Digging Deep

IDI AMIN: SHOULD WE IMMORTALIZE HIM OR FORGET COMPLETELY?

Keith Josef Adkins — Wed, 14 May 2008 12:29:47 GMT

Saturday night I saw an off-Broadway play that featured Idi Amin as a character. The play is called Steve and Idi and it follows the life of a writer named Steve who after losing his partner, agent and a big career-making opportunity decides to take his own life. But instead of dying from his overdose he's visited by the ghost of Idi Amin. And Idi Amin has one request: write a play about his life in Uganda. And in doing so, Idi promises Steve that his career would flourish.

Now I saw Forest Whitaker's Oscar-winning performance of Idi Amin in the Last King of Scotland and I was blown away. However, I still questioned why we're expected to indulge in an icon who unleashed mammoth bloodshed across Uganda. I felt the same for Denzel Washington's performance of Frank Lucas in American Gangster. Decent performance, no doubt, but Lucas introduced pure heroine into 1970s Harlem, destroyed hundreds of black lives, and some believe may have single-handedly help turn Harlem into one of the most economically and socially vulnerable cities in the country.

Well, the Idi Amin character in the comedy Steve and Idi is pumped in for Amin's legacy as a loud-mouth tyrant and a somewhat theatrical personality. And although Evan Dexter Parke [King Kong, Alias, Planet of the Apes] embodies Idi with so much vigor and grandiose, it's jaw-dropping, the play uses Idi to show Steve that beneath every docile smile, every diplomatic choice, there's a raging, hurt person who could not only morph into a murdering monster, but in fact, should do just that. You know, expose the demons so one can be real. In other words, Idi is used to demonstrate that our true closeted nature is what brings notoriety, not the mask of congeniality and passiveness. An interesting idea, yes...

But I'm still left wondering if the Idi Amins of the world deserve to be public examples of how to succeed [or not] in the Man's game. Is using Idi Amin in modern storytelling simply an American fantasia because most of us are removed from those atrocities? Or, on some subtle level, is this a commentary on how Americans may paint themselves as diplomatic, good-natured citizens, but in fact, beneath the unbothered surface, there's a beast within, waiting to reap havoc [or reaping havoc]? That Americans may spend a great deal of time pointing out the horrid actions of other countries, but maybe the finger should pointed inward? I don't know.

Bottom line? Should Idi Amin be immortalized?

THE TONY AWARDS: THE GREAT WHITE WAY IS LOOKING REAL BROWN THESE DAYS

Keith Josef Adkins — Tue, 13 May 2008 12:17:34 GMT

The Tony Award nominations are in! Broadway's annual red-carpet recognition of what talent shinned this year in mega-bucks theater. And yes, I tend to be a downtown theater guy. Meaning I prefer the more edgier canon of the off-Broadway scene over the commercial appeal of Broadway. But this theater season is taking a lot more risks with shows shaped around Black and Latin talent and that pleases me very much, and it pleases me more they're earning top-notch accolades.

Here's the deal: Laurence Fishburne was nominated for Best Actor in a Play for his role in Thurgood. The brother rocked, no doubt. He's really one of our best. And dare I say he trumps Denzel. S.Epatha Merkerson [of Law and Order fame] was nominated for Best Actress in a Play for her portrayal of Lola Delaney in the revival Come Back Little Sheba. And although I didn't see this performance, S. Epatha is always transcendent. I saw her in Suzan Lori Parks' F*cking A several years ago at the Public Theater, and her portrayal of Hester the abortionist was one of the most visceral performances I had ever seen. The commitment and honesty she brings to her craft reminds me why I NEED live theater.

Lin-Manuel Miranda's In the Heights, the Latin Hip Hop Musical, picked up 13 nominations including Best Musical and Best Direction of a Musical. Now I'm not a traditional musical guy, but the dancing and energy in In The Heights was darn-close to the feel one gets at a real-deal Salsa spot in Miami or Santo Domingo. And I should add: Lin-Manuel is one of the most gifted 27 year olds making theater on the planet. And of course, my favorite, Passing Strange got 7 Tony noms, including Best Featured Actor [and Actress] in a Musical as well as Best Musical. Passing Strange also recently won the New York Drama Critics' Circle Award for Best Musical. I may just pay another 50 bucks to see it for the FIFTH time.

I think it's safe to say the colored contingency is certainly doing what's necessary on Broadway. From a black rocker finding his voice abroad to a Dominican-American community trying to hold on to their gentrifying neighborhood, commercial and eclectic success is amok on the Great White Way.

I suggest if you're not in the greater NYC area, find a cheap air or rail ticket, get to Broadway and celebrate this rare and special thing happening in commercial theater—talented artists of color making light on Broadway!

And here are some recommendations [in case you need a brotherly nudge]:

Passing Strange

In The Heights

Thurgood

Country Girl [with Morgan Freeman]

The Good Negro [this is off-Broadway, but it features Anthony Mackie as a civil rights activist being monitored by the FBI]

August: Osage County [one of the funniest, most engaging plays in years. it won the Pulitzer Prize]

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

They may not all be to your liking, but they're certainly worth the trouble. And if you don't want to pay full-price [because I NEVER do], you can purchase half-price tickets at TKTS on the day of the performance. And sometimes fifteen minutes prior to curtain. TKTS is a Broadway discount booth located near the Marriot Marquis on West 46th between Broadway and 8th Avenue. Get here!

