Fashion, Feminism and Ferguson - Is Everything Old New Again?

On a recent visit to Urban Outfitters, I felt like I was on a walk down memory lane, the 90's Grunge Edition. There, in red plaid flannel shirts, Doc Martens boots, Nirvana t-shirts, and oversized, tattered sweaters were my college-aged self, only repackaged for children born in the 90's. I literally had clothing in my closet older than these children! It's a bit jarring, but I guess that everything old IS new again.

Nostalgia isn't always bad, but it's not always good. For instance, this past week, sexism was back on display and in our living rooms with the Ode d'booty on display at MTV's Video Music Awards (VMAs) where Nicki Minaj and a troop of strip club trained back up dancers dry-humped the stage whilst showing off their...assets? Not to be outdone, even Beyonce, with her young daughter in the front row, sang surrounded by a dozen female dancers lying on their backs, with their legs thrust into the air and spread eagle followed by synchronized pelvic thrusting, like some sort of XXX version of a Busby Berkeley musical. And while Beyonce is often referred to as an empowering female, to be admired for her body of work as well as her physical body, no matter how many times her stage set spells out "Feminist" in 20 foot neon letters, her placement as a feminist icon is difficult to digest when she never seems to be wearing pants! In fact, there were lots of pants-less strong women honored at the VMAs, with Taylor Swift, all seven feet of her, walked the red carpet in something that looked like a romper you'd put on your one-year-old. Jessie J. also got the "no pants" memo, leaving Ariana Grande with her high ponytail and knee-high sequined gogo boots looking like Margaret Thatcher compared to the other ladies. What happened, MTV? You wanted another Miley/Robin Thicke moment so desperately that you decided to turn the stage into a strip club? But, let's be real, music videos are about the shock value. The number of YouTube views and they hype, which means skin (female, primarily). Video directors, in league with music labels, want buzz so that means giving the people what they want, or telling them what they want. And it's obvious that they don't want feminism.

Not to be outdone, the 66th Primetime Emmy Awards also did their part to take feminism back to the Dark Ages, or at least back to the time of Mad Men, when the president of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences had Emmy Award-winning actress, Sofia Vergara, basically shut her mouth and stand up on a rotating platform, looking pretty whilst he tended to the manly task of explaining stuff using big words that pretty, dumb ladies can't possibly understand!

Still feeling nostalgic for days gone by, well then let's take a trip to Ferguson, Missouri where an over-policed, majority-black, community is still reeling from the violent shooting death of an unarmed black teenager by a while police officer. Those protesting the killing of Michael Brown took their cause to the streets of Ferguson where they were met by police in military gear complete with assault rifles, hurling teargas at American taxpayers who were exercising their First Amendment right to assemble. It all felt so 1960s that I could hear Martha and the Vandellas singing "Dancing in the Streets"! When the local police are more occupying force with an inability to distinguish between the good people who love their community and the looters who seek to destroy that community, then something's got to change before another black family loses another black son.  

But can things ever truly change? Can the community of Ferguson and the police learn to trust each other? Can women learn to rely on our talents and not our tookus to get noticed? I wish I knew the answers to these questions, but for now, I only know that I have a pair of steel-toed Doc Marten boots to dust off and I'm wondering if they'll go with my Calvin Klein jacket - I'm all for nostalgia but there's no need to go overboard!

The Freshman's Guide to College Life: The Daddy Issues Edition

By now, your Facebook newsfeed is brimming with photos from proud parents of their smiling, happy children packing up and moving into their college freshmen dorms. And while my freshman year is many years behind me, I still remember that odd mixture of fear and excitement, of wariness in leaving my childhood home and my mother's arms and the joy of having a space of my own in a world about which my parents knew nothing. 

But, the only person who knew less than my parents was me, and so I want to talk directly to you, college freshman. While you may have impressive technological sophistication, and while you may think that you know everything (or, a bit more than your parents), everyone has a blind spot, especially the average college freshman, and, more specifically, a freshman woman with daddy issues. Maybe your parents had a bad marriage, maybe your father was emotionally withholding, mentally abusive, or simply not around. Maybe your daddy loves his second family better, or maybe he loves his job better. It doesn't matter, because young lady, you're arriving on campus on a mission, and that mission is to be loved AT ANY COST!! If you are this woman, or if you know this woman, here are simple tips to get you safely started at college and safely out the other side.

