This past weekend, I had a fabulous Girls Night Out with some of my BFFs as I got an early start in celebrating one of those milestone birthdays (actual birthday is 12/20. Mark it). I will not discuss which one it is just in case you err in my favor with your kind estimation. Whatever you guess, subtract a decade because as we all know — [fill in the blank] is the new [fill in the blank]. It’s almost cliché at this point. OK-not almost. Let’s just say I am old enough to feel as if time is moving faster than a [fill in the blank again]. See it’s moving so fast, I don’t have time to come up with the perfect analogy. At any rate, at this point in my life, I am most interested in that gem called “experience”. And by experience, I mean the philosophical definition – “the totality of the cognitions given by perception; all that is perceived, understood, and remembered.”
I have made a conscious decision to take a more active role in orchestrating memorable experiences. Sometimes great moments just show up and catch you totally off guard but sometimes you just got to make them happen. The surefire way to create such moments is to take your deepest passions and make it a total sensory experience. In other words, make sure that every single one of your senses is involved and enlivened. That way, when your memory begins to fade and someone asks you if you remember that time so long ago, perhaps a flash of something will come to you which might then open the floodgates to all of your wonderful memories. Only time will tell what part of the memory remains but why not help memories along by building them. You can do this by being more in tune with how you experience life and more importantly how you experience your passions in their totality.
And this brings me back to my milestone celebration. So many elements came together to make it such a memorable experience. The soiree was held at Eatonville restaurant in the U Street corridor in Washington, D.C. which is my favorite part of town. The restaurant pays tribute to Zora Neale Hurston, my favorite author who wrote my favorite book “Their Eyes Were Watching God”, which is
written in my favorite down south vernacular of African-Americans in lyrical prose and during my favorite period of history-the Harlem Renaissance. So quite naturally, with all that favorite-ness going on, it made perfect sense to have my party there with some of my favorite girlfriends. In the invite, I requested that the ladies dress up in the style of the Harlem Renaissance/Roaring Twenties. I was so ecstatic that they all obliged. These frail eels, (that’s 20s Harlem slang talk meaning pretty girls), made my night one I will never forget.
If I am blessed with the length of many years, maybe one of the flappers from the party will come visit me on my 80th birthday and we will sit on the porch and have some iced tea. Well maybe not. My birthday is in December. Scratch that. Perhaps over eggnog, we will sit by the Christmas tree and reminisce about all the fun we had and maybe one of us will bring up this night and we will argue about whether or not we dressed up in the 20s era or the 60s era and I will insist it was the 20s era because I should know- it was my idea and party and she will say oh yeah that’s it and I will say, don’t you remember how we were draped down and looking fabulous— feathers in our hair, long strings of pearls, long cigarette holders, fringe dresses, gloves, and fur and how every cat in the spot wished they had put on their finest zoot suit and had a fedora to tip as we swayed our hips on by and she will laugh and get up to try and demonstrate the flapper strut, then grab her back before sitting right back down and then she will say- wasn’t the party in Eatonville, Florida and I will say nah girl it was at a restaurant called Eatonville-don’t you remember my Zora, Zora, everywhere in those huge colorful murals, laughing in some and looking mean and impressive in others and she will say no I don’t remember that but I do remember those beautiful, glamorous chandeliers on the really high ceiling because I noticed them when I reached the top of the staircase and just stood there for awhile mesmerized by their sparkle and taking in all the beautiful, happy people below enjoying a spectacular night out and I will say-no chile, I don’t remember that but Oh how I remember that delicious southern cuisine-fried green tomatoes and catfish and jalapeno cheese grits and collard greens and corn bread and oatmeal pecan pie and she will say damn–you got a good memory because I don’t remember none of that but I do remember drinking a few Tracy-tinis and I will laugh and say you mean martinis, fool and she will say oh yes—Ha! Freudian slip! and then she will say how the live jazz added to the ambience as we told stories and joked and laughed and then I will remember something and tell her that I will be right back and I will slowly climb the stairs holding tight to the rail and minutes later I will return with the black feather boa I wore that night draped around my shoulders and I will do a little dance and she will laugh out loud and say girl, I can’t believe you still have that ratted old thing and I will run my fingers through the feathers and say I remember how soft these feathers felt on my neck all night long and I will tell her how when I was getting dressed, at the last minute, I sprayed my favorite cologne on the boa and she will say I remember asking you what perfume you were wearing that night and I will ask her if she remembers what I told her and she will say you told me that a lady never reveals her fragrance, it’s the fragrance that reveals the lady and I will say that is absolutely right and that my mama always told me that and we will both smile at our collective memory, get tipsy off the eggnog, and start making things up (like Michelle Obama was at the party) as two generations below beg us to tell them more stories about the good old days.
Build your memories with your senses and neither your memories nor your senses will fail you later.
Thanks to Bola, Connie, Courtney, Cree, Jane, Lisa, Michelle, Samantha, Sasha, and Wanda for making my ?th birthday celebration a night to remember!
www.eatonvillerestaurant.com
And that’s a wrap!





