace our dances.  Saturdays were her time to catch up on her housework and listen to her music while doing so.  Watching my mom, a middle-aged, short, chubby woman with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, pushing her Hoover vacuum cleaner on a Saturday morning when Prince's "Kiss" came on?  Priceless.  When the bridge begins with Prince declaring, "Think I wanna dance," my mom would break out into what can best be described as her "mom dance."  She didn't care how out of date it was.  She didn't care what anyone thought.  She was just having a good time, dancing along with Prince, just as joyful as she could be.  It is one of the happiest musical memories I have of my mom.

And for that, I am forever grateful to Kimberly Hancock and to Prince Rogers Nelson, may he rest in purple peace.

In Defense of Phil Robertson (The Right Thing To Do)

I haven't been following the dust-up about Phil Robertson's quotes in GQ magazine as closely as some, and I don't necessarily share the same feelings about them as does my sister, The Writing Diva.  I think issues of race and sexual orientation in the South are more complex than those of us raised outside the South understand.  When a white Southerner expresses a point of view about sexual orientation or race that isn't in line with moderate America's expectations, we're quick to dismiss that person as an ignorant, backwoods hick.

It's more complicated than that. 

Maybe it's because of Nelson Mandela's recent passing that I'm stepping back and taking the longer view on what Phil Robertson said in light of his life experience and mine.  Here's my life experience.

I lived in Mississippi for a year.  What I learned living there is that even if Southern or rural Southern whites believe that the Bible forbids what you're doing or how you're living, that doesn't necessarily mean that they hate you or that they would mistreat you.  My experience is that there is a Southern code of conduct, so to speak; I would call it "The Right Thing To Do": -- No matter what people might think of you or what you do, unless they're rabid racists, they're going to treat you with respect and human kindness just as they would want to be treated.  The culture of respect runs deep in Southern culture.  My mental litmus test for anyone, including Phil Robertson, is, "Would this person help me if I were stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire?"  Trust me, you're more likely to be helped by a Southerner of any race than a Californian.  Southerners of any race help strangers simply because it's The Right Thing To Do.  I watch "Duck Dynasty," and although I've never met Phil Robertson, I think he would pass my litmus test.

There are a lot of Christians of all races who believe that homosexuality is a sin.  That doesn't mean they hate gay people or would harm them.  I don't recall there being this much of a dust-up when, on "R&B Divas," the singer Monifah, who came out, asked her daughter if she could support Monifah's union with her partner Terez.  Her daughter said, "No, no I can't."  It was a matter of faith, not hate, for her.  It didn't mean that she loved her mother less; it simply meant that, as a matter of faith, she could not encourage a gay union.  Good Christians are perfectly capable of hating the sin (or at least what they consider sin) and loving the sinner.  They need to be because we're all sinners.

Finally, I think we have to look at context and life experience when taking the measure of someone.  Phil Robertson's remarks about black people were based on his life experience, which I hazard to guess is rather limited.  I doubt that black folks picking cotton with him back in the day could tell him how they truly felt about their lives and experiences.  Just as we black folks today can't necessarily share all our feelings at work lest we be branded as radical or angry, I'd be willing to bet that the happy temperament of black folks that Phil Robertson experienced while picking cotton with them was the part of their feelings that was safe to share with whites during that time.  That is what he experienced.  The implication of his statement that this state of black affairs was "pre-welfare" and "pre-entitlement," although misguided and ill-informed, doesn't appear to me to be an expression of hate. Maybe I'm naïve.

I watch "Duck Dynasty," and I think many people who are quick to criticize Phil Robertson have never seen the show.  I enjoy the show.  The reason I enjoy it is because, like Tyler Perry's "Madea" movies, there's always a moral to each episode.  I like that they are family that hasn't let wealth change them, they stick together, and they have all the same characters and problems that all families have: A crazy but loving uncle (Uncle Si); a patriarch (Phil Robertson) who, like many Southern patriarchs, is really ruled by the matriarch of the family (Miss Kay); and adult sibling rivalry (Jase and Willie).  They end each episode at the dinner table saying grace and thanking the Lord for their blessings, like many families of all races do daily across the South.  They truly appear to love one another, and it's clear that Phil Robertson loves his family deeply.  What I don't see on the show, and what I've never seen, is hate.