Celebrating Mom Even When She's Gone

Keith Josef Adkins — Sat, 10 May 2008 11:04:06 GMT

My mom was daring. She was unconventional, a maverick, a beauty and as her peers insist, "very, very bright." And there are certainly many moms who can be described as such. But when you're living in a community of super-conservatives in the 70s and 80s who rely on tradition to navigate every impulse, it's actually quite revolutionary. This weekend is special for me. It's Mother's Day and it's my moment to take a moment to illuminate my mom.

Although she was the granddaughter of a Meharry Medical student and her family dated back to early 18th century Virginia as land-owning free people of color, my mom wasn't impressed by the high-brow. In fact, she preferred to socialize among everyday folk. She often broke bread in our kitchen with some recently-divorced or personally emancipated woman who was having difficulty lifting her chin. Well, my mom was the lifter and the encourager. She went out of her way to point out the beauty and possibility in these women who for decades had been told they offered nothing. And although I was aware this sacred activity was taking place, I was not interested. This little brother preferred my afternoon Scooby Doo or Speed Racer and a cold glass of milk. It wasn't until my mom lost her battle with ovarian cancer a decade ago did I realize the weight and breadth of her doings.

Her family was cash-poor. My grandfather, who owned a seafood market, had a very well-paying job but didn't handle his finances appropriately. My grandmother had come from a somewhat privileged background, but caring for her sickly mother prohibited her from taking advantage of the future she was expected to have. Well, my mother didn't believe history should be used as a blueprint for the future. Not her parents, or the world's. She didn't believe in yesterday and she certainly didn't believe in wasting today. She advocated independence, the forging of personal ideology, and supplying her children with every bit of knowledge about race, sex, work ethic and the danger of acquiescing to what other people think.

But what stands out the most was the spring of my First Communion. This was before my mom left the Catholic Church and decided to create her own spiritual tradition. For some reason First Communion was happening around Mother's Day. A week before, or after, I don't remember. But my mother had been dropping me off for catechism instruction at a church member's home. She would drop me off and then drive away and return in a few hours. The catechism instructor would let me stand in the living room, but no further than that. In fact, she wouldn't even let me sit. She would go into the kitchen and grab some water and then bring me back outside where she'd instruct me on the porch. And when it got darker, we'd remain on the porch, lights unlit.

Well, my mother pulled up early one day and saw me squinting in the dark. She quickly got out of her Nova, instructed me to grab my stuff and get in the car and wait. I was bit taken off-guard and surprised to see she and the instructor go inside, all the way into the kitchen. From my vantage point, I saw my mother doing most of the talking and from her facial expressions it was clear she was pelting the instructor with the truth-telling my mom was famous for. The instructor broke out in tears. Moments later we were on the road heading home. My mom looked down at me and said no son of hers would sit on a cold porch in the dark and learn about religion. Ever! Oh...she also said that church was "for the birds". And that's all that was ever said.

Moments like that were plenty. I'd need a year to list them all and give them their full color. But I so appreciate my mom. And today I'd like to celebrate her courage, her innate compassion, her planting the seeds for me to hopefully learn to be an unrelenting me. For showing me one daring example.

Happy Moms Day!

Chitlins and Martinis: No Thanks.

Keith Josef Adkins — Thu, 08 May 2008 17:07:36 GMT

When an upscale neighborhood committee tells an upscale black lounge that they don't need a liquor license because you don't need a martini when you're eating Chitlins... what is one to think?

My writing life is pretty consistent. The bulk of work happens between 7am and 3pm. Then I grab the backpack, head into the Big Apple's cultural and social terrain and bump heads with my folks who like to think big and do it up with style. So it's no surprise I can be found in some back corner of some funky new lounge sipping on something mellow and trying to gear conversation away from the topical Top 40 and into something that challenges how we live on the uh... personal-politcal-cultural front.

Which slides me into this: I've recently discovered this new spot in Soho called Lola. A downtown Manhattan upscale swank catering to the neo-Buppie and all of his or her doctor-lawyer friends. It's not my ideal atmosphere [I tend to smooze in a more artsy scene], but I was surprised to hear they had no liquor license. That this specific clientele was being asked to chill without a chiller. Well, Chloe A. Hilliard wrote an article in this week's Village Voice that exposes the crazy behind Lola's lack of liquor flow.

Hilliard reveals that the Soho Alliance, a community action group, has little tolerance for the liquor license crowd. Apparently, the area in Soho where Lola resides has been inundated recently with new, hip spots to drink and lounge. However, in the case of Lola, folks are crying racism. Why? Well, Soho Alliance director Sean Sweeney has been very critical about Lola's need for a liquor license. Allegedly, he's gone on record to say: "I don't think you need a martini to go with chitlins and collard greens." And... What type of wine pairs with Jambalaya? He's even been accused of spearheading an aggressive anti-Lola campaign: somebody's been posting anti-Lola flyers all over Soho.

Many of Lola's supporters believe the neighborhood group is concerned the martini-drinking black crowd will get rowdy and spill violence into the street because that's what martini-drinking professional black folks do on Hump Day. Get lit and create lots of ruckus just to irritate The Man.