DATING
There's nothing wrong with dating, but if you've got daddy issues you should avoid the urge to merge at least during the first half of your freshman year. Why? You'll want to focus all of your attention on your new love, even if it interferes with your studies and with your ability to make and develop friendships. Soon you'll be scheduling your meals, laundry, and classes around your 'boo as your insecurities lead you to believe that any time apart means an imminent break-up. You'll sport his fraternity sweatshirt in the dining hall and be his own personal cheerleader during intramural basketball games. Slow down, girl! Get to know yourself and enjoy your independence. And when you do start dating on campus, don't date someone who lives in your dorm as you might be too tempted to casually "bump into" them in a manner that law enforcement calls "stalking." Remember, smothering your boyfriend doesn't make your daddy love you.

BEWARE THE MALE PROFESSOR TRAP
Yep, he's an authority figure, and, sure, he looks devastating in front of the chalk board in your freshmen English seminar class, but he's too old for you and, oh, and he's your professor. It's tempting, though, to seek out the affections of an older man, a man who might be old enough to the father who didn't love you enough/at all, but he's not interested, so stop before you make a fool of yourself. So don't wear that low-cut, semi-sheer tank top to his class. Don't lean seductively over his desk in said top to ask him a burning question you have about "Beowulf" before that class starts. And don't go to his office during office hours in that tank top to get his profound thoughts on Olde English vs. modern English. At best, he'll laugh at you and send you on your way, at worst, he'll hook up with you and now both of your academic careers are in jeopardy. So, keep things professional, and maybe check and see if a female professor teaches that same class. And if that female professor has a male teaching assistant, then re-read this paragraph from the top. Remember, seducing a male authority figure doesn't make your daddy love you.

DRINKING
This is a particularly dicey subject. Unless you're at a dry campus, most socializing on a typical college campus involves a red Solo cup and a keg. I'm not naive enough to tell you to "just say no" and harp on the countless stories on binge-drinking and excessive partying on college campuses, it's just that I never really figured out why the drinking culture was so pervasive on campus. Most college kids don't get drunk because they like the taste of beer and liquor (although, Moscato wine is like liquid candy), do they? From what I've seen, it seems as if they get drunk so they can tell tall tales of their tipsy shenanigans. It's like their intoxication becomes the cover for bad behavior, and for a girl with daddy issues, booze becomes a part of her male-attention seeking arsenal. Look at me, I just pounded 8 beers in a row! Look at me, I just downed 4 vodka shots!! Look at me, I just hooked up with 3 random dudes but I'm too drunk to remember their names!!! Don't be that girl. Listen, the boys who cheered you on while you downed a fifth of rum are not your friends. If they were, they wouldn't let you do something that could cause you injury or death. And their attention doesn't make your daddy love you.

Summer Hummer 3: How the Washington, DC Theatre Scene Takes Care of Its Own

Life often brings unexpected circumstances, and for theatre professionals, who often work without the benefit of health insurance, those circumstances can jeopardize their physical and financial health. Enter: theatreWashington and their Taking Care of Our Own (TCOOO) initiative, a fund financed by the generous donations of theatre patrons and the theatre community at large. Donations to TCOOO are made throughout the year, but the signature event that raises the most donations to the fund in a single evening is The Summer Hummer, a DC version of Broadway Bares, with local DC theatre scenesters bumping and grinding for a great cause. This year's Summer Hummer, held at Signature Theatre, was the bawdiest ever with crazy costumes, great singing, and cheesecake and beefcake to spare. Here is the PG-13 highlights reel!

