Skinny Women Blues

I had always had issues with my weight. Since childhood, I struggled with my body image, and often compared myself to my thinner friends. I developed early - thus attracting unwanted attention from the boys who, only days before, had requested my presence in the neighborhood bike race. Unfortunately, it also attracted the unwanted attention of several men who today, are probably registered sex offenders. Aaaaaanyway... Since the early onset of boobage, I struggled with weight. I was, in fact, chubby until I got to high school when my bones stretched and height jumped three inches in four years. And yes, the boobs stayed. In short, I was STACKED. 'Cept I didn't know it! (in Shug Avery voice) I spent the next twenty years covering myself in baggy jeans and sweatshirts (think: TLC in the early years), because even then, in my mind, I had weight issues. It also didn't help matters that I was being told by close relatives that if I would only drop a few pounds, I "would be prettier". Yeah. They ACTUALLY told me that. Side eye at one woman in particular, who told me that shit EVERY time she saw me. I wonder whatever happened to her? Hopefully, it involved a pack of rabid wolves in heat, and a phone both that locks from the outside. I know now that that was a fucked up thing to say to a geeky girl in high school, who was still trying to figure out who she was in the world, and why boys kept pushing her into the "friend zone". You would never know this about me now, since I'm such a smokin' hot chick. *looks directly into camera with a straight face* Back then, however, I immediately believed that bitch and got to doing sit-ups. It was horrible. I was miserable. I was convinced I was un-pretty, and that groups of boys stood around and discussed my numerous flaws. I trudged through years of self-hate, fluctuating between eating and workout binges. I flitted from one diet failure to another, even becoming a vegetarian for two years and becoming dangerously anemic as a result. I would cut out entire meals. Work out until I threw up. Deny myself everything that tasted good, in pursuit of a swimsuit model's physique. For about a week. Then I would give up, order a pizza, devour that shit in record time, then berate myself for eating it. A few weeks later, I would see some cute, skinny chick getting all the attention, and would spiral down that same, nightmarish stairway into Hell. I did this again, and again. For YEARS. I didn't get over this foolishness (partially, at least) until my thirties. The crazy part about it - it appeared to have shut off like a light. It was THAT sudden. I woke up on the day after my thirtieth birthday, and had absolutely NO fucks to give about what others thought about me. I wore clothes that actually fit me, put on a little lipstick, and discovered that I am, in no uncertain terms, DROP DEAD GORGEOUS. Fast forward ten years... I overheard a friend of mine complaining about her weight. It is important for you to know that this woman is RUNWAY gorgeous. No, seriously. She's HOT. I'd TOTALLY ask her out, if I was gay. Anyway... She was going on about how she was getting ready for the summer months, and had to 'trim down' and get rid of those 'extra pounds'. She lamented the non-existent thickness around her mid-section, and the size of her ass. I was dumbfounded. This is a girl who, had I not recently come into my own fabulousness, I would have avoided - for fear of being plain in comparison. She is one of those women who almost NEVER had real weight issues - she has been slim her entire life. She could inhale an entire Krispy Kreme store and wash it down with a garden hose of chicken grease, and not gain an ounce. And she had the UNMITIGATED GALL... I have to admit, I was a tad miffed, to say the least. Did she have ANY idea who she was talking to? The woman who hasn't seen the inside of a size 10 jeans since high school? The same woman who once ate an entire rotisserie chicken, then cried herself to sleep in a fit of self-hatred? She couldn't have possibly thought that I would feel sympathy for her, as she sat with her matchstick legs crossed at the knees, her angular arms gesturing wildly. I just shook my head, and silently wished that those legs would ignite, the fire quickly consuming her, curling her blackening form into a lump of coal. Later, I analyzed my feelings about her comments.I wondered about the nature and intensity of my reaction, for deep inside, I struggled to retain myself from pushing her into oncoming traffic. Why was it that deep? Why was I that angry? Well, it's the whole 'grass is greener' theory. She complains about the size of her ass, but I'm willing to bet that she has never had that horrible feeling that big girls have when they go shopping for clothes. That sense of anxiety, the tightening of the bowels when we can't get that adorable dress up over our thighs in the dressing room. Or that resignation associated with the knowledge that we will NEVER be able to shop in certain stores - the same stores, ironically, that always seem to have the cutest clothes. That utter disgust when we go into stores that cater to us, only to see enormous caftans and flowered mu-mus. I'm absolutely certain that she's never been to that dark, cold place where we go when we see old pictures of ourselves and realize that we were gorgeous back then, and we think about all those years we wasted, trying to fit into others' ideals of beauty. I know, without a doubt, that she has never been inundated with that neverending, sub-conscious, subliminal message that hums underneath every commercial, magazine ad, and billboard that tells us we're not beautiful. Or, maybe she has. Perhaps her comments are an indication that she is just as traumatized by the societal standards of beauty as her thicker counterparts. My point is that she doesn't LOOK like she is. She looks, well, like all those other skinny women. Pretty, yes. But one of a thousand women who, on paper, have the same characteristics: thin, long hair, prominent cheekbones, and can wear anything. Women who, whether they know it or not, often steal attention from the rest of us. I wish she could, for one day, experience what it's like to be heavier. To walk into a store and draw the "are you kidding me" expressions from those bitches at the counter. To avoid certain clothing stores entirely. To deduce, from the "fat girl" stores, that she doesn't deserve to wear adorable clothes, and should instead cloak herself in matronly, unflattering prints. To be told that she has a "cute face" and be left to fill in the horrible blanks. Perhaps then, she would be thankful for who she is. And who she isn't.

