The C in D.C: Project X & The Race Between The Unknowns

Luckily, DC has yet to be plagued with another year of Snowmageden or Snowpocolypse, so I’ve been much more interested in being out and about, rather than in and on the couch with my sparse free time. What that means is my weeks of regimented movie catching up has been foiled and I am, once again, behind on what’s at Red Box. Or on Netflix. Or even what came out at all during the fall and spring semester.

Since college encompasses all of my time – and money – the movie theaters and I are like an estranged married couple; we both want to see each other but can never put the time or money in to quite make it happen. And, as it turns out, I like to take advantage of our half-hearted situation and movie hop from blockbuster to blockbuster. No wonder we don't last too long. 

On a recent whim, a friend and I decided to splurge for a 2-for-1 movie: 2 movies, 1 ticket. Our intentions were to see the new action-packed Denzel Washington movie, Safe House. But after realizing we’d be over half an hour late, we decided to concede to anything else that happened to be playing at 11:30pm on a Friday. One can imagine choices were slim.

Enter stage right, Project X. What was described as a ‘pretty cool party movie’ turned out to actually be one of the most blatantly outlandish, racist, stereotypical fantasies I've ever seen - concocted from the mind of a 15-year old boy Im sure - than an actual movie. Nudity, drugs, subordination, destruction, mayhem and a mob mentality similar to “I Want To Rock & Roll All Night”, only enacted by horny suburban teens and surprisingly mastermind by 3 awkward boys. The whole movie was just nonsense after nonsense, plot or basic movie planning be damned, and instead injected with hormones, bad ideas and enough randoms to actually do all those bad ideas. Oh yes and alcohol - the driving factor toward everyones release of any inhibitions they felt moral pressure to stifle. 

All in all - I was not the least bit impressed and having not even paid for my admission into the theater, I still expected some refund of money. Or time. Or simply the trillion or so brain cells I had undoubtedly lost in those 2 hours. 

I found it especially odd that, only a day or so later, the talk of every virtual town was Project X. It was trending on Twitter, both as a promoted topic and one voluntarily talked about, all around the country. It was hyped up and discussed on Facebook. And I even received a verbal bantering when a friend informed me his friends (two sets of friends removed - let's keep that in mind) had actually worked on the film, and how impressive it and the soundtrack both were for a mere 12 million dollars. How dare I. 

12 million lost, in my opinion. It doesn't take 12 million to capture volatile teen spirit. 

On the complete other hand, Red Tails, a relevant movie about the historical and irrefutably iconic Tuskegee Airmen during World War II, had noteble issues getting made. Even with a war theme. With an all-star cast. With an accomplished producer like George Lucas. 

Why? Because the cast was all-Black. Because there were no major roles for Caucasians. Because the entire film celebrates Black accomplishments in history and against adversity. Really, how many films have been made that encompass all three of these aspects? 

George Lucas, being an avid supporter of colorful movie magic, has ignored the barriers imposed upon his creativity and vision since Star Wars of the 70's and Billie Dee Williams. (Pause to swoon).

Still, even stamping his name on Red Tails did not automatically convince the studios. So - like a boss - Lucasfilms footed the bill to produce the film. And yes, it cost quite a bit more than 12 million like Project X. 

Which is what brings me to my actual full encompassing observation: Movies like Project X, as 'cheap' and invaluable as they are to the world of movies, are still being made and someone is ultimately footing the bill and making major dough. There were no writers, the set was some random Pleasantville-esque neighborhood and 90% of the actors were extras. Yet an actual movie, that has all those lacking factors and then some, has trouble being made even when backed by a legendary movie producer and a qualified cast?

Its less of a matter of which movie was actually better (hello - they are completely opposite & appeal to different audiences) but more so which movies are getting made, why, and why aren't others?

What if Lucasfilms had not stepped up to the plate to pay? A movie like Red Tails would never have been made? 

How many other un-Lucas-afied films are about to be trashed without the money to make them?

Least we remember these aren't just 2 movies. One is a predominantly White film, while the other is mostly Black. Interestingly enough, Red Tails actually had more White people in it, even being set in 1940's Europe and being about the Tuskegee Airmen, than Project X had Black people, placed at a party in the US 2012. 

Does that seem odd to anyone else?

