Balancing Act: Anshia Tull of Briclyn Entertainment

Running your own business is one thing; when your business is managing the careers and by extension, the lives of others, you have to be a precisely balanced individual. Anshia Tull, CEO of Briclyn Entertainment, is the picture of precision as she builds an empire brick by brick. Ms. Tull has been behind the scenes of various music biz powerhouses, but she’s stepped out on her own and in a couple of short years put herself in a position to be a player in this game for years to come.

The twenty-something Tull has taken her love for music, television and film and focused it into a career, something most of us only dreamed of. She’s worked behind-the-scenes for various powerhouses, coordinating talent for BET and MTV, interning at Def Jam and Motown, as well as the gem Hidden Beach, but her work extends beyond that to the Central Park Summerstage and Children’s Theatre. That would seem to be enough to fill a résumé, but this young woman has been destined to lead far before she was the Program Director of the radio station at Bowie State University, so creating Briclyn Entertainment shouldn’t have come as a surprise to those who knew her best.

Briclyn is her vision, her mission, her baby; she’s poised to take artist development and brand development through all portals of entertainment and into athletics. While building her empire, she’s facilitating the career growth of Aaron Camper and KimberlyNichole, handling bookings, PR work and creating ways to get their music heard (peep KimberlyNichole’s “Little Girl New” on VH1’s “Mob Wives”), not to mention holding down a position on Eric Roberson’s Blue Erro Soul staff, where she shares in the booking duties.

That seems to be a lot for one woman to handle, but Anshia balances the load (and her sanity) with her 21^st century assistants, her iPad, cell phone and computer. Each day she’s perfecting her hustle game; it’s a necessity working with independent artists, she notes, “There’s a certain drive and power that (independent artists) have. They truly understand what hard work is and are not afraid to step out and do things their own way”.

Stepping away from major labels and the millions of dollars and dozens of people they attach to a project is a daunting task, but one she’s embraced, because it’s something embedded in her soul. She maintains a daily routine that stretches long past you and I go to bed, working new contacts, developing concepts, thinking of a master plan.

It’s all in a day’s work for Anshia Tull; booking agent, consultant, entrepreneur, daughter, sister, friend, woman, and example for young lady’s looking to break into entertainment, whom she counsels to “Remember to be a respectable woman, who knows the value of herself first and is willing to work hard.” She adds, “Strive for excellence and when someone says no, just know there will be no's before there's a yes. Keep working hard and have patience. If entrepreneurship is the route you chose, be sure to learn all you can about your area of interest and focus on your business. We as young women are capable of being great entrepreneurs and running successful businesses.”

Words to keep you balanced…

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It Doesn't Take a Whole Day to Recognize Sunshine...

When I look at you, what I see is my future wife-to-be, only God himself more important in this life to me. You are much more than the woman I’m spending forever with; you’re my best friend, my confidant, my strength, my inspiration, my sun and my moon, the song in my heart and the air I breathe. I really don’t remember much about life before you and I’ll die before I have to live without you. Excuse me; I get beside myself when I think of you, because you mean more than words could accurately describe.

People who knew me when constantly ask what have you done to settle me down, to convince me to marry you; that’s because they don’t know you, they don’t know that your smile warms the coldest hearts and with your love, I’ve figured out how to conquer everything. I used to tell people what I needed in a woman and they would laugh, telling me I would never find a woman to be all of those things and allow me to be myself. They didn’t know you either, but I knew you were coming.

Yeah, long before you said yes and I said hello, I knew. You were born on this day thirty-three years ago with me in mind and the years between then and our meeting was mere preparation for a life together. You walked into my life on my darkest day and dimmed the rainbow’s glow and in turn transformed my life. I thank God every day, all day for you, for your love and for this day.

I’ve been thinking since last year’s birthday of what I could give you and roses, diamond earrings, writing your name across the sky, a vacation and new car just didn’t seem like enough, so your gift is me; a better me, a vow to improve every day, to love you more than I did when we went to sleep the night before and even join the gym (after my birthday) and even not keep the air so cold in our home. Well, you’ll get all of that and more if you promise to just keep loving me the way you do.

So Happy Birthday to the one that taught me to love without compromise, made me realize that it was OK to smile again, want to be the best Teef I could be and who’s love landed me on bended knee. Happy Birthday to the woman that brightens the day for everyone around her; friend, sister, auntie, cousin, mentor and more. Happy Birthday to You, Sunshine, my Old Lady, the Lady and all of the other names I’ve referred to you as within these pages.

I guess this is where I’m supposed to say “I love you”, but everyone says that and what I feel is so much more. I think the world of you, would trade the world for you and build my world around you. I adore you and honestly don’t want to spend a minute of my life not loving you, Happy Birthday Sharea!

