An Open Letter to Chris Brown

How you doin? I see you've been having some trouble lately. Folks on the street are talking about it. I didn't get to see the latest outburst, but I heard about it. Even saw the pictures of the aftermath on CNN, and all I could do was shake my head.

This is not a finger-pointing letter, Chris. In fact, quite the opposite. I just wanted you to know that in spite of everything, I understand your outburst yesterday.

Some of my people will be pissed that I said that, but I really couldn't give a damn. This is between me and you right now.

Now let's get something straight, right away. You never should've put your hands on that woman. Frankly, if that was me in that hospital photo the next day, you never would've made it to the precinct. I mean, I don't know who her people are, but my people would've made sure that if you ever did sing again, it would be through a brand new asshole.

Now that that's been established, I realize that it must be very difficult for someone like you, someone who is clearly dealing with some anger management issues, who has struggled for so long to hide his true nature in order to be liked by everyone.

That must be really tough for you. Because for people like me, the unwashed masses, who tumble through our lives, tangling and untangling in our messes every day, our mistakes are largely our own property. We have this one, clear advantage over luminous minority: we have the freedom to bury our shit.

You, on the other hand, do not have that luxury. Instead, you live under constant scrutiny. The unwashed masses aren't satisfied with just paying a ticket and seeing you on stage. They clutch at your history, your fears, your intimate moments. While clinging with manic intensity to their own privacy.

I realized all of this as I watched your now famous interview on Good Morning America. I watched you struggle with guilt, pain, regret, anger and the rising tide of violence that has probably always bubbled somewhere beneath the surface. I knew, by the way you clenched your teeth during the interview, and the wild, slightly awkward performance afterwards, that you hadn't put it behind you. Needless to say, I wasn't surprised when I heard about your rampage in the dressing room.

What did surprise me, however, was my own reaction. I was pissed. And for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.

Until this morning, when something caught my attention as I was channel surfing. It was a snippet of a Charlie Sheen interview. I was about to dismiss it as just another replay of that manic, babble-fuck that's been getting a lot of air time lately.

(I mean, even that reporter from L.A. who had that stroke on camera had the good sense to cut it short after she started speaking jibberish).

Too soon?

Anyway, this clip was different. It was an advertisement for Charlie Sheen's new one man, traveling show. Now, everyone around the country can get an intimate look into Sheen's deteriorating, drug-addled mind.

For a small fee, of course. I mean come on, he has kids.

See, here's where I'm going with this. The world will hold this shit over your head for years to come, and give you very little opportunity to redeem or re-invent yourself. You can button up your collar, enunciate your words and take out your facial piercings, but that won't help. You have been branded a menace.

Your image will haunt the dreams of suburban fathers all over this land; they will wake in the middle of the night, their Cosby pajamas wrapped tightly around their sweaty legs, calling out their daughters' names. When they awake, they will remember little, but the sight of you on television will make them uneasy.

True, you've earned your new image honestly. But what if you don't want it? What if you want to shake it off, and maybe try to help fill that enormous hole left in the industry after MJ's death?

No dice, kid.

Meanwhile, in Bizarro World, Charlie Sheen will continue to invite reporters to his mansion, to give a glimpse into his peaceful life with his live-in prostitutes (plural) and his children.

And Mel Gibson will continue to make movies.

And so will Roman Polanski, while keeping a pair of little girl panties in his back pocket.

D'ahhh, well... I kinda understand your outburst after the interview. Personally, I don't do the whole violence-thing. I really can't afford to break anybody's shit right now. So, there are no broken windows in my immediate future.

At least, I don't think so.

As for you, I do think you can get past this, if you learn to accept the following:

You are Black - the Glitterati's rules don't apply to you.

And no amount of broken windows, or new hair styles, or body art will change this.

Once you accept this, you can learn to change your situation in small, yet meaningful ways. You will accept that you are, essentially, a violent man who can't experience frustration without causing pain or hurt to someone else.

And maybe then you will finally, truthfully, ask for help.

Living with Lupus

Lupus is a humbling disease. The medical field has all these highly technical terms for all of the physical symptoms, but at its stripped down funky center, Lupus is Murphy's Law personified. For all of us who actually live with the disease, it's a BASTARD, robbing us of everything fun and sexy and cool.

For me, Lupus was a cruel joke, played on me by the tiny little evil Board of Directors living in my head, whose sole purpose was to hold meetings and plot ways to completely humiliate me and ruin my life.

I was in my mid-twenties when I was diagnosed with Lupus. Before then I led a typical, mid-twenties life, complete with 40-hour work week and full social calendar. I had a nice apartment, a well-paying job and an active sex life (sorry Dad). The possibility that something was waiting around the corner for me, something that would change everything, had never occurred to me. Instead, I was comfortable in my own ignorance, and while nothing special was happening, nothing tragic was either. I was settling into my own mediocre state of bliss. All of my friends loved me, I was beautiful, healthy, and financially stable.

Then, the roof was blown off and I was exposed, squatting over the commode, with my skirt hiked up and my pantyhose around my ankles.

At least, that's how I felt.

To be honest, when I was first diagnosed, I didn't know what I was in for. At that time, Lupus was that hardly-known disease that killed your distant aunt (whose name no one could ever remember) back in the '70s - you know, the one that was married to Uncle Leon, who used to make that lemon cake? The one from Arkansas? With that gold tooth?

Yeah, her.

Needless to say, I was underwhelmed by the diagnosis, which frankly pissed off my rheumatologist. I knew next to nothing about the disease, even though a friend of the family had lived with it for years. I was just so relieved it wasn't AIDS (which was my initial fear), that I practically jumped in the doctor's arms and kissed him.

I had no fucking idea.

Let me just say that my naivete' about the situation was not entirely my fault. My doctor gave me the impression that after conducting a series of blood test to confirm the diagnosis, he would prescribe a few medications and my life would eventually return to normal. This was fine by me, as I was eager to return to my mundane life.

(The Board of Directors collectively shakes their heads. Poor, stupid girl. She hasn't even met Prednisone).

Well, it turns out my diagnosis was by far the most significant even in my life - something that changed everything from my relationships to my diet. That comfortable, albeit unremarkable existence I was settling into would soon become a distant memory.

Sounds dire, doesn't it? Well, it was - at first. Then, a few things happened in rapid succession. First, I was forced to pare away the people in my life who were no good for me. Second, I learned how to say 'no' to people. Lastly, I paid attention to my body. All of these things I either did not do, or didn't do enough before my diagnosis.

Lastly, my priorities came into sharp, clear focus and as a result, I finally accomplished some things I'd been putting off.

Like, finally getting around to building that zombie-proof shelter I've always wanted. And collecting Idris Elba hair clippings (don't ask).

The irony of it all, is that in the midst of gaining a laundry list of restrictions, I was able to free myself from some of my former hang-ups and fashion my life into something more comfortable for myself.

Most importantly, I realized that I am charged with the task of writing about my experience, in the hopes of reaching out to people like me who live with this mysterious, vindictive disease every day.

And hopefully, while reaching out to others, I can somehow help myself deal with the cards I've been dealt.