Yes, Yes, Y’all… My Thoughts About the Legends of Hip Hop Concert

It was a no-brainer. When a friend of mine told me about the upcoming concert at Chicago’s Arie Crown Theater, featuring some of Hip Hop’s most iconic figures, I was all in. I am one of a rarely seen, underground group of Hip Hop devotees. We rarely meet, save for the occasional grouping of comments around a Facebook post, or the discreet nod in a music store. Yet it is a thick, impenetrable bond between us diehard devotees. We collectively give the side eye to the Minaj’s and Souljah Boys poisoning the airwaves, and bore our children with stories fraught with shelltoes and gold ropes.

Admittedly, I am the biggest offender of this – I am often hurling names of underground Hip Hop artists at my students, in hopes of supplementing their daily diet with healthier doses of Yasiin Bey (formerly Mos Def) and J Live (who? EXACTLY). But it’s all in love – Tunde love the kids. My friends, who watch my often fruitless attempts at converting the youth, and care enough about me to keep me from extreme burnout, realize that every now and then I need a battery recharge. So, I was invited to tag along to the Legends concert.

There was no way I was going to turn it down. I have attended almost every Hip Hop show in my city since the first Fresh Fest back in 1984.

That original lineup was bananas: Whodini, The Fat Boys, UTFO, Run-DMC, Kurtis Blow and Turbo and Ozone, the two dancers from the movie “Breakin’”. While I had been spending all of my allowance on Hip Hop albums, and had accumulated my own little crate of vinyl by that time, it was the first time my mother ever allowed me to go to a concert. She was a bit skeptical about this “rap mess” (what she usually called it), but trusted me enough to go without her supervision.

Perhaps it was the fact that I had never experienced a live performance before, or the fact that I was already a hopeless Hip Hop cult member, but my mind was entirely, and eternally blown. To be able to see Whodini perform what was my favorite song at the time, “Five Minutes of Funk” (still one of my top ten faves), was, to me, the BEST. THING. EVER.

Ever… ever… ‘ver…

I kept that experience tucked away in my heart, to pull out and review during those times when I felt there was no hope. Or whenever I heard a Wacka Flocka song. Or both.

Skip ahead to 2012. As I headed to Chicago with a group of friends, I didn’t have the same expectations for this reunion concert. Black entertainment had just taken some pretty hard hits – Heavy D, Vesta Williams, Don Cornelius, and Etta James had recently passed. And we had all just watched Whitney Houston’s funeral earlier that day. Add to that the age of the performers, and about 90% of the audience, and we had what could turn out to be an underwhelming performance.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The Arie Crown Theater was PACKED. We walked in just before EPMD hit the stage. They walked in, cloaked in dark, loose-fitting sweatshirts, jeans and boots. The crowd, mostly made up of people who hadn’t seen the inside of a high school for 20 years, screamed like teenagers. We made so much noise, we couldn’t even hear the helicopter sounds from the beginning of “It’s My Thing”. We screamed and recited the lyrics along with Eric and Paris, through “You Gotsta Chill” and “So Whatcha Sayin’”. About halfway through “The Crossover”, I thought about my friend Jason Speights, a young man I met at Marquette University, who was an even bigger fan of EPMD than I was. He was killed the summer after our freshman year, and I haven’t been able to hear an EPMD song without seeing his face ever since.



It was so good to see the two of them together again, “Back In Business”, and hearing all of their music. But it soon got even better. Whodini was up next.

They were my favorite group in high school, and the reason why I was so excited about the concert. I felt as if I’d come full circle, since they headlined the first concert I’d ever seen. But even more than that, after losing Heavy D, I just wanted to see them alive, healthy, still doing what the loved to do.

They did not disappoint. For days leading up to the concert, “Five Minutes of Funk” was on constant loop in my head, and I couldn’t wait until I got a chance to scream “… this ain’t no junk/so pull your bottom/off the tree stump/ladies look pretty/from city to city/but now we’re getting down to the nitty gritty…” Sure, they were a little slower (Ecstasy performed all of his verses of “One Love” while sitting on the edge of the stage), and a little heavier, but they were one of the highlights of the evening. This was due, in large part, to the three background dancers they brought along with them. Their nimble, energetic displays, including a flawless dance routine that featured all of the popular dances from the ‘80s (one of the dancers did a FLAWLESS Prep) were everything. Whodini’s performance reminded us of how timeless Old School Hip Hop is, but Big Daddy Kane showed us that even now, after 20 years, he was still the man.