It didn’t take a whole day for me to recognize Sunshine…

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Boulevard of Broken Dreams

I ride through the Ghetto windows down halfway/ Halfway out of my mind/Music on nine/Blasting Donny Hathaway

Jay-Z "This Life Forever"

I miss living in the hood. Not entirely, but parts of me miss hearing gunshots in the background, having my neighbors break into my house and act surprise when the cops show, the loud arguments at 3am and being the only one in the neighborhood going to work. Somehow, surrounded by all of that chaos, I was comfortable. I’m uncomfortable around all of these White folks.

However, when I ride through these days, I’m quickly reminded of why I had to leave. There’s a sense of hopelessness that hovers above any Martin Luther into classrooms and finds a seat at empty dining room tables at dinnertime.  It is this impossibility that seems to infect people and redirect the audacity of hope into a malaise of nothingness, sending dreams crashing down into the cracks on the boulevard, lost until someone reminisces when it’s far too late.

The smiles from my childhood have been replaced by grimaces; the burden of being poor in America is far too heavy a burden for a people that have carried slavery and Jim Crow on their backs, it seems all of the fight was left on a balcony in Memphis or integrated with Affirmative Action. So many miles traveled, so many miles to go, yet, so many pedestrian thoughts and people waiting at bus stops wondering how to get to the rest of the world from here?

While the President and Republicans haggle over the debt ceiling, folks are trying to remain under a ceiling, oblivious to the changes people are making for them. It’s hard to engage yourself in politics when you feel like life has dealt you a losing hand; you change your cards, bluff, but eventually life calls and you’re stuck holding a pair…a high school diploma and the audacity of hope. But what’s any of that worth these days, a bus pass and the paper it’s printed on? You have to invest a lot more in yourself to make it where you want to go and unfortunately, some seem to think that’s too much of a risk.

Yet, it’s my job to help rescue those who want to escape, assist in connecting them to the rest of the world they know nothing of. Each year, my job gets harder and harder, because the conditions my kids are living under get worse and worse. It seems as if each new group of students wants to work less than those that came before them, even though they have further to go, they’re delusional about their place in the world. It’s hard to imagine a global competition when you’ve been trapped in three block radius for most of your life.

There’s a thin line between Heaven and here and far too many people that look like me are on the wrong side of that line, seeing what life is like on the other side by watching television. In a world so obsessed with beauty and ugliness, you would think the ugly truth would make people pay attention; instead it receives a blind eye. Politicians are fighting to keep you poor, in jail, barely keeping your head above water and you’re shooting at one another over pieces of pavement that you couldn’t fathom owning.

We’ve lost our boys because we weren’t man enough to help them grow; instead we fled from responsibility and left the streets to raise them, the same streets that failed to teach you anything you could transfer into skills you gave him to. Two generations of Black boys gone astray has left Black girls lost, finding self-worth three minutes after Hennessey and weed, doing their best to study while babysitting younger brothers and sisters until it’s her turn to be a mother, because mommy and daddy feel like they’re missing something in the streets.

But we’re all living it up, drinking and getting high, numbing the pain of ghetto life, accepting our conditions. What most people call living these days, I don’t consider life. Heroin and crack left us with broken homes churches and schools can’t repair, generations in the wild living lawless, a bourgeoisie that looks down their nose at others, a government that creates policy to ensure these conditions don’t change and here I am sitting at a red light watching time stand still while Donny Hathaway bares his tormented soul to deaf ears…

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The Hump Day Song of the Week: Syl Johnson "Is It Because I'm Black?"

"Looking back over my false dreams That I once knew, Wondering why my dreams Never came true."

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The Mack

The Mack and her Stable

Listen to me and listen good. I don't give a shit what happened to you. You hear me? Now get yourself together, get back out there and git me my money!"

Those in the know recognize that line from classic Blaxploitation film The Mack, but I’m pretty sure Kris Jenner, Kardashian or whatever she’s calling herself these days had said to one or more of her daughters many a day. Yeah, I just compared Mama Kardashian to a pimp, because that’s what she is; Iceberg Slim, Bishop Magic Don Juan, the guy taking girls to strip clubs after leaving Empire Beauty School, she’s one of them!

Stage moms have been around since the beginning of time, but many of them have recognized talent in their children and exerted (too) much effort in getting the most out of that talent, Kris has recoginzed a weakness in America and exploited her children for the almighty dollar. Now if that don’t sound like some pimp shit to you, please forgive if it appears to, I'm just saying what I see.

Five minutes of watching “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” and you can see the dollar signs in her eyes when she talks to Kim, Kourtney, Khloe or Lamar Odom. There’s hardly anything of substance that comes out of her mouth, nothing gets in the way of the Kardashian brand and she makes sure they are all following suit as she whores them out for appearances, shows, marriages, and children, anything that will up the net worth. For the record, the Kardashians reportedly made $65 million in 2010.

The Come-Up…

She met her first husband Robert while working as a flight attendant; he went on to become a successful attorney, businessman and O.J.’s homie, accumulating some coin while she played the happy housewife until she no longer happy. They divorced in 1990 and she married Bruce Jenner in ’91…the former Olympic champion had done well for himself financially and that undoubtedly attracted Goldie Kris.