Then I listened to an interview conducted by Katie Couric with Sapphire where she discussed some of her motivations for writing the book and how the character Precious was a composite of several people she encountered while working in Harlem. Next I watched an NPR interview with the film director Lee Daniels who discussed some of his choices in his portrayal of the story as well as his directing techniques. Then I got together with some of my friends to see the movie. Afterwards, we discussed the movie over sangria and tapas. I also read several reviews–some glowing, some extremely critical, and some lukewarm. I even decided to produce a documentary and traveled to Harlem in search of Precious (just kidding). At any rate, I can now speak on it and here it is. I am very glad that I saw it and highly recommend that you see it too if you haven’t already. Yet, even putting aside the movies’ graphic depiction of the gruesome abuses and indignities that its main character Precious bears, there are some aspects that are troubling when viewed through a certain lens. However, what Precious ultimately delivers far outweighs the parts that gave me pause.













Black Pearl Sings!, written by Frank Higgins and directed by Jennifer L. Nelson, reaches back in its depiction to the 1930s when the Library of Congress hired researchers, writers, and artists to travel the United States in search of unbeknownst folklore to collect and preserve for future generations. The character Susannah, played by the super talented Erika Rolfsrud, is a musicologist who takes the charge and sets out to discover little-known melodies in Texas that she hopes will bring her fame and a professorship at Harvard. It is just her luck when she encounters Pearl who has spent years in prison for chopping off her ex’s pecker. Pearl has inside of her countless songs shaped by both African and African-American traditions and ancestral roots that have been passed down to her from her family and community that date back to slavery times and some going all the way back to Africa before her people were stolen away and brought and enslaved on an island off of South Carolina called Hilton Head (before the lush golf courses). Pearl will gladly share her treasures with Susannah if she will do her a favor as well, that is, assist her in finding her daughter who has disappeared from her and, of course, get her a pardon from the Governor. A deal is made. And such begins the tension of the play-Susannah’s motivations for fame and recognition versus Pearl’s motivations for family and fortune, in that exact order. The two engage in an unlikely partnership that takes them to Harlem where Pearl becomes a recording sensation and the star of a one-woman show to the delight of Susannah and other seekers of folklore and a little bit of caricature thrown in for good measure. Although they celebrate their successes together, Pearl is quick to remind Susannah throughout the play that they aren’t friends-“just friend-ly”.






















On September 18th, I attended a spectacular revue at the Historic Lincoln Theatre in Washington, D.C. called “Before the Harlem Renaissance, There was U Street”. This program, through dance, song, and poetry, celebrated when the U Street corridor in D.C. was known as Black Broadway, a time that predated and fueled the vibrant art and intellectual scene that exploded in Harlem in the 1920’s. This event was one of many that the Lincoln Theatre showcased during the Harlem Renaissance (HR)Festival Celebration that rocked D.C. this past weekend. When I heard about this multi-disciplinary arts tribute taking place, I was ecstatic because the HR is one of my absolute favorite periods in history. I like to fancy that I was actually an eyewitness to those times in some shape or form, perhaps as a flower in Billie Holiday’s hair or the lone teardrop that rolled down her face while she sang Gloomy Sunday. Or maybe I was Langston Hughes’ spilled ink, a black piano key at a Duke Ellington jam session, or the recording device that Zora Neale Hurston used to capture the American spirit through the stories of African-Americans.