It's pretty ridiculous to me that any establishment is expected to exist without liquor on the shelf. Especially in NYC where folks will spend twenty dollars for a Ginger Beer Mojito. But I am suspect and disturbed by the Soho Alliance's aggressive stance against Lola's. It seems we're always watched, accessed and policed. It's just a sad state of affairs when the image of professional black people chilling and listening to music garners so much outrage. Honestly, if the spot is lucky it may be around for a year.

I've attached Chloe Hilliard's article for your perusal.

The Obama Panic!!!

Keith Josef Adkins — Wed, 07 May 2008 11:08:24 GMT

Here it is: I'm picking through my mixed veggies at this Vietnamese foodie when one of my dinner mates asked about the Primaries. It was a blast back to reality considering we were in mid-convo about a friend's new play. A fantasia piece about black folks fearing the dissolution of their cultural and historical significance in this era of global gadgetry. Interesting stuff. So much so we completely forgot about Obama and Hilliary duking it out in Hoosier Land.

I tried calling my friend Hakeem in Los Angeles for the latest. He's always on the pulse of what's new with Obama. His phone went straight to voicemail. No problem. One of my dinner mates called her mother in Virginia. She was certain moms would know something. Moms' phone went straight to voicemail. We panicked. I checked my missed alerts and noticed Hakeem [and Rashaad] had called thirty minutes prior and I somehow missed those calls. Something had happened. Either Obama had lost both North Carolina and Hoosier Country and the world had gone into turmoil. Or Hilliary won both Primaries and our friends and fam had gathered in some underground cave awaiting the end of the world. I pushed my mixed veggies to the end of the table.

My dinner mate abruptly excused herself and went to the restroom. I'm assuming she needed to splash that face with cold water. What would we do if Obama lost the Primaries? Would it prove what some skeptics had been predicting: Reverend Wright's random cockiness last week had indeed bulldozed Obama's campaign and the American public couldn't see him as anything more than the doting pupil of some Afrocentric jackleg preacher who wants to lock away all Whites inside a dungeon of oppression as blacks take over the world?

I looked over at my other dinner mate, seeking comfort, reassurance. But interesting enough he had been quiet during our panic. He was just quietly forking his Lemongrass Chicken. So I said to him, If Hilliary wins NC and the Hoosiers I'd pack it up and move to Canada. He said nothing. Odd, I thought. So I called Hilliary and Bill a couple of Carpetbaggers and that I wouldn't trust a Clinton to pour me a glass of water on my dying day. He still said nothing. Yep. A Clinton supporter was in our midst. A Clinton supporter had actually snuck under my nose and I was speechless. I decided to take the final sip of my mediocre wine and comment on its lack of bouquet. You know, because this was awkward. He looked up at my forced segue and offered a half smile. One of those "you're an idiot and you just called Hilliary a carpetbagger but I'm going to be civilized and just eat my chicken" smiles.

I decided I wouldn't mention this to the other dinner mate. Earlier in the night she confessed this guy was a new friend and I didn't want to say anything to compromise their new friendship. That may sound crazy, but folks get hard-core passionate about their politicians. And I wasn't even sure if she knew about his allegiance.

My other dinner-mate finally returned from the restroom looking energized. She spoke to her mother. Obviously we were the only humans on the planet who didn't know Obama had won North Cackalacky and was neck to neck with Hilliary in Indiana. I was relieved and decided to flaunt in front of you know who. So as we were leaving the foodie I said, You know Hilliary can have Indiana if she wants, but if she wins the nomination we may have to burn this baby down. My dinner-mate laughed in agreement [she clearly had no idea we were dining with a Clinton disciple]. I was kidding, of course. But it feels good to take a Clinton jab when someone close by can actually feel it. Especially after you go into a panic about Obama losing and the end of the world and a Clintonite is there to witness it. Sometimes folks just need to know who really has the upper hand.

Racism and Classism among the Ivy League

Keith Josef Adkins — Sat, 03 May 2008 11:43:56 GMT

With two days left of the Tribeca Film Festival, Robert DeNiro's brainchild to attract cultural revenue to post-911 NYC, I'm determined to see as many films as possible within a 48-hour period. One documentary was a must. Zoned-In. Daniella Zanzotto's peek at an inner-city teen's transformation from a drug dealer's son to a Brown University grad. And what made this documentary particularly interesting was Zanzotto followed her subject for 9 years.

Zanzotto initially set out to examine the notoriously edgy Taft High School in the South Bronx and give commentary to our country's failing public school system. But one student stood out. Daniel Nartey. He was smart, street savvy, introspective and a budding radical. Zanzotto found her true subject. And by the time Zanzotto returned to Taft High for a more focused study of Nartey, the young man had been accepted to Brown. Something Zanzotto claimed was uncommon among teens living in such crime-ridden neighborhoods.

What I was hoping to see was the journey of a young man as he explored life beyond the projects, beyond environmental racism and a life of drugs. And for the most part I saw that. Nartey had enough determination to pull his entire community in the South Bronx out of poverty and crime and into the heights of suburban prosperity. But something went wrong in Nartey's journey. And I don't mean in the narrative of his life, but in the documentary itself. Nartey became a complainer. Well at least that's what the filmmaker decided to zoom in on. His initial commentary about his first year at Brown and his alienation was understandable. He can't find any relatable black students. He's even placed on academic probation due to his alleged loneliness. But after the fourth year of his journey and complaints about race and class were still amok, the documentary became frustrating. And by the day of his graduation when he was meandering around the ceremony complaining about being marginalized, I began to get restless. Hey, I don't doubt it's tough at the Ivy Leagues. And I'm certain campus and academic life could be far more satisfying if universities created more programs to help transition "non-traditional" students. I think.