The O.J. Simpson trial embedded the Kardashian name into our lexicon, but it was Kim’s vacation home video with then-boyfriend Ray J. that made it resurface and into the onslaught of smut we’ve received from them since. Seriously, they’re in our face every day because Ray convinced Kim to allow him to take them getting busy and Kris turned that into a goldmine! But, from that unfortunate incident and Kim’s fortunate backside, they’ve made a fortune.

Turned out…

It just so happened that Kim’s ass (pun intended) became famous during the Reality TV exploitation period and her friendship with Paris Hilton, coupled with the infamous tape made her an ideal candidate to become the new face (or ass) for America to love. After all, Jennifer Lopez was getting older, having babies and married the little ugly guy. In typical pimp fashion, Kris put Kim to work, she was everywhere; red carpets, commercials, the internet, they opened stores and she pawned her off to Black athletes, the biggest move of her career. Reggie Bush gave the family entrée into another realm and it opened Kris’ eyes to what Bruce was 30 years early on, athletes making real money!

While Kim’s blowing up and dating the entire Fantasy Football league, Kris starts introducing the rest of the clan; Kourtney starts appearing with Kim in public, then Kourtney, then it’s the whole gang. Kourtney was already involved in her made-for-TV relationship with Scott and Khloe was slammed into the unsuspecting Lamar Odom, even Rob is getting some off of the name. America is eating this up, making them celebrities, with not one ounce of talent! I think I heard that she’s gone back to the Kardashian name…what part of the game is that?!? Man up Bruce, bad enough she has you looking surprised all the damn time, now she’s using her ex’s name, grow a pair dude!

Now they're trying to turn one of the younger daughters into a model, partially because the cash cow has found her Prince Charming and is headed down the asile, so another meal ticket had to be drawn. Somewhere, there's a teenage athlete waiting to make the pros so he can marry Kendall Kardashian and cement his stardom. There are a few of you who see nothing wrong with any of this, that's partially because the moral fabric of America is transparent and partly because you have your daughter signing up for those "model searches" in the mall...

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I Don't Want to Feel I'm in the Wrong Place to Be Real

I’m gonna tell my lady and my mama to stop reading now, I may do some cussin’!

I'm tired of these so-called Negro experts, R&B singers gone pop, non-rapping MC's, the IRS, Reality TV exploiting Black women, lockouts, rich Niggas whining like they’re battling shut off notices from the electric company (wait, they might be), the debt ceiling and Republicans treating President Obama like he’s a Nigga! Yeah, that’s how I’m feeling today and expressing it. I’ve been tap dancing around people’s feelings lately, but today I’m going to Cupid Shuffle all over them bad boys…and walk it by myself!

I like to believe that within the confines of a site that I provide the content for, I can say whatever the hell I like, it’s easy not to travel here and read what I have to say. I don’t get many comments on the site for one reason or another, but I get a fair amount of e-mail responses and I try to read through them all. I especially enjoy those that tell me what words I shouldn’t use, what topics I shouldn’t broach or that Oprah is God. I hide my feelings about nothing, not here, not at all! When I’m writing for The World According to Teef, I don’t ever want to feel like I’m in the wrong place to be real.

So, if I decide to talk about fast-ass young girls rocking the same sewed in weave in different colors being a form of new millennium slavery, don’t be upset if your daughter is one of them. Or, if I poke fun at those light-skinned sisters that think they have Indian in their family, they probably had it coming. Same goes for XXL chicks wearing medium shirts and hoodrats with slum jewelry asking how many carats my lady’s ring is. She didn’t need the biggest rock around, but it’s of quality, unlike that tacky thing corroding your finger.

For the record, Amy Winehouse’s death didn’t move me whatsoever…

Fellas, it’s time we grow up, seriously. If you’re on the other side of 30 and still trying to be a rapper…don’t quit get a job! I remember back in ’94 when you thought you were spittin’ hot fire…aren’t those same lines? These are the same dudes that play video games day and night, living in their auntie’s basement and mooching off some chick with low self-esteem.  I’m not sure when we lost our way, but as men, we should want much more than Madden supremacy.

There I go judging again…

Well ok, tell me why graduation at the pre-school and kindergarten level is so overvalued? Are you really happy that your kid has learned the alphabet and doesn’t pee on itself every other day? Check with me in 12 years if they’ve proven proficient enough to graduate high school and head to college. By then, many of you will have already thrown larger baby showers than graduation parties, because education is that devalued. I see people congratulating community college failures and their recent alternative high school graduate baby father on their baby, when the two of them can’t scrape up enough money to get four wings fried hard.

