For years Black audiences associated Wayne Brady as an "Uncle Tom" or a culturally detached brotha. However, since Wayne's Brady's debut on the The Chappelle Show a few years back, revealing himself to have a "gangsta" side, he has gained much respect. His Urban Chameleonism came out and Black audiences could satirically relate. If you have not seen Mr. Brady's rendition of Bobby Brown's, "Every Little Step" featuring Mike Tyson I encourage you to watch NOW. GENIUS!
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Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Servitude Sistas With Attitudes (part two)
By Anonymous
Click here to read (part one)
Sistas in positions of servitude are often gatekeepers to the information you need. Whether you're trying to return an item a day past the expiration date, or not tying to have to stand in multiple lines at the DMV because of a missing document – these sistas will either make or break your day.
You often have to approach the situation thinking, “Do I want to win or do I want to be right?”
For example, knocking a sista upside the head for giving you much attitude when answering a simple question, may be considered the "right" thing to do – being that it’s her job to answer the question! But if you just missed your connection and are trying to get information on the next available flight, this might not be the way to win.
Even one of my guy friends peeps the hostility exuding from most servitude sistas. He usually combats this with a compliment on either their hair or nails, which often helps to melt some of that anger...even if just for a moment.
I've often felt the hate exuding from the servitude sistas sitting behind the desk. I usually switch into my around-the-way tone in attempt to gain some level of connectedness and convey, “Girlfriend, I am one of you." But they would never know that and are rarely trying to hear that. All they see is a pretty girl, with pretty hair, light skin, and light eyes. Spike Lee’s School Daze all over again.
My mom, who happens to be a servitude sista, peeps the nasty attitudes amongst some of her colleagues, which burns her up inside as she recognizes this as another form of self hate. Because she is a darker skinned woman servitude sistas tend to confide in her. Whenever a fair skinned woman walks into the office one of them will say something to the effect of “She thinks she better than me.”
Honey, that is the last thought on anybody’s mind. And even if it is, who cares! Just do you.
On the flip side, I was standing at the end of a long check out line at a Trader Joes. The cashier, a sista, was closing out her register, until she spotted me and gestured for me to come over. When I approached her she said, “You know I only opened for you because we have to stick together.”
Thank god there are some places where the race card still works.
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Sunday, August 15, 2010
URBAN CHAMELEON invites you to create your own MEDIA in ATL!!!
by today's Urban Chameleon contributor
HaJ
If you or someone you know are in the ATL area Sunday, August 22 from 3-5PM please come out to our event and share ideas of the kinds of stories and characters you would like to see on TV.
There will be a live performance of the original stories shared from our blog by some of Atlanta's finest artists, authors, painters, poets, and performers hosted by yours truly ME, HaJ, creator of URBAN CHAMELEON media.
Where: Danneman's Coffee Shop (Upstairs)
Old Fourth Ward
466 Edgewood Ave
Atlanta, GA 30312
3-5PM
Hope to see you there!
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Monday, August 9, 2010
Star Wars Comes to the 'Hood
Urban Chameleon moment?
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Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Damn “NIGGA” Damn!
by today's Urban Chameleon contributor Black Man formerly known as Nigga
Surreal the trip had been already. I found my self here in South Africa surrounded by self-proclaimed “coloreds” and my homie from the “D” in an upscale restaurant in one of Cape Town’s finest dining establishments. We were discussing the frustration of coloreds and black s alike in South Africa at the fact that Mandela had not done more to punish South African whites as he took power. Many South Africans of the browner persuasion felt that they had been sold out. They felt like African Americans would not have stood for such a passive take over. They cited the rhetoric of Malcolm X and the resumés of revolutionaries like Huey Newton and Angela Davis with the thoroughness of the deepest Afro-American history scholar. They put the African American civil rights struggle on a pedestal and languished their own leaders’ inability to be as effective, as aggressive, as revolutionary.
My man and I asked many questions and learned a great deal about our South African sisters and brothers over bottles of South African wine and faire. Our bellies and minds full, we paid the bill and prepared to exit, my homie and I nearly running, because we still could not believe that a meal of that quality could cost so little. Surely the waiter would be after us to let us know he’d made a mistake and forgot to charge us the proper amount.
As we walked to our car a black South African man approached. Clearly the brother was homeless. His hustle was watching the cars parked along this dark but busy street ensuring that cars were safe from the rash of smash and grab robberies that occur often in cities like Cape Town where “the haves” have in great abundance and the have nots, well, you know.
