For My Players in the(ir) Hood(ies)

The support for Trayvon Martin has been rather remarkable. The public has gone into their protest toolkit and hashtagged, blogged, marched, sent Skittles, and updated Facebook pictures accordingly. Even the POTUS, notoriously mum and/or known to toe borders on issues that concern race, went as far as to suggest that his male offspring would have perhaps resembled Trayvon Martin.

The most popular method of expressing dissatisfaction with the way that the Sanford, Florida, police department has handled the Martin case has been the donning--and therefore Facebook picturing--of people wearing hoodies. Martin had been wearing a hoodie when Zimmerman killed him; in fact, he had put the hood on his head to protect himself from Zimmerman, whose gaze he found worrisome, to say the least. An act, ironically, that exacerbated Zimmeran's presumably prejudicial determination that Martin was suspicious. 

Today in Post-Race History: A Modest Proposal

To: President Barack Obama
cc: Attorney General Eric Holder
cc: GOP Presidential Candidates 

Dear Mr. President:

I hope this letter finds you well. With the Republican race looking more and more like the Real Housewives of something and March Madness in full swing (sorry about your bracket), I imagine that your spirits are rather high. I hope a note from one of your crankiest constituents doesn't ruin that.

Perhaps you are surprised that I would be writing to you. After all, as my gmail chats and (protected) tweets suggest (maybe you've seen them?), I'm not your biggest fan. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to reach out to you, as the concerns of this letter demand the kind of help only the most powerful person in the world can provide. Should my request be granted, I promise to vote for you in the fall. (I know Illinois is already blue for you, but sometimes it's the act that counts.)

On the Inevitable #Fail of the Whitney Houston Biopic

As much as I'd like to stop publicly mourning the death of a person I never met, I'm not ready. Tweeting #shoopforjesus, randomly saying "'Re ain't here!?" to whomever will listen, and concluding that Whitney wasn't that bad of a dancer after watching the "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" video are clear indicators that I'm: 1. my mother's child and 2. not quite ready to let go. So, (un)fortunately, I must write about Whitney again. (I'm sure you can find a pundit sounding off on Rush Limbaugh somewhere on the internet.)

It makes sense, then, that I went in on my friend Maegs when she mentioned news of a Houston biopic and tried to defend why Jennifer Hudson was a legitimate option. My profanity-laced diatribe not only included the "J.Hud's not pretty enough" angle, but also featured a rather long-winded digression about how much I hate her Weight Watchers commercials and thus would not stand for her playing my mama's favorite singer.