Patrick J. Hurston and Signature Theatre Artistic Director Eric Schaeffer at Summer Hummer

theatreWashington President and CEO Linda Levy with Helen Hayes Award winning actor, Matthew DeLorenzo at Summer Hummer

Members of the cast of Studio Theatre's "Rocky Horror" pose with orange-boaed conductor/songwriter Christopher Youstra

Victor Shargai is all smiles at Summer Hummer 3

Joshua Morgan of No Rules Theatre Company and Luigi Filiputti

Those gams belong to none other than actor Ryan Patrick Welsh

Actors Bobby Smith and Erin Gardiner join conductor/composer Christopher Youstra in a squeeze and a giggle at Summer Hummer

Actor Michael Litchfield crowdsurfs for donations at the Summer Hummer

It's a boy dance party at the Summer Hummer

Public Mourning and Social Media: The Celebrity Death Edition

By now, you've seen countless news stories about the sudden and shocking death of actor and comic, Robin Williams. And your Facebook and Instagram feeds are teeming with RIPs, nanu-nanus, and images of Robin Williams, including screen shots from "Dead Poets Society," "Mrs. Doubtfire," and, most gut-wrenching of all, Robin Williams as the loveable, flamboyant Genie in Disney's "Aladdin", tenderly embracing the title character. We've now entered the celebrity tribute round of this morbid exercise, with comics and actors sharing their particular and personal special moments with the deceased, and even the President managed to get included in the conversation by offering up words of comfort as Mourner in Chief. And then former child star Todd Bridges had to go and open his mouth, calling Williams' suicide "cowardly," and he was soon joined by other anonymous minions spewing their digital venom at Williams and his family. The actor's daughter, Zelda Williams, was forced to quit Twitter and Instagram due to the rather outrageous behavior of these Internet trolls.

Welcome to Public Mourning and Social Media. 

The death of a celebrity has always ushered in a time of public reflection. Celebrities enter our lives and a certain intimate bond is created. Maybe we watched them on a sitcom with our families when we were children, or on the big screen as a favorite action hero when we were teenagers. I grew up watching Robin Williams - in "Happy Days" and "Mork & Mindy." I remember laughing hysterically and singing every line of "You Ain't Never Had a Friend Like Me" from "Aladdin," and trying to copy Williams' Scottish brogue in "Mrs. Doubtfire." There are friends of mine for whom "Dead Poets Society" became a touchstone as it exposed their own teenage fears and hopes and dreams. It is only natural to want to reach out and grieve in community with others who feel this loss. Social media, then, can become an outlet for grief, for some - a virtual version of an Irish wake. 

But, public mourning in social media can also expose our own vanity. Look at all of the "Likes" my quote from "Good Will Hunting" got! OhmyGod, Willie Geist on "Today" just said that my tribute in GIFs to Robin Williams got 2 million views on YouTube! Wow, did you see Jimmy Fallon/Norm MacDonald/Arsenio Hall/Carrot Top's tribute to Robin Williams - OMG I cried when I saw it! Look at me, I'm mourning! We clamour for the attention of our connection, no matter how tentative, to celebrity.

I fear that we've reached a point where even our mourning for the not-famous is becoming tangled in the social media web. I've attended funerals where mourners have snapped photos of the open casket or of the burial plot with their smartphones for their Facebook newsfeed. What's next? A selfie with the coffin?? 

However, there's something even less outrageous, but more pervasive and unsettling, that's happening. It's a pressure to post about the deaths of our loved ones. There used to be the right to privacy about life and death and everything in between. Now, as we share our vacations, engagements, weddings, promotions, and births in real time, we also share sickness and death. When my father died, I felt compelled to post photos of Dad and our family in happier times, to share stories from our life together. With each "like", I felt there was one more person who must understand the pain I felt, a pain that would define me in a totally new way and that I wanted the world, or at least my corner of the world, to know. But, social media is a fickle thing - not everything you post is read by everyone you've "friended," not every "friend" really cares about what happens in your life. To demand and offer intimacy in the same action can be a danger and a disappointment as these moments become a part of continuous digital feed thrown out to be consumed or ignored by the masses. 

So, right this minute, take a breath and stop all of the liking/posting/tweeting/retweeting/regramming and any other sharing you're tempted to do after the latest celebrity death. Got some poetry you're itching to use on this monumental occasion - then keep it to yourself and save it for the eulogy of a loved one you actually know. If you're into prayer, then pray for Robin Williams' family and friends as they grieve for their loved one who has departed this earth too soon. Watch his movies and thank him for the moments of joy he brought to your life. Even better, imagine if Robin Williams was your father or your brother or your husband or your son or your friend and needed help. Stop posting and, instead, volunteer at a suicide prevention hotline or become aware of those around you in distress and try your best to help them.