I believe the media reflects back onto its public what they want to see. What they want to believe and what they are comfortable accepting as a mirrored reality. Movies are simply a facade of that multi-dimensional projection. Does this mean we, as a society encompassed of countless ethnicities and cultures, want more of the racism and stereotypical personas we seemingly try to eradicate? Are we perpetuating our own discomforts and prejudices to ourselves and even the youth? Or are we simply too caught up in the mind warp that is 'Caucasian is better' and can't seem to convince ourselves otherwise, even when compared to something more inclusive and actual? I project an image that is certainly not being mirrored back to me, on any level, in any medium of the media. 

Im unsure what it is exactly. But more than ever I can actually see past the hype and the smoked mirrors to the media machine behind it all. And it's trying to feed me more of the same colorless bullshit as ever before.

Enough. Im full. 

The C in D.C: Is It Already TIme To Play House?

Something is happening and I can't quite explain it, though it has been verbally imbedded

in me by a few in a myriad of ways. I, however, am caught perplexed. 

Theres been some sort of cosmic shift in hormones, or life goals, or pressures from a nonexistent clock ticking and tocking on so many of those around me. Maybe I'm just not paying attention?

As I morph more and more into this 'adult' phase of my life, like a baby Transformer into my pseudo Onyx-esque self, I can't help but notice the women around me are transitioning into their own as well. Well, there own, plus room for 3 or 4 others.

Oh boy, or girrllllll.

What I am talking about is my girlfriends and aptly informative female acquaintances proactively discussing having children, seeking out men and getting married and yes, settling down. In the next 5 years. 

Did someone hear a grandfather clock strike twelve or something?

I should clarify. I am not shocked or even remotely surprised that my friends and I aspire to have families. Of course we do. I am surrounded by beautiful, ambitious and determined women who want the world and the plate that it's served on - why wouldn't they add a blessing like family to that roster?

What does cause a slight raise in my tweaked and threaded brows is the self-imposed timeline they ideally see this happening in. '5 years' they all unanimously tout as if it isn't only 5 years away from now. 

Least I remind you that at a mere twenty-four years old, I am the oldest of my immediate D.C friends.  About half of us are en route toward our Bachelor's; the other half has been out of the collegiate rigamaru for only a year or so. 

And seemingly persuasive argument after argument I always ask: Why the rush? Why the countdown to what will ultimately be your life - for the rest of your life - when you decide to take either leap into marriage and babyhood. 

Without fail they all cite this make believe ticking clock. One that must have been the exact same clock on Cinderellas' ass because apparently they too will turn into hags -only this time dressed in nothing but their youthful age and successful careers, albeit sans babies and mundane husbands. 

The difference, I would dare to say, between them & I in this race to the beginning of our youthful end is that I come from a Forever 21 mother. Or should I say she was 19. I've been the kid who grew up with her 'kid' parent - learning from each other and trekking through life and its hurdles together. I come from a twice broken home, without a reliable other half to help take on the burden that becomes the once blessid parenthood once you have to do it alone. Im also the oldest of my other siblings. So when my girlfriends are cooing and awing over babies because they were their families baby, I gingerly remember changing so many diapers I dubbed myself an expert; getting feeding and burping down to an unscientific science and making the exact right face that no child under the age of 4 can resist. After 4, eh it's hit or miss. 

Don't get me wrong - I adore children. But all in due time. My great-grandmother had children well into her forty's and without hesitation of her age or health. I am not mistaken about any out-of-change-meter on my ovaries. 

I suppose what I am getting at is that while my girlfriends may have fantasies of playing house, raising babies all amidst building entrepreneurial empires 'because thats what my mom did', I feel a somewhat self-perpetuated guilt to live out my 20's to the fullest. Travel the world for my mom because she still can't. Obtain this in-progress degree because no one before me has and I know I can. Make the mistakes I am bound to walk into without a slew of repercussions and mini-me's at my feet wondering when and where their life is going next. I believe everything in life is about timing.

Right now I can't even tell me where these two feet, this V8 drive and my restless relentlessness will take me. But for now, without judgement onto those who differ, I'll be doing it without a babysitter. 

Column: The Gluttony of Poverty

Confession: I have a slight obsession with reality shows.

Make that had.