But what Zanzotto doesn't do is give context to Daniel's alienation. She doesn't show Daniel in his classrooms where he claimed both instructor and students were against him. She doesn't interview any of his instructors in order to offer a different point of view about Brown life. She doesn't interview any other students. All we got was one young black Ivy Leaguer from the South Bronx walking through the halls of Brown with a chip on his shoulder. And that wasn't fair.

Now I was very happy Zanzotta introduced her audience to Daniel Nartey. An introspective young man determined to make it against all odds. An intelligent student who managed to graduate from Brown and return to the South Bronx and teach. But there was nothing in between. No obstacles to help us appreciate the outcome of his journey. By the way, he gets married, gets partial custody of his son... but we see none of it.

But there was something Nartey said during his Brown graduation that stayed with me. He said he felt like he was an experiment. That Brown only accepted him as a student to pat themselves on the back and say they were making progress for admitting a poor black kid from the Bronx.

I wondered then if this was the truth to the entire documentary. Why wasn't there any classroom footage? Why wasn't there any interviews from instructors or mentors? During his AfAm Studies commencement Nartey collapsed into his Chairman's arms and cried. And there appeared to be a bond between the two. That was a shock considering we never saw him interact with anyone, and he certainly never mentioned any positive experiences with faculty or peer.

I'm not trying to throw salt at the filmmaker. I'm simply saying she may have done herself a disservice by leaving out all the footage that would actually humanize Nartey. You know, pro and con the young brother. Show him as a full-fledged human being trying to navigate through academic life as opposed to a mouth piece against Ivy education and privilege.

When The Price of Gas Forces A Brother To Beg

Keith Josef Adkins — Fri, 02 May 2008 11:59:58 GMT

I just returned from Cincinnati where I was there to celebrate my dad's birthday. You know, the soul-hipster artsy son flies in to cook up Quinoa Vegetable Paella and Roasted Pear for his Pops like he's fresh from a Top Chef elimination. But I believe in clean eating and if had one wish my family would relieve their colons of a burdensome meat and frosted cake diet and think quality, not longevity. However, I offered my meal and the fam ate with a smile. All was good. Until my father's nephew called asking to borrow six dollars. I couldn't believe it. First, it was my dad's birthday. Can the man sit back, relax and celebrate his birth? Secondly, who in their right mind borrows six dollars and then needs the money brought to them? At the age of 46?

Of course one would say a coke or heroine addict. Or one of those aimless, derelict men families [and the media] like to demonize. I certainly had my litany of insults ready and aimed. A 46 year old viable brother borrowing chump change translated into a big old loser and I was embarrassed. I was ready to call him back and tell him to pick up his bootstraps and high-tail to Vegas where jobs were plenty. But then my dad mentioned the nephew needed the six bucks to get to a painting job. A job where he was certain to make enough money to repay the loan early next week. Wow. Gas money. The nephew needed gas money. And why wouldn't that be an issue. It's 3.60 a gallon. Besides, the Adkins family reunion had been cancelled for the summer due to the economic pinch. There was even mention of a few annual social events that had severely reduced attendance due to the price of gas and folks being "cautious". The nephew, I believe, was experiencing the same setback.

I was humbled. My foot smack-dabbed in the mouth.

What I didn't mention was this particular nephew had a history of obstacles. A few arrests, unemployment, and a case of scoliosis that led to prescriptive meds that led to abuse of those meds. But lately he's been on what they call "the good foot". Making every effort to maintain a job, be drug free [which of course means out of the radar of the Cincinnati police]. But it's this latest tug on our national economy that's forcing the nephew to retreat. After all the effort he's put into picking up his momentum, the price of gas is forcing him to beg for what was once a measly six dollars.

There's certainly a lesson for me in this. Everyone's not celebrating birthdays with Veggie Paella. Some are actually scouring their sofas for gas money.

The Revenge of a Disgruntled Assistant to a Top Notch Writer

Keith Josef Adkins — Thu, 01 May 2008 14:42:59 GMT

A friend of mine told me not to blog about this. He told me if I did I could get jacked with a slander claim or worse. But I'm a daredevil. Meaning I thrive on the slim chance of repercussion. I'm lying... kinda. Anyway, several years ago I was the assistant to a up-and-coming extremely talented novelist who drove me the frick crazy. Now I may or may not refrain from using this writer's name. But for now I'll just say she's a woman, African-American, lived in California and the musical predecessor to Rock-n-Roll was the muse that made her pen go buck-wild and win a few top-notch awards.

For a brief period I was assistant to this novelist who was in residency at, let's say the University of... South Dakota. Student body: 10, 000. African-American and/or African count? 103. 98 of whom were shipped-in [well, flown-in] athletes. Now before I go any further let me explain the impetus for this post. Yesterday I was perusing through the Wednesday schedule for the Tribeca Film Fest and some interesting indie film caught my attention. Not the content of the film, but the locale. It was set in Fort Collins and quickly reminded me of my torrid assistantship. Did I say Fort Collins? I meant South Dakota.