I guess that’s what Social Services are for…

Instead of posting my engagement, I should’ve announced I was having a baby and created an app that would give me money for every well wish, I’d be driving that BMW I have my eye on. Marriage rides on the back of the bus with education. You ever notice that what we don’t work to succeed at becomes deprioritized? Marriage, school, health, community involvement, parenting. Parenting? Yeah, we’re failing at parenting, but still having babies by the bus load.

Fucking has nothing to do with parenting…

I’m tired of illiterate people writing books and selling them to people that can’t read the writing on the wall, those damn Jennifer Hudson commercials, Chris Christie’s fat ass, gas prices fluctuating like Oprah’s weight, Drake and his Jew ‘fro singing last year’s songs, driving 55mph in Pennsylvania, people saying Jay-Z is in the Illuminati and can’t spell it, Black comedy being relegated to cuss words and talking loud and White folks treating Tracy Morgan like he owes them something!

Folks treat Barack Obama, Oprah, Tyler Perry and Eddie Long like they’re Jesus Christ. If they talked about Jesus, they can talk about them niggas too! At some point, we have to stop placing so much importance on those that entertain us and start valuing those that love us much more, I hear too many of yall quoting “Strawberry Letters’ like they are the Gospel of Luke. It just adds to my theory that people can’t think for themselves anymore and need to be led.

Follow @wrldacrdng2teef

If I see one more “Free So & So” Facebook status, I’m going to comment “You know damn well he or she is a criminal, why should they be free?” Some of us wear stupidity like a winter coat and make statements like “I don’t vote,” like that’s what’s up? I can’t understand how someone can opt out of an act that can literally alter everyday life. I wonder if State workers in Jersey wish they had gone out and voted for Corzine now?

I’m tired of Niggas turning to guns because they’re too much of a punk to throw hands and too much of a bitch to be a man. I know you’re tired of reading, but I had some shit to get off of my chest. I’m tired of keeping up with the Kardashians and the Joneses, Donald Trump, American Idols, Snookie, Wives who’ve never been married and people that can’t define friendship. I’m tired of keeping it real to an extent, bullshit, seeing people overwhelmed and under loved, line dancing, the status quo and backwards thinking. I’m tired of Lady Gaga.

I just gave you 1,000 words, do you get the picture?

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Dear Summer: Summer in the City

Nearly half of the country is oppressed by the heat today; here in the Northeast, we hovering around 100 degrees for the next few days, so the jheri-curl alert is at fire engine red. You know what that means, tuck away the brown liquor, Niggas don’t need any more reason to kill one another, 50 Cent told yall, “It’s hot outside, that’s a good enough reason!”

But Summer doesn’t understand that, Summer doesn’t shed tears for a fallen soldier or the caught up, she eats them alive. Year after year we fall into the trap set by Summer’s allies, June, July and August; running into the sunshine, shedding Winter’s grasp and the inhibitions that came with it. Lately, it seems Summer brings more grief than most of us have ever known, we lose friends and lovers and some of us have even lost our minds!

I handle the dog days of Summer with the same approach as a Saturday in January, it’s another day, but many of you haven’t learned to temper your excitement when the mercury rises. Because of this, we spent more time wishing it will cool down, praying for the return of Autumn’s wind or Spring’s rain and in between burying the son of your mother’s friend. That’s what Summer leaves us with each year, thinking why or how, but we look forward to her return regardless of what pain many of us feel when she’s around.

Gunshots or shots of Henny, year round rituals intensified by the heat and as we near triple digits, they’re only outbid by tears for those who’ve fallen to Summer’s wiles. So, as many are trying to reconcile their feelings or find comfort in the sun, can you remember finding a rose in the winter? The seasons change, we don’t. They will continue to replace one another, occasionally overstaying their welcome and we will live within them, complaining and dealing, living or refusing life. Or, waiting for death to appreciate this thing called life…

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The Hump Day Song of the Week: Billy Preston & Syreeta "With You I'm Born Again"

Simple, beautiful song, especially for those who've learned to love again...

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In Search of...Tiffany "New York" Pollard

Remember when Reality TV made New York a star? She was everywhere! Homegirl had like 27 VH1 shows, a cameo in a movie and then she was no more. It wasn’t a moment too soon, but she became part of our culture, a reminder of how little talent is actually needed to make money or a dent in pop culture. I’m pretty sure her bank had a few more zeroes added to it; much like her bra size changed letters.

I’m not really in search of her, for all I care, she can stay wherever the hell she is and not on my television. However, it was rumored that Bravo was looking to give her an additional 45 seconds of fame, though I hope it’s not true. Her ascension to fame (or infamy) should’ve been a tell-tale sign that Reality TV was going to be the ruin of America…but our ignant asses ate it up and now look where we are!!!

I’m disappointed in America!

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I'm Disappointed in America: MixedChicks.net

These are the founders...

Whether you're Black, White, Asian, Latin, Mediterranean, or any glorious combination of the above…

That’s a real excerpt from MixedChicks.net, the go-to spot for women with hard to manage curly hair. Yes, there’s a website just for you Biracial Barbie and that in between hair that your mother never quite knew what to do with. I found it funny when I saw a commercial for their products when I was in Atlanta, but had totally forgotten all about it until a FB post jogged my memory.