Be it E! Entertainment, Bravo, MTV, VH1, HGTV or any other acronym you can think of chances are there was a show I knew and watched.

I suppose you can say it was my chance to unplug, unwind and live amongst senseless nonsense of television instead of the senseless nonsense of the real world.

There is something sinfully wonderful about watching narcissistic people shop their woes away, only to criticize their actions and swear you aren't as bad as they are. To swear you have a better grasp of reality.

Despite my loyalty, the east coast is shifting my California vanity onto more important topics.

In an effort to cleanse my guilty pleasure and sometimes guiltier conscious, I've been indulging in the wealth of current events, international affairs and political smörgåsbord that is CNN. Not only do they have some of the best and brightest journalists in the business, but they afford me an insane array of information and knowledge.

The other day I found myself binging on CNN, slightly lamenting the state of our world and the chaos that is now the average and norm. Certainly much heavier stuff than the fluff I like to watch, Between quips about the end of the war in Iraq and questioning the relativity of marriage in today's culture, they delved into the topic of homelessness. Except this wasn't your typical onslaught of mundane yet tragic information. For the first time since it's inception some 25 years ago,  the National Center on Family Homelessness is now counting children as part of their homeless statistics.

What have they come up with? It's shocking actually: in the home of the brave and land of the free, 1 in 50 children is homeless. 42 percent of these children is under the age of 6, with African Americans and Native Americans "disproportionately represented". Families, not just singles, are finally and accurately being counted as homeless citizens. What's more - 1.16 of these children will not graduate high school. Our youth and future of America is slowly being flushed down the forgotten rabbit hole.

Hearing this was like looking at my once upon a time actuality...

In fact, I was homeless. My childhood can sometimes be a blur of 14 schools and countless apartments - parts of which seem like yesterday, and events that aren't so lucid. Amidst all the musical chairs, there were times when the music would stop and my family was left without a seat, or worse, a roof. The first time that comes to mind I stayed at my aunt's while my mom, dad and little sister slept in the car. We had an old Volkswagen bus that sat about 7 or 8 and looked like something out of a Scooby-Doo cartoon; less Mystery Machine, more homeless family of three clandestinely tucked inside. Another time we were in between a move-out and an as yet unknown move-in. Not having many options and even less money, a family friend told my parents about a house someone was renting that was within our price range. Catch: the house was in LA, didn't have a stove, had walls lacquered with wood and it was constructed presumably with one eye closed. We instantly dubbed it 'The House That Crack Built' lived in it for 3 months and commuted to Orange County for work & school until the ends met the means and we could afford to move back to the suburbs. I can recall a time or two more, but those tend to be the less clear memories.

I can however attest to more late, absent and sick days than a few students combined. Fortunate for me, as hectic and unpredictable as aspects of my life were, my education didn't falter in the long run. In fact, I was accepted into the GATE/Honors program in the fourth grade and have been challenged ever since. I had to strive harder to compensate for what some kids took for granted and had at their leisure.

Looking back now, no one ever knew. Had no idea really. I was ashamed. Embarrassed to be surrounded by the up-and-coming 'burbs and all the pseudo wealth that was seemingly there, my family barely making ends meet month after month. The wealth I now watched on TV.  Little did I know the 2007 recession would reveal that more than just my family were struggling; albeit us harder than them, but struggling just the same. It seems no one wants others to know their dirty laundry.

While each situation and story varies, from those caught up and trapped in the consequences of the recession to those plagued by crime and drug abuse, the result is the same; instability, wandering and weary, trying to cope without a roof. Without a feeling of security. But none of this is actually new. New to the masses but not new to reality.
But chances are, that reality TV show won't be picked up my any channel and will continue to be told through peeks and sneaks into what is truly a real problem.Most of us would rather overeat with the Kardashians than pinch and scrap like the Jeffersons. Poverty doesn't sell like outlandish gluttony does and typically people aren't willing to TiVo the folks down the street getting yet another eviction notice on their door. That would be too real in this 8.5% unemployed culture. It seems we want TV that reflects more fantasy than realty. Reality TV is simply too real, especially for those living it.