Kane was one of the clearest examples of the adage, “Hip Hop keeps one young.” He hadn’t aged one single day. He entered the stage with “Set It Off” (my personal fave), his verbal acrobatics unaffected by the passage of time. He was gorgeous, and authoritative, and quick-witted, and his performance was just as physical as it was twenty years ago. He even brought out one-half of his original backup duo, Scrap Lover, along with a new dancer, who brought back the athleticism that Kane’s performances were always known for. For me, it was the highlight of the night, for personal reasons. I needed, more than anything, to see one of my adolescent heroes still doing it. I had been disappointed before (side eye at Kool Moe Dee), and the last thing I wanted to see, after paying my money and traveling to another city, was a bunch of overweight, out-of-shape MCs who had clearly lost the passion for the game. Kane was none of these things. Sure, he was featured on TV One’s “Unsung”, but I think a bit prematurely. Kane clearly is not finished. I expect more from him very soon.



MC Lyte was next, skipping out on stage in jeans and sneakers, looking half her age, and still hurling that clear, commanding voice to the balcony seats. Ever the legend and pioneer, she reminded the audience members, young and, um, less young alike, how she managed to maintain her career for 20 years. The crowd was completely hers; they even took over the lyrics of “Georgie Porgie”, giving her an opportunity to rest. Her rendition of “Paper Thin” left us hoarse from screaming. She even gave a heartfelt testimony of Heavy D’s legacy, and shared a personal story of their friendship. Before leaving the stage, she introduced the next act – one of the benefits of Lyte’s legacy, yet a powerhouse of an MC on her own… Da Brat.



We hadn’t seen Brat in a while, due to some troubles with the law. Clearly, her two year stint in the pen did not go past without affecting her once tiny frame – she was a bit chunky. But she was still crazy. She charged out onto the stage, sporting a blond Mohawk, and thirty seconds into her set she dropped her pants, flashing a pair of glittered, oversized boxers. The Chicago crowd (she’s a native) went wild. She raced back and forth across the stage, her piercing voice blowing the dust off of memories of sloppy, drunken Marquette University parties. When the first few bars of “That’s What I’m Lookin’ For” blasted out of the speakers, my friend Rebecca and I exchanged a knowing glance – earlier that evening, our sleep-deprived minds were trying to recall the name of that song, spending an entire hour describing its contents to each other:

You know, the one where she’s talking about a guy…

You mean, ‘Ruffneck’? That’s MC Lyte…

No, no. I mean, where she talks about the kinda guy she wants…

Oh, yeah! The one where she makes that list of stuff he’d do for her…

RIIIIGHT…



We got nowhere. In fact, I’d venture to say that to some degree, we were both relieved to hear her perform that song – it proved that neither of us had dementia.

Meanwhile, the mostly 40-plus crowd, who had been there for almost three hours, was getting tired. We were all ‘Heads’ from way back, but I mean, we had jobs and kids and shit. Cell phone screens lit up around the theater as folks started to call babysitters, checked the time, tweeted…

But there was still one act left - The 18th Letter, The God MC, one half of the legendary duo, Eric B. and Rakim, and my secret lover for over 20 years (he’s probably the last to know this).

Rakim entered the stage, and for the next thirty minutes, I was sixteen again. My friend Lia and I, both smitten, held onto each other to keep either of us from passing out.

Yes. He is STILL THAT FINE.

It almost defies logic. I mean, I was gobsmacked – how the HELL does he do it? Maintain the sexy for so long? Seriously, if he had jumped off the stage, walked to my row, told me he needed a ride all the way back to New York, I would’ve been up all night. Driving. Like a MUHFUGGA.

He is STILL. THAT. FINE.

And let me tell you, I was exhausted by the time he took the stage, and my thoughts were constantly being interrupted by thoughts of curling up under a pile of blankets and finally closing my eyes. It had been a long day. But “Microphone Fiend” quickly brought me out of my fatigue, and the entire audience as well – we were right with him, chanting the lyrics, following his every lead. Right after that, the intricate percussion of “Mahogany” shattered my exhaustion, and I was back out of my seat, screaming my fucking head off. And secretly wishing he was talking about me.

(long sigh)



He was amazing. And FINE (I think I mentioned that before. Just wanted to make sure you were still paying attention). But soon, he was done.

And we were regular again. Parents. Professionals. Grown ups.

Left with the resurrected memories of our youth, as we filed out into the halls, parking lots and streets. Smiling, sleepy and sore, we trudged to the truck and headed back to my friend’s apartment for the night, comparing our thoughts about the concert like teenagers.

It was good to see those folks. Really. It gave me hope for a couple of things: Hip Hop is not dead (no matter how many times radio tries to kill it), and it is possible for artists to survive off of their craft.

Thank God for that. And thank you, Mike, for inviting me. It was awesome.