The fact that this site and these products exist is unsettling with me; I guess there’s a large population of mulattos out there with untamed manes, but to market these products directly to them is almost making them feel even more entitled than many of them do already. Pay attention to that statement up top, “…any glorious combination of the above,” stands out to me. It’s like, just because your mama and daddy were from different ethnic groups and got butt-naked busy, you are special.

Doesn’t it all play right into one of the many schisms in our community? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to dig a redbone or 25, but this is just the way we continue to build our fairer skin brothers and sisters higher on a pedestal. As usual, I’m disappointed in America that this sort of message is pushed to the people, but I’m also doing a commercial for them, because some of you need assistance with your wig piece!

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No Idea's Original

I am recognizing that the voice inside my head is urging me to be myself and never follow someone us. You see, opinions are like voices we all have our different kinds, just clean out all of your ears, these are my views and you will find that…

No idea’s original.

Word to Q-Tip!

Understand that there are thousands of people locking themselves behind a keyboard for hours at a time, punching away at ideas or topics in the media, so there’s going to be quite a few articles that about the same exact topic, from all over the country. That’s cool, because it gives you (the reader) various viewpoints and ultimately sparks a great conversation about issues that may or may not be on the tip of people’s tongue. Not to mention, practically every writer has their own style and our skill levels vary, so even the same story, will come across differently. Usually…

F*** the flow, yall jackin’ our slang!

I was recently pointed in the direction of an article that not only was identical in topic, but several lines were copied directly from mine, I’d been jacked! I suppose Playboy thought he could take an idea from a blog he figures no one reads, flip it and bounce it, and then pitch it to a website. It worked, until the editor of that site reached out to me and told me that something she read was similar to something I had done months ago and gave me the link.

At first, I thought it was pure coincidence that this “writer” had a similar idea and experience to relate to folks, but once I saw the lines taken directly from my post, that changed. I wasn’t angry, in fact, I was kind of flattered. They say imitation is the biggest form of flattery, so the fact that he chose to make my words his, is showing that I’m doing something right. Right?
 

Blog biter, dope style taker, tell you to your face you ain’t nothing but a faker!

Whatever the case, it was foul and I hope he’s read enough to realize that I’m the type of dude that will punch you in the face on sight. I do this for fun, as a hobby, but I know a lot of folks who are trying to feed themselves by putting words together, so for a cat to pass someone else’s words as his is, low. We do what we do, work off of what’s hot in the community or news, what’s floating around the net, but we don’t condone biting!

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What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Flashback of a Fool

It was funny when me and the fellas joked about it sitting around the bar; even funnier when you threatened during an argument. However, it wasn’t funny when I came home and found a hole in the closet where your clothes used to be, and every picture of you replaced with the random White girl that came with the frame. I knew that last fight was bad, but I didn’t know it was that bad, bad enough for you to leave.

No notice, no letter, you just packed your shit and left!

For the next three hours I called, texted, e-mailed, and drove around looking for you, I even stopped by your mama’s house and you were nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere I could think of until I could think no more and found myself sitting on the couch where we used to laugh, talk about our days and kiss each other until the night became morning.  All of that happiness might as well have been in B.C., because it was so far from that moment when I had my head in my hands, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

I took for granted that you’re always be right there where I saw you last; I didn’t realize you were crying in that chair where you sat and read night after night, failed to recognize that I hadn’t seen a smile a weeks. Somehow I was oblivious to the unhappiness, believing that you would stay with me because of all the good times we had with one another…but at that point, that was all we HAD with one another.

Now you were gone and all I had were flashbacks, memories of smiles and laughter, interrupted by infidelity and fights, tears and screaming, punctuated by me lying in a half-empty bed. The old saying was true; I had made my bed, so I had to now lay in it…alone. Night after night, I stared at the ceiling, waiting for you to call, hoping you’d return. More nights than not I fell asleep clutching your pillow like it was you, awakening at sounds in the night, hoping it was you coming back saying you were still in love with me. I even dreamt that you returned to me one night, but…

Woke up in the morning, you were not there!

Against my best judgment I tried to pick up the pieces of my life and move on, but I was a fraction of the man I used to be. The truth is, the best parts of me were packed in your bags or left curbside to be picked up Thursday morning and what was left, looked nothing like me. A life without you wasn’t life at all, but I had to move on the best way I knew how, while you went in search of your happy. I tossed and turned, threw back shots leaving nothing to waste, lived in a fog, waiting for you to at least call and say you were ok.

People are starting to ask me why, why I drink so much alcohol? People are starting to ask me why, why I never laugh or smile at all?