The C in D.C: Blame It on the College

For a while now, I suppose you could say I have been in denial. Somewhat not ready to admit it. Daily this truth stares me in the face but I have been keen on just…dismissing the facts. However, at this point, one semester officially behind me and a healthy dose of others ahead, I should be sensible about the situation. Come to comfortable terms with things because as they say, it is what it is, right?

Admittedly, I am between a rock and a hard place. One might say stuck between a life and a college place. What I mean by that is at 23 years old (going on 24 cough cough) I am not your traditional student. A modern, perhaps progressive ideal of what students in 2011 look like, but certainly not suffering from fresh-out-of-high-school-free-from-mommy-and-daddy syndrome. Look it up – at this point I am convinced something of the sort actually exists. Yet I am surrounded by just the type: excited, crazy, no thinking gulp drinking scared albeit willing 18-22 year olds; the traditional college bracket. What can I say: I took some time off. And while it isn’t all about age, that all too identifiable number posted on our foreheads for others to determine our worth and maturity (not to be confused with our credit scores which act as a similar discriminator), it is about experience, mindset and continual development. I have always been told I am not a typical ___ year old (whatever age I may be at the time), but instead am more mature and adult-like (whatever that means). Someone even confused me with a grad student the other day. You see where I am going with this?

So while I am fully enjoying all that college has afforded me, be it the curiosity, the education, my peers and our collective community of ambition, I can’t help but grasp that I am in a different lane in life than my fellow Bison. Not necessarily a better or more advanced lane – after all, isn’t life all about perspective? – but a separate lane nonetheless. Case and point: a few weeks ago I found myself invited to hang out at a dorm. Since this is my first semester at Howard, I have a few orientation classes and whatnot in which I have made friends with freshman and sophomores. Drinking at a dorm is something I did when I was 18 and 19 at UCLA and USC, ironically not being in college myself. I digress… now that I am an academic, I fancy myself taking part in all aspects of college life. I had a great time: the 19 year old me drank, laughed, joked, dared and for a few hours completely submerged myself in my friends. Then the 23 year old me came out to play: halted the drinking pre-limit (and proudly sans a hangover), kept an eye on the time to avoid commuting home at an unsafe hour, and watched we gore as 2 particularly robust  freshman boys drank like that bottle of Crown (yes! Crown Royal) was the absolute last bottle that they may ever see in life. My body ached for their inexperienced yet ripened kidneys and I, unlike them, knew their tomorrow would be a painful one.

When I relayed the night to a friend from back home, already out of the college club and in a similar life lane as I, she laughed; partially unsure if I was serious, somewhat confused as to why I would be drinking with illegals (I mean when you put it that way…). She understood my desire to partake in what ‘college kids do’ but was quick to point out that unlike them, I can go to a bar and just socialize with folks in my lane, who also have a legal ID and can guzzle outside of an RA-guarded dorm. Touché.  I do that I assured her, but I suppose in my eagerness to do what I thought college kids did I ignored that I am simply beyond that sneak-a-toke stage. Beyond smuggling Smirnoff into my room under the guise that I’m almost an adult so it’s ok. Beyond calling home for extra money this week because I couldn’t balance my big kid account and now needed a real grown up to bail me out. Beyond not knowing better because I have been there and done that. But it was her phrase “hey, that’s college life” that really stuck with me. What’s college life mean for me? If Jaime Foxx can blame his indiscretions and recklessness on alcohol, can’t I blame my slight whimsy for the next few semesters on the college?

I’ve decided that yes, I can. And then again no, I can’t.

I’m young – 23 and some change – and allotted a pi-esque number of crazy, fun, illogical, last-night-was-insane moments in which I can look back and beyond these priceless college years and onto my youth in general, all whilst smiling. I don’t want to be so stifled in this self-inflicted age genre that I don't explore outside my box. Still, I do know better than to reek havoc simply because I'm in college and that may or may not be what college kids do. I came onto this campus with a personal objective and a unique fire lit under me to continue this journey and finally cross the finish line - regardless of my lane and any other paths I cross doing so. I may not be fresh from high school or under the legal drinking age, but I'm open to this college life and all the madness that comes with it. My college life, that is...

