On Summertime...

*cue the obligatory Will Smith song*

Ah, yes. We have once again arrived at the point in time where we as young adults have the right, damn near obligation, to set loose, go out, forget work, and make less than reasonable mistakes. It's the summer, and it not only brings with it the end of classes and my birthday, but it may also be seen as the harbinger of a multitude of other pleasantries.

And here's a compiling of my favorites as I sit at my desk, finished with all assignments due, at 10-something AM:

• midnight movie viewings (Transformers is the ish. If you haven't seen it, you're late already.) HP will be that crack. Yeah, I said it.
• 3 AM IHOP. Not to be confused with 3 AM WaHo in the L during the academic year. See, that 3 AM IHOP is significantly sweeter and delicious because you don't go back to your dorm room feeling the syrupy guilt digesting in your stomach...
• summer weekends! ie. 5 PM Friday-11 PM Sunday night. 11 PM because I've assigned myself a summer bedtime for Sundays. Law school apparently induces suicide-level stresses, and I don't need that kind of problem compounded with sleep deprivation. Depression isn't sexy folks...
• COOKING OUT. Nothing better than carcinogens on red meat. I'm actually serious on this.
• music overload. Welcome back to the city little girl, bring with you your deprived ears and saturate them with caressing melodies, witty rhymes, and new artists. (Wale's "Chillin'" is a new must. Not new per se, but a definite windows down blaster for me.)
• co-worker interaction. Indulge in the inter-office drama from the outside and temporarily as you, the perennial intern, are subject to it for only 2-3 months. teheehee.
• DVR/TiVo. You are no longer a true TV-watcher until you have induced comatose behavior to enjoy a full season of a show that was not available on your campus. (see: HBO's Brand New Voices. My heart was always with Hawaii, no lie. And if that Philly coach had cried ONE MORE TIME, I was going to take a train ride and whoop up on him. Punk.)

This list is not exhaustive by any means, but someone just did the I'm-going-to-walk-into-your-cubicle-and-be-nosy routine. You're not slick...

More later!

On Social Interactions (The Party Edition)...

Partying to different people means different things. To some, partying is a full out event, including the pre-, during, and post- sessions. Others use it as a miniature diversion in between studying/working. Still some decide that partying is an excuse to partake in behavior that they would normally condemn if seen outside of a dark, humid, sweaty, alcohol-tinged lens.

What do I think of it?

Well...personally, I think that partying can be best described as a way for me to enjoy the company of others in a setting where we all are relaxed, happy, and energetic. It becomes a place where we can all dance and move around in each other without having to explain ourselves because everyone else feels the beat is breathing in the atmosphere and has let go of the complicated thoughts of the day.

Picture this:

You walk into a room, reasonably lit, with light reflecting off of the white surfaces in an irresistible glow...the bass of the music resounds in your ears, drowning out the panicked racing of you heart from life's stresses...almost sub-consciously, your body moves to the beat that you have been carried into the center of the room by, pulled as if by a lasso...and you just move, touching others occasionally, sometimes intentionally other times by chance, but either way, you just go with it...conversation is limited to smiling and singing lyrics across small groups of other party-goers...and as the needle scratches the vinyl of that song, the party pulses in unison, knees bent, heads high, hands moving, as one...

From the Chitlin' Circuit drop-ins of decades past to the extravagance of Gatsby's West Egg smashes, partying is a part of life.

Love it.

On Black Women and Lyrical Content...

Yesterday, as with many days, I began an interesting conversation in the dining hall of my predominantly white institution of higher education. The conversation involved only Black students (and by Black, I mean any person who, when walking down Main Street when this university was founded, would have been quickly shackled, silenced, and sent to the fields), and circled around the topic of lyrics in rap music. The conversation sounded something like this:

Black Guy 1: How do you, as Black women, listen to rap music?
Black Guy 2: I know, I don't understand how you all do it...
Black Woman 1: Easy...they're not talking about me.
(Laughter)
BG1: But I think they might be.
BW2: Really, I just ignore the lyrics in the verses and most of the chorus and go with the catchy beat.
BW3 (Myself): Personally, I think Black women are caught up in mixed messages by rappers. One second Tupac is talking about how bad life is for us with "Brenda's Got a Baby" ---
BG1: Then you have "I Get Around".
BW3: Exactly...

So what's the point? Why do we continuously subject ourselves to lyrics that oftentimes demean and slander us as women, placing us, in my opinion, into three categories: the whore, the gold-digger, the wife/mother. We are left with few options, and little chance of forging a new identity within the constraints of pop culture. Nowadays, some men tell us that the lines are not so defined, that you don't care about her past indiscretions because you love her, or that it's a free world and we can all do what we want, but the second the two of you are in an argument, out come the insults:

slut
whore
b*tch
ho
slutty ho b*tch
b*tchy slut whore

...you get the picture.

So here's my theory: Black women, you have a tough decision to make. You can choose to distinguish yourself firmly on either side of the line, pro-freedom of expression or anti-rap lyrics degrading women, or you can do what I like to call the auditory bachata...swaying side to side in a rhythmic dance preparing for the next verbal assault or lyric uplifting.

Black men, you have a responsibility to be honest, yes, but to also be respectful. You can continue to barrage of vulgarities flung so freely in our direction, or you can make an effort to taper that type of talk so that your mother/sister/wife/daughter doesn't become another casualty.