The nights became days and they turned to weeks before months, but you finally reached out to me, just when I was about to hit my bottom. Your best friend called and said you were done crying; she said you were done crying over me and that you couldn’t do it anymore, that it was really over. It was at that moment that I realized that I pushed the best thing that ever happened in my life away, I was fool, I felt like everyone was laughing at me, like they were all in on the big joke. I was that joke, that fool, that idiot, all of those other things people would say when I wasn’t around, but it didn’t matter. I had all of your love in the palm of my hand and I let it slip through the cracks of my fingers…

All of the maybes, if I would’ve done this or had I come home earlier, none of it was worth anything now. Hindsight is 20/20, but I was staring my reality straight in the face, you were gone, I was alone and it was all my fault. The memories started to fade like my favorite pair of jeans; I was just piecing together moments…flashbacks of a fool.

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The Hump Day Song of the Week (Part 2): Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes "All Because of a Woman"

Check out this often overlooked classic from Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes...

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The Hump Day Song of the Week (Part 1): Tracy Morgan "Feeling Fu**ed Up"

Not quite a song, but poetry transcends...

Check out Tracy Morgan recitation of Etheridge Knight's classic "Feeling Fucked Up" on Def Poetry

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Far from 21...

Hey Ladies!

At some point, dressing age and size appropriate has to become a priority. Seriously, I’m getting tired of going out seeing somebody’s mama revealing too much skin and acting like it’s ok. Wait, this is not an attack on big girls, ain’t nothing wrong with a big, strong girl! This is a distress signal to all of the women out there that embrace their sexy a little too much. I had to clear that up, because this goes for everyone, from Precious to Kerry Washington and all of you broke ass chicks in between.

It’s hard to go to concerts or even to dinner and look over and there’s butt crack having salad or belly eating biscuits at the table next to you. You are too damn old to still have your clothes riding up every three seconds. You mean to tell me you didn’t know that shirt was too small when you looked in the mirror? That’s a problem, because either your mirror or you are lying. Even worse, you believe it!

The issue is that you’re having a hard time relinquishing your sexy, an even harder time accepting your age and/or your new size. Yes it’s true, all of that baby weight went to your thighs, but don’t share them with us. Aren’t those long dresses in this summer? There’s no reason in hell I should see as much unsightly flesh as I’m seeing. Most of yall have not been on that Jennifer Hudson, so please stop frontin’ and use your head.

Women are the most competitive creatures walking the Earth, hands down. You’ve got Kobe and Michael Jordan topped, easily. It’s hard to accept that Mother Nature has abandoned many of you and started working on younger models, sculpting their bodies in ways that yours never knew, so you try to compete with them. Bad move! You have to let those 22, 23-year-old girls be what they are and keep your 38-year-old goods tucked away somewhere. You can’t do what they do, you should be levels away from where they are in their lives, but where are you, shopping right next to them in Forever 21.

Girl Please!

You are so far from 21 your license has mold on it, but you’re trying to squeeze your big ass into those size 8 jeans, knowing their missing the one in front. After praying, hopping, pulling and tucking, you manage to get them zipped up and somehow convince yourself that you actually look good; later on you reenact the same ritual to go out on the town.

Here’s my problem…

You have the worst friends in the world! They are lying to you because you’re fragile. If your friends aren’t telling you that you shouldn’t be wearing that outfit, they’ll sleep with your man. Word is bond! If she can’t be honest with you and tell you that you look a hot damn mess, you don’t need her in your cipher, she’s a fraud. You need at least one real bitch in your crew that’ll tell you, “Girl, you got two kids. Go put on something that looks like you do!” If you don’t have that, you probably don’t want her around, so you can keep packing your foot in those wedges and acting like you’re cute.

I’m just trying to make everyone’s summer enjoyable, we’re like three weeks in and I’m tired of looking at back fat and knock knees already!

This has been a Real Nigga PSA from The World According to Teef…sho nuff!

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You'll Know When That Moment Comes...



Pardon the crazy eyes...

When Sharea and I decided that we were going to get married, we immediately sprang into action; within three days, the date, venue, wedding party, caterer, colors, decorations, favors and minister were selected. A guest list was formulated. Shoot, we even came up with a theme that encompasses the wedding, the season, our mutual love for music, art and our culture. We were going to do this this our way. We were going a non-traditional route, putting together an evening that we would never forget and something that those in attendance will talk about as long as our marriage lasts…until the day that Mother Nature says her work is through.

We had it all figured out…except for a ring.

It wasn’t a priority, there was no need to rush out and drop thousands of dollars for me to prove to her that I was serious about marrying her. So, after the initial planning calmed down, we went out ring shopping. Then she went out on her own. Then we went out together again. Then I went. She went. We went. Finally, we found a ring that she loved and I could purchase with an extra job or three. After a few days, we were crossing state lines on our hunt, and ultimately we found the perfect ring. In a perfect world she would’ve left with the ring that day, but this is the World According to Teef, so she had to wait until the perfect moment.