I have advanced degrees from two Ivy League institutions, and I have lived all around this country. If you asked me to bet whether one of my "to the manor born" white Harvard classmates or white trash (his words) Phil Robertson would be most likely to help me if I were stranded by the side of the road, I'd pick Phil Robertson every time. He'd do it because, as a Southerner, he knows it would be The Right Thing To Do.

97,123 Words . . . and I'm Skurred

About a week ago, I turned in a manuscript of a book based on this blog to my sister, The Writing Diva, to edit. To put it in the parlance of the young folks, "I'm skurred."

Other than God, there is no one more powerful over a writer than an editor. Handing over a manuscript you've worked on to an editor is like preparing for death by a thousand red editing symbols. And when it comes to editing, nobody does it better than The Writing Diva.

TWD has been editing my work since I was a child. She's always been the better writer, the better thinker, you name it. Even my dad once reminded me of this in a not-too-kind manner: "You're smart, but Carol's smarter."

What makes handing my work over to her worse is that, as a personal rule, I never spend more than 30 minutes writing any blog entry. It was my attempt at keeping my writing "fresh" and "raw." Well, an editor takes your "raw" writing and makes it "well done," showing you all the mistakes you made along the way. Nothing like an editor to show you how much work you really need to do and that you're not as good a writer as you think you are. Ouch!

That said, I'm extremely grateful. One, I'm grateful that she's giving me a family discount on her editing services. Two, I'm grateful that she's actually started her own editing business, Mission: Clarity, to which I can make out a check and help a family member get a business off the ground. And three, I'm grateful that she's willing to take on this task because I know she won't treat it as just a job. She will do her best to make my work look better than what it is and to make me look smarter than I am.

She always has.

Watch for "Black Woman Blogging: Dangerous Thoughts of an Uppity Negress, 2007- 2010." I don't know who will be publishing it, but I'm determined to get it published.

And thanks to all my loyal readers. I truly appreciate your comments and kudos.

BWB

Don't Forget -- It Is a Christmas "Season"

It's easy in the midst of shopping, planning meals, cleaning house and preparing for holiday guests that it is a Christmas "season." Seasons don't last forever. If you don't take time out to enjoy the season, you'll look up and it'll be gone.

Enjoying the season doesn't have to mean spending a wad of cash. It's as easy as walking around your neighborhood or any neighborhood at night to look at Christmas lights. When BMNB and I lived in Colorado, that was one of our favorite things to do around Christmastime -- drive around at night and see the Christmas lights in the different neighborhoods around Denver.

You can donate canned goods from your pantry to a food bank knowing that a family in need will be fed and appreciative.

You can take time for yourself. Take a walk and get some fresh air and exercise -- 30 minutes of walking a day can make a world of difference if you've been sedentary for a long time. Stop and meditate -- clear you mind of stresses and worry. Read a good book while taking a bubble bath.

You can attend a free performance of "Handel's Messiah" -- like the "Handel's Messiah Sing-A-Long" on December 19th at the Mormon Temple in Oakland, California at 6:00 pm. I'm sure there's a free performance of either "Handel's Messiah" or "Handel's Messiah - A Soulful Celebration" somewhere where you live.

You can attend local performances of any variety of "The Nutcracker" or other holiday plays or shows, from high school performances on up. One of my personal favorites is "Granny Dances to a Holiday Drum" by the Cleo Parker Robinson Dance Troupe in Denver.

If you live where it snows, have a snowball fight with your kids. Make snow angels.

You can bake cookies and share them with neighbors.

Or, you can just put up your own Christmas decorations and marvel at them over a good cup of coffee or eggnog while listening to your favorite Christmas music and counting your blessings.

But hurry. Before you know it, the season will be over. Seasons don't last forever.