The C in D.C: How to Not Have Sex on the Metro

My first wheels on the open road were epic in every way. It was 2006 and I somehow fanagled my friends dad to sell me their family's 'training' car instead of sending it to a dreary junkyard death. For $200 I became the proud owner of a green 1994 Ford Taurus, with charming engravings on the roofs interior and loads of character dented, peeling and scratched throughout the car. Didn't matter. With my personal CD player connected to the car's cassette opening, I would whip through Orange County - any and everywhere my wheels would take me. Until...the transmission fell through the bottom piece by piece down Santa Margarita Parkway. From there, I've owned a 1988 BMW, a 2008 Scion XB and lastly my 2009 Camry LE. Alas, my auto saga has come to an end for now...

Getting around town in the District can be an efficient, but exhausting task. Sans the need for a car, my transportation options have multiplied: train, bus, taxi, biking or walking. Depending on where you need to go and what you need to do dictates what mode you take. Personally, I'm a metro girl.

Lately I have been forced to commute via metro during peak hours; 6-9 am & 5-7 pm. What that means is that upon entry onto the train I am instantly butt-to-balls with half of D.C. There is nowhere to sit, nowhere to stand. Inevitably you end up on top of some stranger, squished between two poles and a pair of taken seats, with your toes mangled in your shoes griping its soles to stay afloat between jerking stops and shifting passengers. All in all, it can be a trying journey.Last week a women in a twead business suit, knees buckled holding her chic briefcase and worn red bottom Loubutons in tow made a comment that "riding the metro can be like having sex with a train full of strangers". Word. Not to mention the array of colorful characters that are bound to greet you on and off the track. After a few unpleasant and awkward rides it didn't take me long to realize there are rules to the road...er the rail...well, rules of the metro.

1. Always wear your sunglasses - rain or shine, your stunnas aren't for the weather. Au contraire metro rider, you need sunglasses to shield you from the nonsense that is bound to occur on each and every journey.
2. Small talk - it's helpful to have a universal quip or two tucked in your back pocket. People, like the twead woman, will spout out seemingly clever things and anything that can avoid more awkwardness is welcome.
3. But, dont talk too much - unless you are right next to the person you are talking to, do not, by any means, atempt to carry on a conversation worth value across the train. It's tacky, loud, obnoxious...you get it.
4. Ear phones - come without them and you might as well just stick your fingers in your ears. Be it the deafining silence of co-existing strangers, the pulsating beats of the tracks on rails, the faint thump of Jay Z oozing out of some teens Beats by Dre headphones or the interesting yet personal conversation you should so happen to overhear in the booth ahead of you. Sidenote: discussing last night's escapades is quite entertaining to hear and imagine.
5. Keep your bag close & your phone closer - theivery. helllooooo?
6. Water, gum or the like - I have developed a huge fear (thanks D.C) of being stuck, trapped or somehow involuntrily on the train for a long amount of time. Imagine: me, a car full of randoms, hunger, annoyance & desperation...yikes! Bring it with - you'll thank me later.
7. Be ready to act quickly - with everyone wedged on a moving closet, it's important that you are able to shift quickly and respond aptly to open space or ushering in & out of the train. Not doing so is justifiable cause for trampling.  

Hmmm...am I missing anything?

The C in D.C: See no AIDS, Hear no AIDS, Speak no AIDS

In the District, I am incredibly outnumbered. Gratefully so, but the facts still daunt me. PSA's sprawled across the city consistently remind me of the stats and in fact, it's overwhelming: 25,000 to 1 in my case. Daily, those odds are growing. In a niche of approximately 600,000 and counting, 25,000 is a number to reckon with. So as a one amongst a many, I'd like to share what I have dubbed my real world awakening.
DC is the countries top metropolitan affected by the ongoing HIV/AIDS epidemic. Yes.

Epidemic.

Though it is our nations Capitol, many don't realize the facades of the District that make it so dynamic and equally so, dichotomic. While the prestige of the White House and the Supreme Court gleam in the background, the forefront of urban DC looms with drugs, disease and hidden alternative lifestyles. The homeless and displaced are rampant; a cough suddenly feels like the bubonic plague reincarnated and panhandlers make more than the employed. The culture of DC, likewise, is extreme: the yuppies and the hoodrats; the politicians and the change-the-worlds; the educated and the blissfully ignorant; Blacks and whites. And the men you see as one sexual orientation during the day, may easily affiliate with another at night. With this, comes the unusual acceptance yet denial (if that makes any sense) of the homosexual population. People know they are here - in fact, 'they' are a decent amount of Washingtonians - yet for some, 'their' own orientation is never to be put on display.