The next few months she held her breath on various days thinking that day was going to be the day, the next moment would be hers. Too easy. While we continued to make plans for the wedding, spend money on invitations, search for a photographer, a DJ, gowns for the bridesmaids and all of that jazz, she asked for the ring every day.  But I wouldn’t cave in; I was drawing up the perfect plan to give her this ring. Everything we had done to that point was so quick; I wanted this to be unpredictable, a complete surprise. But she wasn’t having it. She needed the ring on her finger yesterday, wouldn’t send out a “Save the Date” without it.

It really burned her up that I completely ignored all of the deadlines her wedding books set for our wedding. We had done everything on our terms to that juncture, so I didn’t see the point in changing it then, but she didn’t feel the same way. In my mind, I was laughing, but my visage never changed. Sharea on the other hand, went from excited, to frustrated, to resignation.

I had her right where I wanted her.

Around the middle of April I started drawing up plans to make the proposal special, more special than us agreeing to get married on a cold winter’s night. I racked my brain to figure something out that she would never forget and always remember at the same time. The problem was what could I do? I came up with like seven or eight different scenarios, but nothing seemed to go right.


·         Carriage Ride through Central Park

                We had a great day planned in New York City for late April and I intended to end it on the highest of notes. There was only one problem…I didn’t have the ring.

·         At Granny’s in Mississippi

You already read about our road trip to Atlanta at the end of May, but what was left out was that we were supposed to also drive to Mississippi to spend some time with her grandmother, but decided against taking the twenty-one hour ride. It had become my intention to give her the ring on that trip, but we decided not to go to Atlanta.

·         Raphael Saddiq Concert

It was all working out to return to the scene of the crime. We’d met at a concert at the Electric Factory and it turned out that Raphael Saddiq was performing there. I planned to go back to the very spot where we met and give her the ring, but the trip to Atlanta was back on.

·         The Electric Factory

At this point, I just started working with the Electric Factory to open up for me, so I could get this done. We were blowing through her deadlines and she was getting increasingly frustrated with not having the ring or moving forward with certain plans. She had drawn her line in the sand and I was moonwalking on it. Simultaneously, I was locked in a game of phone tag with the club to work my plan.

·         Anytime, Anyplace

She wanted the ring so badly at one point that I thought about forgoing any plan and just giving it to her when she came in from work one day…good thing I decided against that.

·         The Electric Factory Pt. III

I was stuck on going back to the place we met, it was sentimental, signaled a change in my life. The only other place I could think of that meant so much was the hospital and I wasn’t trying to take any trips there (even though I did), but I just couldn’t get on the same page with management.

·         Warmdaddy’s

Throughout the month of June we’d been attending “The Hump Jam” hosted by Kindred the Family Soul on Wednesday nights at Warmdaddy’s, a soul food restaurant here in Philly. We both love Kindred and our relationship took a turn at one of their concerts last summer, so a light bulb went off and I sent an e-mail asking them to sing her favorite Kindred song, “My Time”. The response came a few days later and the answer was yes, well, Fatin said, “We could make the magic happen.”

 

I finally had a concrete plan, I told my mom, her sister, my brother-in-law and it was on! One problem, I had three straight long days at work and by Wednesday evening, I was beat! She was dragging too, but we had to make it. We were so tired that she considered putting on jeans and a shirt. No, no, no, not tonight. I laid out my clothes and she followed my lead. The only problem was that it took us a long time to get ready and by the time we arrived at the restaurant, it was 8pm and the line was out the door.

You ever plan a cookout and it’s cloudy all day? That’s how I was feeling looking at the people milling around outside the door. My perfect plan was under attack and there was nothing I could do to fight back. I started sending texts, e-mails, tweets, everything I could to get inside, but we still waited, we waited until the doorman realized that we should be inside.

Finally, we were in the building, but in the back, unable to sit, unable to eat and I was unable to signal them that I was actually in attendance. The storm clouds had subsided, but there was still a hint of rain in the air, I was unsure if they remembered the song, unsure of when it would happen, unsure of what I would say. Of course, I rehearsed for this moment for months, but when the time was near I didn’t know what would come out. If only I knew when the moment was…

Kindred had begun a listening party for their upcoming album, Love Has No Recession (available July 26^th), and were playing tunes from the new album and then went into a set of their earlier releases. I was sure they would go into “My Time” during this run of songs, but they arrived at an intermission without the performance and I was standing there with the ring in my pocket and a lump in my throat.  I hadn’t panicked when it looked like we weren’t going to make it in and I had no reason to panic now, but my heart took its mark for a race.

We were all tired, hungry, looking over a crowd and her feet were hurting, so she was ready to go. I was exchanging texts with my brother-in-law, getting a little anxious, when I heard my name come through the speakers. I was being summoned to the stage, yes, they had not forgotten! I spent the next few minutes going back and forth with Fatin and Aja over whether or not I would bring Sharea to the stage, they were urging me to, and I was refusing based on knowing her. The funny thing was, Fatin had the microphone in his hand and we could be heard in the background of the music.