Don't Look Down: A Graduation Guide for Parents

Over the past few weeks, my Facebook feed has made me abundantly aware that it's graduation season. Everyone, from kindergarten tots to the middle school-bound, high school seniors, and college grads are donning caps and gowns and big smiles. And their parents, in the precious few minutes of quiet, between hosting graduation brunches/lunches/dinners and posting photos of the celebrations, are reflecting on all that they have achieved, and by "they", I mean the parents. 

These moments, when you dare to look down from the tightrope that we call ordinary time, can be deeply satisfying, but mostly, they just make you dizzy. On the day of my own college graduation over 20 years ago, I remember this weird, frozen look on my mom's face. She also had that same look on the day of my graduation from my master's program, and on my wedding day. Was it a look of gratitude? A little. But, mostly, it was a look of astonishment, a look of bewilderment that this grand experiment called parenthood, and its 6,570 days of dirty laundry, school lunches, colds, coughs, fevers, picky eaters, praying, door-slamming, sleepovers, Cub Scouts, more praying, swim meets, dance recitals, permission slips, first dates, more praying, and curfews was all coming to an end and that she'd made it!  

So now, what do you do? Who do you become? Do you write that book you wanted to write? Do you take that trip that you always wanted? Do you finally quit that job that you've hated? You might not be wearing a cap and gown, but your child's graduation day marks the beginning of a new phase of your life, too:) 

The Big Chop: When a Haircut is More Than a Haircut

This past week, the world was rocked by news out of the British Royal Palace that the deliciously lovely brown locks of the Duchess of Cambridge were under assault by, of all people, her mother-in-law! And this coming shortly on the heels of another royal pig-pile, this one involving her grandmother-in-law, the Queen, and her decree regarding Kate's hemlines (below the knee, ducky). Judging by the outflow of social media angst and anger over the suggestion that the Duchess adopt a shorter, more mommy-friendly hair cut, you had to wonder about the larger issues at stake. Was this yet another instance of royal meddling, the likes of which had been endured by another beauty who dared marry into the Buckingham Palace set? Was this a punch to the throat to feminism or was it just another case of female competition? 

Hair, it appears, is a very touchy subject these days. There was the "Afro-magnifico" of New York Mayor Bill de Blasio's son, as well as the natural hair looks of the daughter de Blasio and the mayor's wife. And the case of an African-American local TV news personality who was fired for wearing her hair in a natural, nonchemically-straightened style. Even the occupants of the White House get unnecessary attention over all things follicled - with the First Lady and her blow-out and the First Daughters and their natural hair styles.

I've gone through my own hair battles all of my life - from press and curls, to Jerri Curls, back to press and curls, to cornrows, to individuals, to relaxers, and now, most recently, a close-cropped natural 'fro. Women in the know call this "the big chop" - the super-short haircut to get all of the chemicals out of the hair and to return it to its virgin (and in my case tightly curled) state. This wasn't the first time I'd ever had my hair cut short, so this wasn't the deep trauma that you see on a daytime talk show ambush makeover where the victim with hair down to her waist has her hair cut to chin length. But, this was the first time that I'd had a short haircut minus the chemical hair straightener. 

The day of the big chop, I walked out the salon and straight into the cold winter air. For the first time, I truly felt the cold wind whipping through my now substantially shorter hair! Over the next few weeks after the big chop, I did a slow roll-out of the new haircut to family, friends, clients, and I did my own internal focus group testing. Reaction among other black women has been consistently and sometimes overwhelmingly positive, depending on age. Young professionals in the under-30 age group thought my haircut was saucy and they loved how healthy my hair looked. My middle-aged group were a mixed bag, with some admiring my courage and others giving no reaction at all. Finally were the 55-plus group of black women, most of whom had already done their own big chop many years ago and who greeted me with words to the effect of, "isn't it nice to be free?" 

And then there were the other reactions. These weren't negative reactions in the sense of what the hell did you do/this is awful/will it grow back? Instead, it was as if Harry Potter had thrown his invisibility cloak over me. I passed undetected through the offices of several clients - I mean they saw me, but they failed to recognize me.  A couple of weeks ago, I was at the airport, on my way home from a five-day conference, and in the waiting area I saw a participant from that same conference. She and I have attended this conference for several years and we even shared a flight home after this same conference the year before. So when I said, "hello", I thought there would be some hint of recognition. There wasn't. When our flight landed, and we were all waiting to pick up our luggage, we were only a couple of feet apart, but still nothing. By the time I rolled my bags out to wait for my ride, this same woman came over to get into her idling black town car, mere inches from me, but still nothing.  Even Facebook and it's facial recognition software were vexed, asking me if I wanted to tag a photo of me with the name of another friend who also happens to be a black woman with short hair and glasses (sorry Cynthia!). 

