Spilling Whitney's Tea Redux

Since I have done nothing but act like my mother's child and mourn the passing of Whitney Houston for the last 10 days, I knew today's post would be a return, in some way, to The Voice. Early last week, I had resolved to write a fun, lighter post, tentatively titled, "Whitney: Anatomy of a Diva," where I post videos of Whitney singing with other, clearly lesser singers and offer commentary.

But that will have to wait.

After last Monday's post, I got a really thoughtful and thought-provoking email asking about whether or not it was too soon discuss the nature of Whitney's relationship with her former assistant, Robyn Crawford. It took me a few days to respond, because I thought I was deeply ambivalent about the matter. In reply, I questioned the impulse to posthumously out folks, and wondered if we had not found other ways to validate our own sexuality. I made that last claim with a little trepidation, because although I don't find being able to identify with a celebrity in such a way helpful to my own self-esteem, I must acknowledge that others feel differently. (Moreover, I must readily confess that my addiction to poorly produced webseries starring lesbians of color does not stem solely from my thirst for things to hate on.)

Pariah's Pariah: A Review, a Critique

*Spoiler Alert*

On Friday, Dee Rees' much lauded independent film, Pariah will expand its release from four theaters to eleven, increasing the opportunity for many to view this incredibly important Focus Features picture. Rees' debut work has deservedly generated a deluge of critical praise, and should at the very least garner a few nominations come award season.

The coming of age story centers on Alike (pronounced uh-LEE-kay), played pitch perfectly by Adepero Oduye as a somewhat awkward 17-year-old high school student and aspiring poet. On the cusp of fully coming into her sexuality, Alike dons herself in boy's clothing at school and as she explores the gay nightlife of New York City with her friend Laura (Pernell Walker). At home, however, Alike dresses in a more traditionally feminine costume to throw her mother, Audrey (Kim Wayans) off of her increasingly difficult to mask scent. This, of course, is the core tension in the film, and the viewer's stomach tightens as the stakes get increasingly higher. As this central narrative unfolds, Alike smartly navigates her way through personal discovery, experiencing first love and a gut-wrenchingly painful heartbreak, all the while preparing for that ever difficult task of leaving the (parents') nest. 

Ladies First (and Only)?

It wasn't until I sat down to write this that I realized I'd have to confess to watching Single Ladies--more than once. It's true. Admittedly, I watched the first episode because I think Dionne Stacey Dash is fine. And although I find the acting in some ways utterly intolerable, somehow I've seen enough episodes since to still be able to follow the story line. Saying I watch because I want to support Lisa[waaaaaybeyondhershelflife]Raye for miraculously still finding work--even in a recession--is pretty unconvincing. Perhaps I should just blame baseball season. Apparently, I'm not alone. Viewership of Single Ladies has been consistent, and Vh1, which has been steadily rebranding itself as a grown and sexy, older sibling counterpart to BET's blazing hip-hop and R&B, will more than likely renew the (two-thirds) black version of Sex and the City for another season.

Kiss and Tell: Losing Isiah

Johnson, left, and Thomas exchanging kisses before a game during the 1989 NBA Finals (Andrew Bernstein/Getty Images)

Those of us who lament the current incarnation of the NBA despite Lebron James' and Chris Paul's (he's soooo cute -- no hetero) greatness do so because we remember the golden age of the league.  (Are you looking for Kobe love?  You won't get that here.  Move along.)  Those of us born in the 80s were raised on the good and nutritiously entertaining similac of dope hip hop and an NBA that was absolutely faaaaaantastic.  Part of what made the mid-80s professional basketball such a renaissance was the rivalry between Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, a contentious pairing that began during the championship game of the 1979 NCAA men's basketball tournament, where Magic's Michigan State Spartans beat Bird and the Indiana State Sycamores.  Thirty years after the Bird or Magic debate began, the former adversaries, now friends, have co-written a book with the help of former Boston Globe sports columnist Jackie Macmullan.  Though the book won't be on shelves until November 4, last week the sports world took a brief break from obsessing over football to report on some of the juicier content.

Today in Post-Race History: No Homo

Remember last year when all the white gay people were mad at black people because Prop 8 passed in California?  Well, it wasn't a fluke.  We're still their whipping boys (er, bois?).  Last week, my internet boyfriend AC (again, the only man I'd ever seriously consider marrying), sent me a link of the above video, where Current TV contributor, Bryan Safi learns us about the phrase "No Homo."   Most of the commenters loved this piece and deemed it "genius."  Me?  Not so much.

On E. Lynn Harris

Last Friday (July 24), author E. Lynn Harris died. Though his passing is getting some attention, by comparison, the deaths of other, more famous people have peppered the mainstream media at a much higher rate. A lot of folks (still) don't know who he is. Either way, learning of his death gave me pause. Not because I'm TOTALLY. FREAKED. OUT. by all these famous black people dying, but because I am surrounded by friends--internet and otherwise--who were deeply moved by his work.

I can't say I ever paid much attention to novels. When it comes to things literary, I can be a bit of a snob. (Yes, life can be explained with the help of an episode or two of The Golden Girls, but sometimes stories from the Bottom, a well-lit hole in the basement, or Yoknapatawpha County are helpful.) I will also admit that I didn't appreciate Harris while he was here. Since his passing, I picked up a copy of Invisible Life, and though it's not my cup of chai, I respect the man for what he did. When the novel was published in the 1990s, black sexuality and tales of black men on the "down low" weren't as accessible as they are now. Harris is credited with birthing that change. And for that, I won't front on him.

Though Harris may never appear in the canon that the literati like to protect themselves with, one cannot deny--no matter the opinion on Harris' politics, writing chops, subject matter, whatever--the positive impact he had on many lives. Since his death, several of my queer homies have discussed how instrumental Harris' work was to them--in coming out, in accepting and loving themselves, in their entire self-actualization process. Writing, art can do so much: take us to different places, help us imagine a different world, expand our minds, heal and accept ourselves. And I think bastards like me often forget that, especially as we construct elaborate theories about 1,369 lights. Though I hate that it came through Harris' death, I'm glad to be reminded.

Thank you, E. Lynn. I appreciate the lesson. Rest well.