Anyway... I was naive and willing to please my novelist/employer who not only nailed a piece of not-so-titillating erotica on the wall next to the bathroom, she also kept a rock at the foot of her office door so I wouldn't take a peek or leak the content of her galleys. Both of which were maddening, but the real doozy was the time she reprimanded me in front of a group of grad students for sabotaging her career. I was given the responsibility of removing an overabundance of praise from a story by a student of color. Her rationale: she didn't want the other students to think she was playing favorites based on ethnicity. Well, apparently I screwed up. During a group reading, another student noticed an area on the story where things looked smudged. My employer was livid. In front of everyone, I was accused of setting her up to fail. For trying to destroy the career of an African-American writer.

Then came the fire.

The fire certainly could have come out of some deep-seated frustration or subconscious rage. But it wasn't intentional. My point is: Later that week when the novelist was away in Boulder and I was attempting to make some of her infamous catfish. I forgot the oil heating on the stove and boom! Smoke, a thoughtless toss of water, and fire. Luckily, I was able to open the kitchen door quick enough and the cold Colorado air, I mean Dakota, scared the flames back into the pan. But the fire left its mark: smoke, a singed ceiling and a cough. And trust me, I did everything imaginable to hide the disaster. I sprayed Lysol, opened windows, scrubbed like a madman, I even boiled cinnamon.

When my novelist returned later that evening I handed her a message from Susan L. Taylor, her editor at Random House and the mail. She quickly instructed me to get her son on the phone and to close the windows. All I could do was cough. She looked at me, turned her nose up and asked, Were you cooking? I smiled, coughed and said, I tried making your catfish. She was in her room, door locked, before I could explain anything else. Whew!

I don't know. That oil fire felt a bit like sweet revenge. Trust me, being an assistant can be hard on the subconscious.

Oni Faida Lampley: A Black Woman and Her Cancer

Keith Josef Adkins — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 12:59:14 GMT

Black women have recently made mucho headway in that thing called theater arts. From Pulitzer Prize winner Suzan-Lori Parks to MacArthur Genius Awardee Lynn Nottage, black women have been creatively and ingeniously unearthing what makes them tick. They have been adding to the canon of world drama the importance of durability, compromise and self-examination as it contributes to how a gender lives and how that gender influences and challenges the larger [or some may say] smaller world.

Well, the theater community lost one of those amazing and viable artists yesterday. Oni Faida Lampley. Oni, actor and playwright, lost her courageous and public battle with *** cancer.

Oni Faida is known for many things in the theater world. Two of which are her amazing gift as an actress and her red-hot voice as a playwright. Her Helen Hayes-nominated play, The Dark Kalamazoo, chronicled her neo-AfroBohemian journey to Africa in search of complete cultural oblivion. Of course, like most home-seeking treks to Africa, her journey painfully and necessarily leads her back to her original self. But it's Oni Faida's hard-hitting play, Tough Titty, that garnered much attention and well-deserved praise. Tough Titty is the story of a black woman who discovers she has *** cancer and must learn to quickly balance her life between her children, husband, art, and the nagging and often revolutionary question, What Did She Do Wrong?

Oni Faida was special. Not so much because she was daredevil to explore her illness and its impact in her art [because I was indeed in awe of her bravery and even more in awe of watching an artist work within the pulse of her very own life], but she was talking about black women and their cancer and that never happens on stage. My mother battled ovarian cancer several years ago and lost, but her triumph was in how she fought. However after seeing a workshop of Tough Titty at South Coast Repertory, I realized I didn't know what was really happening with my mother's inner-life. Certainly she was challenged by the chemo, the pressures from work and home, but something else was occurring beneath the joyful albeit focused exterior. Something that wouldn't let her [others] give in to the mortality of her illness. Well, Oni Faida's Tough Titty gave voice to that. It gave voice to a black woman who was expected to be mother, wife, progressive, real, and tightrope with cancer. And the voice she created didn't offer any solutions, but it certainly gave structure and power to that battling illness song.

If I could assess Oni Faida's life through her art I would say she was focused, scared as hell, determined, unapologetic and extraordinarily creative. They say illness and tragedy brings out the basic foundation in people. Well, if Oni Faida's Tough Titty is any indication of what lived at the core of her humanity, I am indeed inspired and glad, so glad, she used her life as a means to speak to her audiences about fighting the odds.

As an artist I thank her. As the son of a black woman who battled cancer I thank her. Thanks, Oni Faida!

Sean Bell in Brooklyn

Keith Josef Adkins — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 12:05:44 GMT

I actually thought I could end the day without thinking about Sean. Go through my weekend and pretend it didn't happen the way it happened. I really believed I could avoid every email, Facebook update, every subtle and/or vocal comment in Fort Greene, Brooklyn as if it was no big thing. An unarmed young black groom shot at 50 times was an easy hurdle to jump. Right? Or maybe I was thinking I didn't have room in my psyche to translate it. Yeh, that's it. I was still deciphering the crazy of Rodney King, Amadou Diallo, the unarmed Timothy Thomas of Cincinnati, who after being shot to death by a white police officer, set off the Cincinnati Riots of 2001, a riot my father got caught in, fearful for his life. Whatever the logic for my denial, by day's end it was impossible to sustain. Sean Bell and his assasins' acquittal was real and everybody from Bed-Stuy to Park Slope was talking about it.