I feel like I've disappeared, or have been reborn - I can't decide which. When my non-black friends first saw my hair, they all, to a person, noticed that I'd cut my hair. But, what they didn't know, and, perhaps, couldn't know, about this haircut was that its changes run deeper than the shortness of my hair. They couldn't know that these tightly-packed curls were a signal to all whom I meet that I am different and I love how I am different.  They couldn't know that my life prior to the big chop meant avoiding any activities which could do harm to my chemically relaxed hair; half-day marathon appointments at the hairdresser; a constant search for and acquisition of umbrellas; and, in my case, not learning how to swim until I was an adult and sporting cornrows! I am learning to be beautiful in a world where people tell me that I'm not beautiful because my hair is too nappy, my skin too dark, and my body too large. And before you roll your eyes and wonder whether I'm going to dare to "go there" with that old chestnut, "beauty's on the inside", that's not where this is heading. Sure, your inside should be beautiful, but we need to expand our notions of outward, visible beauty, as well, just as I am doing.

When I think about it, the hardest adjustment I've had to make has been recognizing that my chemically straightened hair wasn't helping me to fit in, but was helping me to hide out, to disappear myself into the easily acceptable. I am trying, now, only to be myself and to love all of who I am, even if that makes some people uncomfortable. 

What Kind of Cat Are You: Trying to Curb My BuzzFeed Quiz Addiction

Hi, my name is Shannon and I can't stop taking BuzzFeed quizzes. There, I've admitted it, and I know I'm not alone. By now, you probably know what career you should actually have, how many children you should have, when you should have gotten married, what state you actually belong in, what kind of dog you are, which Jane Austen heroine you are, and what kind of parent you are - all thanks to Jonah Peretti, the founder of BuzzFeed, and his army of editors who've made the website into the stickiest little time-waster ever! And while I appreciate all of the psychological insights that a gal can garner over a 10-question quiz, I'm curious about why these quizzes are so seductive.

It's not like they're breaking new ground. When I was in college, my friends and I would take those Cosmo quizzes more seriously than our GREs, LSATs, and MCATs. However, those Cosmo quizzes were a bit more, shall we say, frisky, in terms of their content - from what kind of girlfriend are you to what your favorite sexual position says about you. You had a feeling that a team of Cosmo psychologists were working around the clock fashioning these quizzes, which, incidentally, seemed to go on forever, and which required deep introspection. Maybe my submissive tendencies in romantic relationships were sabotaging my workplace ambitions! 

By the time I entered graduate school, it was the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator personality test that was all the rage. This was the ultimate Cosmo quiz, only this time, instead of taking the test on a Friday night with a few glasses of wine with your girlfriends in front of the TV, this one was given to you in a classroom or at work. And the results of this test had implications far beyond your antics in the bedroom. Myers-Briggs produced the ultimate "aha" moment, putting the events of the test-takers lives inside of a framework that helped them to make sense of all of their successes and failures up to that point. So maybe my fear of public speaking had nothing to do with my intelligence, after all, and could be explained by my being a hardcore Introvert! In just four letters, a diagnosis for my life could be made, and also a prescription to fix what was wrong. No more ENTJ boyfriends for this INFP girl - no way!!

Myers-Briggs, Cosmo, and now BuzzFeed, are all a variant on our need to diagnose where we are. They are a third-party observer who can assess how we're doing and if we're happy. Did we take the right job? Are we married to the right person? These quizzes are our opportunity to check in - like cheap forms of therapy. And then we share the results with each other, providing another opportunity for people to know us better. BuzzFeed may be a new technology, but within it is the oldest human need, that of intimacy through revelation. And now I'm off to find out if I'm a hipster and what font I am. Spoiler alert: I think I'm a hardcore Verdana, although I've played the harlot with Courier once or twice:)