It’s a good thing Sharea’s feet were hurting; she was oblivious to everything going on around her, even when they prefaced their performance of “My Time” by saying, “Something special was about to happen”. The lump in my throat had grown to a grapefruit at her excitement over the singing of “her song”; she sang, swayed, smiled and had no clue what I was trying to find the right moment to do.

After trying to get her attention once or twice and being ignored in favor of the performance, I turned her around, exposing the box. I caught my breath to recite what I took six months to prepare, but she began crying and moved in to kiss me, not even allowing my speech or even the ultimate question. By now, everyone near us figured out what was going on and started to cheer, snap pictures and totally threw me off of my game, so I asked her if I could ask her to marry me? I guess she realized that she jumped the gun and agreed that I should get on one knee and ask, though I’m sure she couldn’t hear me over the growing number of witnesses to our moment.

It was all tears and smiles for the next couple of hours, with a spattering of “congratulations” bestowed upon us, before and after we celebrated onstage with Kindred during their performance of “Far Away”. She was completely surprised and a weight was lifted off of my shoulders, not to mention, we were now “officially” engaged. We all got what we wanted that night; Sharea got her ring, we got a beautiful moment to share, which gave me this story to tell and the most beautiful woman in the world as my wife-to-be.

Magic Happens

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The Hump Day Song of the Week: Dennis Edwards "Don't Look Any Further"

Still don't know what they're saying in the chorus..but I'm jammin'!

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You've Got Love: Kindred the Family Soul Returns with Love Has No Recession

When I first read that Kindred the Family Soul titled their album Love Has No Recession, I immediately anticipated an album filled with love songs, with the two lovers guiding us on journey through the Dantlzer household. However, when I listened to the album, I realized the married couple of over thirteen years were making a plea; a plea to our community, to our country, to each other, that love is in need of love today… more than ever! The album is a throwback soul album, socially relevant, yet for lovers only.

Read the rest at Soul Train

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What Does the 4th of July Mean to a Nigga?

A day off work, cookouts, fireworks, a day off work, family reunions, parades, a day off work! Independence Day wasn't created with me or anyone who looked like me in mind, I was not guaranteed any rights (initially) by the Declaration of Independence and my forefathers did not sit at the table next to Thomas Jefferson. So, a day off, a cookout, fireworks, a family reunion, a parade is what July 4th means to a Nigga.

I'd rather celebrate “Juneteenth” which goes largely unnoticed but is more aligned with the independence of people who look like me, or how about I celebrate Independence Day on September 22nd, the day the Emanciapation Proclomation was signed. Is April 4th a better day, did the death of Martin Luther King Jr. liberate a dormant people, who had not yet realized that they were free? How I about I commemorate it every day that I live and breathe, enjoying the fruits of the labor of millions ahead of me who knew no such freedom, but fought for it.

A celebration is a celebration for some and we know you and your cousins don't need many reasons to break out the grill, Hennessey and sour diesel, but be careful of what you're stepping in the name of. I know you don’t want to read this on your day off; while you’re cooking out, watching a parade or fireworks, at Six Flags or the beach, I’ll be trying to write my own freedom papers…

This is a classic moment that I couldn't have scripted better myself. Rene Marie, a jazz singer was invited to perform the National Anthem at the Mayor of Denver's State of the City address and that's just what she did. She performed the Black National Anthem "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing", much to the chagrin of those in attendance and those who caught word of the story. But much to my delight!

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Re: Definition

On July 5, 1852 Frederick Douglass stepped before an audience and asked, “What to the slave is the 4^th of July?” He proceeded to uncover the lies of the forefather and delivered one of his most moving speeches. 159 years later, we’ve got a Black president and seem to have forgotten that this day is celebratory for a segment of the country that gained their freedom in 1776, and then kept a people enslaved and oppressed on the books for nearly 200 years. As you greet folks “Happy 4^th of July” or hang a flag or let off fireworks, ask yourself what this day really means to you?

Check out Danny Glover reading from Frederick Douglass’ speech, followed by an excerpt and link to the full speech:

Fellow Citizens, I am not wanting in respect for the fathers of this republic. The signers of the Declaration of Independence were brave men. They were great men, too great enough to give frame to a great age. It does not often happen to a nation to raise, at one time, such a number of truly great men. The point from which I am compelled to view them is not, certainly, the most favorable; and yet I cannot contemplate their great deeds with less than admiration. They were statesmen, patriots and heroes, and for the good they did, and the principles they contended for, I will unite with you to honor their memory....

...Fellow-citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? And am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?

Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold, that a nation's sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims of gratitude, that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish, that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation's jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that, the dumb might eloquently speak, and the "lame man leap as an hart."

But such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of the disparity between us. I am not included within the pale of glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought light and healing to you, has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes, towering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrevocable ruin! I can to-day take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people!

Read the rest here

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