So there I was: Sitting at a screening of my friend Karamuu Kush's film at Creatively Speaking, a Brooklyn-based film fest for filmmakers of African descent, enjoying his work, and Sean Bell on my mind. Afterwards I parlayed over to some local foodie with Karamuu and several of his supporters and folks started unraveling.

And the unravel was clear: we were outraged, disappointed, not surprised at all, and just simply mad.

But after five minutes I didn't know what else to say. There had to be more than just giving color to some profane outburst. I kept thinking we've been here before. It's no secret men of African-descent are targeted everyday. We're given that second glance, that clutched purse, that random pacifying smile in case, you know, we need sudden pacifying. If we're not careful, our stress levels alone could kills us. But something about this was different. Maybe because two out of the three assailants were black. Maybe it was because I'm getting tired of having to walk this line of suspicion and comfort with white and black authority trained to attack black.

Then it hit me. Obama. Obama's pending presidency. His plea for clarity in a murky political system. His demand for this country to uplift and be smarter. His very presence as a man of color in the ultimate political game. For the last several months Obama has sunk into my subconscious and I believed we were moving somewhere else, being primed to be nationally intolerant to blatant injustice. Even with the Reverend Wright controversy and the aftermath of what I call his "contexualizing American racism" speech, I believed change was imminent. I still believe. That's why the Sean Bell travesty really unnerves me I think. Lately, public conversation has been smarter, more inclusive, [not perfect, but hopeful]. I've been feeling hopeful. But after yesterday's jury-less judgment I'm forced to remove myself from the Obama-bubble and stick my nose back in the real. Obama or not, it appears the social climate of this country continues to condone a police culture that unleashes 50 bullets onto a unarmed young black groom. At least that's what the acquittal suggests. At least that's what I can't deny at a film fest or in the privacy of my own mind.

Honestly, will the day ever come...

Stuck between a Soap Opera and a Career

Keith Josef Adkins — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 11:23:49 GMT

Many of my NYC crew [both actors and writers] have had much success in paying the rent by working in Daytime. It's a starting point for many. A legit way to get on-camera [or off-] experience as well as national public exposure. Now I have to admit, I never could get into soap operas. I was always interested at looking at the world through a more alternative lens and soaps were way too formulaic. If I had to rely on whether Jesse truly loved Angie on All My Children to learn the politics of love, I would consider myself pathetic. Although the hypocrisy behind that statement is when I was in grad school and the woman from ABC Daytime Development showed up looking for playwrights to morph into Soap writers... well, yes, I was the first in line ready to sign my name on the formulaic line.

Which brings me to this: most of the recently WGA blacklisted fi-core writers were Daytime writers [see yesterday's post]. And during the recent history-making WGA strike, word on the street was Daytime was also hiring scabs. Those desperate, and I'm sure hungry, non-union [and union] writers who crossed the picket line and worked anyway.

Which brings me to THIS: a good friend landed a Daytime writing gig a few years ago. I won't mention the Soap, or the writer's name, but after years struggling to make ends meet as a playwright, my friend finally snagged a decent gig writing the formulaic. [And that meant more time to hang with me at my favorite wine and foodie in Los Feliz.] But like most writers, Daytime is a starting point. Respectable work, but not intended to stretch into a lifetime. Especially when you have your heart and creativity set on being a prime-time writer.

Well, the prime-time opportunity knocked. My friend met with this award-winning prime-time show and was literally hired on the spot. This particular show really loved the idea of bringing on a writer with a background in Daytime. [Unbeknownst to many, Daytimers have sought-after craft.] My friend informed the Daytime boss of the good news. At first suggesting a cut-back in weekly scripts, you know, hoping to negotiate a respectful means to transition into the dream-come-true. The Daytime boss said two things: No. And you already have a job, you should be happy with this. Translation: my friend was bound to a three-year contract and had no means to counter it.

When I was told this I couldn't believe it. My friend's pending new-employer couldn't believe it. How could an employer, a writer, deny another writer the chance to expand in their career? How could an employer, a writer, go to sleep at night and not feel sick for not breaking a contract so another younger writer could have their dream-come-true? I begged my friend to let me go over to the Studio and demand the employer for a logical explanation. My friend laughed; I was serious.

Out of frustration, I explained the scenario to another writer-friend, a veteran Daytimer, who offered some substantial food for thought: Well, Keith, you know how the characters and storylines on the Soaps are full of bickering, backstabbing, disappearances and entrances without any logical explanation? I answered, Yes. They continued: Well, it takes a certain type of environment to create those kind of stories. Enough said. I think. For now.

Hollywood's Black List Is No Laughing Matter

Keith Josef Adkins — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 13:23:26 GMT

A week ago the Writer's Guild of America sent out an email to all of its members. It was the fi-core blacklist. A list of guild members who left the union during the infamous 2007 strike to sustain personal needs. Fi-Core, for those who forgot, legally allows writers to work union-gigs, etc. without having to contribute, in any way, to union political activities. Among the blacklist? John Ridley. Screenwriter/director Ridley is known for penning the first draft of Three Kings with George Clooney and Ice Cube. [Although it is said none of his words remained in the actual movie.] He also penned Undercover Brother with Eddie Griffin and Aujanue Ellis, and brought us the Showtime series Barbershop, inspired by the film franchise of the same name.