This is especially apparent in the Black community, where the trend of secret alternative lifestyles is controversially accredited for the lack open awareness and testing regarding the topic. Dubbed as being on the down low, or DL, Black men not readily accepting or honest about their lifestyles is not a new phenomenon either here or in other Black meccas like Atlanta. Men on the 'DL' see themselves as heterosexual men, often having families, wife's and straight friends and affiliations. They do not identify with being gay because of the feminine stigma that can accompany that orientation, as well as the flamboyancy and obvious activity. Within the Black culture, a feminine man is seen as a weakness. However, in actuality, these men are gay, if at the very least bisexual and neglect to honestly inform their partners - men and women - of their true lifestyle.

People often passingly snark about the indecisive lifestyles of these men and their inevitable contribution to the problem. Older women warn the younger girls on the supposed signs of a "suspect" man, calling his secretive dabble into both homo & hetero lifestyles "rachett" and "tacky". I have actually been told to look at a man's wrist; if it's strong and assertive he is straight, but if it's weak and dangles, he's obviously gay. The science behind determining who's who is a potent mix of fear, ignorance and stereotyping, but it is nonetheless shared as though it is a prized secret to saving yourself. Are gay men the reason HIV/AIDS is growing within the Black community. No. A factor? Likely. 7% of Black men in DC are infected with HIV. Then again, the lack of communication between partners, the naive assumptions about people and their status, and the avoidance of regular testing are also prime culprits. Regardless, the trend is becoming very apparent in the ever increasing HIV/AIDS cases, with over 45% of new HIV diagnosis in 2009 given to Black Americans. In D.C, often deemed the Capital of AIDS, statistics place the small city at higher rates than those of West Africa - 3% of the total population, with no signs of slowing.

 In an effort to make the masses more aware of their sexual M.O, the government and private institutions alike have turned to PSA's. At any given moment, one can walk into the metro, onto the bus, pass signs on the street, see TV or hear radio ads clamoring to alert the masses: wrap it up. Get tested. Be safe. Tell your partner. The language is gentle but the message is urgent - some ads even prescribe a twice a year regimen of testing "in the sun and in the snow". With a ratio of 3 out of 10 condom users in what we call a first world or industrialized country, that is far below enough. A friend recently confided in me that she herself was unsure of her standing among the have it's and have nots due to a roaming husband and a shaky marriage. As her support system, and an ode to adapting to my new surroundings of urban living and a testament to my own soap box advice, she and I got tested for HIV/AIDS.

Like most campuses, Howard University has a health care center. Fortunate for us, the health care provided fitted the epidemic it sought to contain - they provided instant HIV testing and results within 15 minutes, sexual health counseling and an abundance of contraceptive freebies. All free. In fact, in the District of Columbia, HIV testing is almost always free with clinics gracing every other street in many neighborhoods. If diagnosed, HIV/AIDS medication is free to any and all who need it. Luckily, my friend and I simply walked away with a bag full of condoms and a renewed sense of sexual responsibility.

Wrap it up. Know your partner. Get tested. It's you against an epidemic - need I say much more...?

. 

Equal At Last: Equality

A guest post from my younger sister, Sydni Bond.

What is still needed to advance towards Gender Equality?

A David Copperfield kind of sunlit path.

Strengthen women’s economic security and rights!

Ten bucks for women. Fifteen bucks for men.

Advance the gender equality perspective, NOW.

Inferiority complex. Crippled by the inadequate amount of Gender Equality.

That kills me!

But now, women’s empowerment is increasing.

I’m glad as hell.

Gender

Slaves had withering injustice. That’s against my principles

The Negro still is not free. Human rights! Crippled by the chains of discrimination.

Racial Justice. By a snob that won’t talk to you.

This situation can and will be changed. Let us be happy and bawling.

An oasis of freedom and Racial Justice. Reduce and end judgement by color.

Judge by the content of their character. He’s a terrific snob.

Racial.
You think they don’t give a damn, but they do.

Inferiority complex.

I sort of miss everybody.

Equality

We will be equal at last.