I was aware that members had gone Fi-Core during the strike. It was the topic during plenty of strike mornings as we kept hope alive during storm, flu and an unhelpful Al Sharpton. But that awareness turned into fury when my strike captain lost her job at a daytime soap because her executive producer hired non-union writers and embraced the return of Fi-Core writers. Yes, while my strike captain was away risking her financial stability, and possibly her career, for the greater cause, she was trumped by a sell-out.

Yesterday a friend asked what I felt about the blacklisted writers and John Ridley. My answer was simple: Yes. Blacklist those babies. Show the world who reneged on the greater cause out of fear, or pure selfishness. Hundreds of people walked in circles for months in order to make a statement to the industry we demanded a better percentage in our new-cyber infused industry. Hell, we chased down celebrity-politicians, took jobs folding clothes at The Gap, caught deadly viruses, some even applied for low-interest loans from the Guild because that's what unions do in turbulent times. What's that? Help out each other.

As far as John Ridely? Well, brother Ridley blasted the WGA for many reasons including being diversity-challenged, and he publicaly stated in the LA Times the WGA was a dictatorship. At one particular meeting in Santa Monica he claimed he was told no one was interested in hearing his opinion if it didn't support the larger WGA opinion about extending the strike and holding out for more reasonable bargaining. True or not, dozens upon dozens, including the former WGA president Frank Pierson was present at that meeting and swore those statements were viciously imagined. Ridley's statements, and being the only prime-time writer and screenwriter to go Fi-Core, was quickly deemed self-promoting and self-serving. Whether I feel the same way [because I never met the brother to assess his alleged cut-throat career strategies; however I do agree the WGA is diversity-challenged], Ridley went fi-core and he should most certainly be publicly blacklisted. Like all the rest.

Anyone want to chime in? I've attached the WGA statement and list below.

Thurgood instead of Obama: Just for the Night

Keith Josef Adkins — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 11:20:45 GMT

Obama may have lost Pennsylvania, but the road to triumph for a black attorney is not easy. Just ask actor Laurence Fishburne. I mean, Thurgood Marshall. I mean... actually, they both have a lot to say on the matter.

As the polls were leaning in Clinton's favor, I decided I needed to take refuge somewhere—a cafe, a wine bar. Anyplace quiet and relaxing. I knew I would break a nerve if Clinton won PA. In my opinion, she and her horn-tooting, Harlem-loving hubby have both morphed into a couple of political snakes and I'm not happy. So ding! [Yeh, that's a bell.] I remembered Laurence Fishburne was playing Thurgood Marshall on Broadway in a play called Thurgood and I had thirty minutes to get there before curtain. I hurried down to the subway to catch that forever-moody Q-Train and of course, they made an announcement it wasn't running. I panicked. I needed this theatrical fix, bad. It was either front seats at Thurgood or a crazy-literary type black guy snapping at the first Clinton supporter he saw. Well, the stars must have been in Clinton's favor because a R-Train arrived and away to Broadway I went. I was ten minutes late of course and convinced I wouldn't get in. But the box office manager saw my desperate face and scrambled through his resources for a $180 ticket to a nearly sold-out performance. He found one. A freebie. He threw it at me and told me to get going.

Yep. I was one happy Obama-supporter. My freebie was for a nose-bleed seat, but hey, who's complaining. I was away from the torture of watching Clinton gain momentum in Pennsylvania and Laurence Fishburne, I mean Thurgood Marshall, was the revenge I needed. I'm saying: A brilliant black attorney on a public stage roll-calling his grandiose accomplishments during an era of extreme political and racial imbalance. Brown verses the Board of Education, his desegregation of the University of Maryland Law School. For a moment I forgot about Obama and his uphill battle in PA and completely surrendered to the world of Thurgood.

Fishburne was great, no doubt. He's a brilliant actor, on stage and screen. He embodied Thurgood's sense of humor, his casual authority, his youthful recklessness. But more importantly, Fishburne clearly illustrated what it was like to be a young, liberal, determined black lawyer in a time and place where to achieve that, to even step forward and say you demanded it, could very well endanger your life.

In my opinion, the play Thurgood was decent enough. It dramatized Thurgood's proudest moments as a civil rights attorney, but lacked in the personal stuff. You know, his blonde father, his drinking, his healthy taste for curvy women, the early death of his doting first wife. In my experience, it's the personal things that make good biodramas amazing. You know, shock us with what we don't know, make us fall out of love with the icon, then lure us back again.

Well, as my mom used to say, Nothing's perfect. Obama lost PA, yes. Clinton, in my opinion, bamboozled. But Fishburne as the brilliant attorney Thurgood Marshall and, of course that freebie in the nose-bleed, made my night.

Gentrification: The Artist verses The Immigrant

Keith Josef Adkins — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 12:00:14 GMT

A few days ago I was leaving a show and decided to meander over to my old stomping ground—Convent Avenue and 149th Street in Harlem. I didn't actually stomp there, I was mostly scrimping and surviving. From the outside, the building was pretty amazing. Six stories of classic Uptown and some of the biggest picture windows in the history of Gotham City architecture. Inside that joint? Pure chaos!

Back when I was a starving, struggling artist who on many a day had to decide whether my stomach could tolerate one more boiled green banana, I was living in Harlem. Sugar Hill. The building across the street allegedly once housed Countee Cullen or Paul Robeson, somebody black and brilliant... I don't remember. But again, inside my abode... War.

My landlord had owned the building for years. Most of his tenants were working-class African-American families [and a few penny-pinching artists] who tolerated the occasional mice dropping and the loitering of young drug dealers on the front stoop. Soft-drug pushers, nothing too extreme... at least in their opinion. Then I moved in. Fresh from Tornado Alley with deer and lakes in my memory and a master's degree from Iowa tucked in my backpack. I wasn't having it. The random gun shot was okay. The mice... uh, I survived I guess. The rat and human... I'll spare you the disgust. But it was the steady increase in Malian immigrants on the sixth floor that piqued my curiosity.

Let me paint a detailed picture: Tenants passively complained about the dirty lobby, the decrepit elevator, the marijuana smoke everywhere one sniffed, and the mysterious evictions of long-term residents who refused to pay some illegal 20 percent increase in their leases. Flip to: Ten, twenty, forty Malians moving into these vacant apartments. Twenty, thirty Malians demanding paint jobs, the allocation of some apartments for bathing, some cooking and others for sleeping. Something was up and I decided to congregate the other artists to get to the bottom of it.

Well, it doesn't take a brain surgeon to conclude my landlord saw the gentrifiers coming and needed to bring his building up to code by any means in reach. His tactic? Taking $20,000 per month from the immigrants and completely ignoring our requests to have something done about the rats in the walls and the soft drug dealers in the lobby who were now dealing hard-core.

But the more we complained, the more we were ignored, and the more the immigrant tenants were living the good life. The landlord eventually told some of the Malian tenants that a group of artists in the building were trying to get them evicted. A few of the Malians were livid. And at times, threatening. But it wasn't true. We simply wanted to expose how the landlord was exploiting the immigrant population in the building as well as the long-standing working class folks. We took him to court and lost. And I was immediately asked to leave: One, I was a troublemaker. Two, I had been withholding my rent in a vigilant act for improved housing quality. They weren't buying it.

The outcome? Well, I walked by the building a few days ago and man! It was like Trump blew some of his magic real estate dust on the place. It was what I like to call "Spotty". Of course there was no sign of the Malian immigrants, or the other tenants who lived there for decades. Man, I wanted to knock on every apartment door of that building and explain what had to happen for the place to now look so nice.

LITTLE FLOWER OF EAST ORANGE

Keith Josef Adkins — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 12:58:06 GMT

Saturday was interesting. I actually pried myself away from Brooklyn and trained it over to Manhattan to see a play. When I sat down in the theater I realized everyone around me was throwing signs. Meaning, using American sign language as the source of communication. [This ain't no Crips and Bloods tale]. I was attending a matinee performance for the deaf and hard of hearing.

Long story, short: I was invited to see Stephen Adly Guirgis' The Little Flower of East Orange at the Public Theater. And in the play, the main character was the daughter of a deaf Irish immigrant living in East Orange, New Jersey. I didn't know this before I sat down. But I tell you, it's an amazing experience when you attend a play and the majority of its audience has a direct connection to the storyline or one of the characters. You're forced to pay closer attention to the specificity and the foreignness. And it was clear by the size and buzz of the audience, the deaf community has an anxious need to see themselves dramatized on stage. A real anxious need.

Half Egyptian, half Irish, Guirgis is a playwright known for his uncanny ability to capture the urban voice with mastery. Dominican, African-American, Irish, his language not only captures the subtleties in these people, but he holds no punches with how they interpret their social/racial worlds. Ask anyone—Guirgis' language always leaves you fired up and in awe. His stories? Some intriguing, some mundane [but I'm not complaining]. Each of his plays are certainly worth the price of the ticket.

The main attraction in this production [besides Phillip Seymour Hoffman directing] is Ellen Burstyn. In my opinion, Burstyn can do no wrong. From the Exorcist to Requiem for a Dream, she illuminates, probes and always leaves me completely blown away. In the Little Flower of East Orange she plays an aging mother with a secret and unrelenting request not to burden her already-guilt ridden children. But more interestingly, she's the daughter of a deaf immigrant whose only wish is for his hearing-daughter to grow up and teach the deaf. His alcoholism and violent outbursts, however, keep the daughter from fulfilling his wish. His tyrannical legacy even stretches into the lives of his grandchildren. There was a scene where the son tells Burstyn if he'd known the deaf grandfather he'd kill him for the way he brutalized her for being able to hear. Oh yeh. I was moved and glad to be a witness to this play.

But to be honest, I'm not sure if the impact I experienced would have been the same if the audience wasn't chockfull with the deaf and the hard of hearing. I would have enjoyed it, no doubt. But I'm not sure if it would have stuck. Unlike Broadway's Passing Strange where I glowed because it was the first time I experienced theater where I felt the story spoke directly to my own life [ethnicity and idealogy], this was the first time the characters and storylines were illuminated because it meant so much to everyone around me.

Saturday was strange indeed. The play was great. Ellen Burstyn's performance haunted a brother for hours. But to share the experience with the deaf humbled me. It reminded me that attending theater isn't just an activity for the culturally elite, or the starving artiste, it's where story is told and those who need the story desperately listen.