He overheard my man and I talking and his eyes lit up.
“Hey! You guys are American!” he said excitedly.
“Yes” we affirmed, “What’s up brother?”
“Oh wow!” he said giving us dap. “You guys are the real, the real NIGGAS”
My homie and I looked at each other is shock. “Nah b. We brothers.” I said coolly.
“No man, you guys are the REAL NIGGAS. Like for real.”
“No man. We not niggas, we brothers”
“No, its ok” he assured us, “You’re real niggas. Not like these guys from West Africa that come here and think they niggas, you guys are the REAL NIGGAS. I want to be a nigga like you too!” he said with a big smile.
We continued to object. “Listen man, we NOT NIGGAS. We brothers. You can be my brother” my homie said as relaxed as possible.
The man’s face stayed frozen in an excited, yet naïve smile. He seemed to want us to affirm his “nigga’ status. Our “colored” friends joined in, they had picked up on our defiance of being called niggas in the middle of a Capetonian street,
“No, Nigga is a compliment”, they said. “It's a term of endearment. Its not what you think.”
“Yo, being a nigga is NOT cool. Its not a compliment” I said as calmly as I could
I could see the confusion of a thousand hip-hop songs, stand-up comedy sets and exploitative black movies crashing all around. Nigga is so much a part of black American dialect that sometime we say it without realizing it. We only hear it when it rolls off of a foreign tongue (literally or figuratively).
Our friends and the homeless man are probably still confounded to this day. Afterall, their use of the word nigga in relationship to my man and I was a means of identifying with us, their American brothers. Truly for them the word was a term of endearment and a gesture to show their affinity towards all things Afro-American.
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Friday, July 30, 2010
My First White Wedding
by today's Urban Chameleon contributor
A few weeks ago I attended a wedding upstate New York. Now when I hear, “wedding,” I naturally begin to think about what special outfit I’m going to wear for this special occasion. Going through my closet, I identify my Diane Von Furstenberg dress as the joint to hit ‘em wit. It’s a beautiful long, silk, mint color number. And with my gold heals… WHAT WHAT! Watch out now!
When my date and I arrive at the location, after the 3½ hour drive from the city, I was floored to learn that the wedding was taking place on a Farm. A Farm! Who gets married on a Farm?! Certainly not Caribbean people. Even if I end up marrying a white farmer – the idea of me telling my Haitian mom that the ceremony will be taking place next to animals – let’s just say that it would not be going down. You know what she would say? All my life I have worked so hard for people not to look at us like animals and you want to go and have your holy matrimony next to some? Is a cow going to give you away too?
Regardless of how I was feeling about the location, I was dealing with the physical challenge of my Loubiton heels sinking into the grass as I tried to mingle. My date, who was decked out in his Burberry tux, was damn near carrying me, Diane, and Loubi to prevent us from being covered in manure, which was everywhere.
Of course, we were the only Black folks at the wedding and the only people that were dressed up. Don’t you know that there were some guests wearing sundresses and flip-flops! Who does that?! Certainly not Caribbean people. We dress UP and come with it like’s it’s the Oscars. Besides, are we not celebrating what’s supposed to be a once in a lifetime affair?
I think what catches many Caribbean people off guard, is that we are bred in a culture that has made us feel inferior to white people as if they all come from castles with golden fountains. Therefore, when the time comes to be in their presence, for what we think is a celebratory event, we are dressing up to say we belong in this castle too. The irony of this is when this irony is flipped on you; for this Farm was no castle.
My date and I tried to let loose, which meant taking two vodka tonics to the head before getting out on the dance floor. Despite the location, they still played Michael Jackson. Can’t have a wedding with out MJ. We started gettin’ down. Next thing you know, a group of older white folks, who were definitely alive during Jim Crow, began to watch us dance as if we were entertaining them. Why did we suddenly begin to feel like we were the Minstrels at the show?
What made matters worse, is when the mother of the bride came over to admire my dress. I was surprised she could still see it, as most of it was balled up in my hands to keep from touching the grass. After she told me how beautiful I looked, she then asked if I had any friends for her single son who apparently likes the darker kind. WHAT?! Who actually says that? Was this woman really referring to Black people like the meat selection on a buffet table- light or dark meat? I was done. I grabbed my date, wished the wedding couple well and we were out.
After the wedding, my girlfriend and I traded stories about our white wedding experiences. She told me how a couple of weeks ago, during a bachelorette party she attended, the bride’s cousin brought black and brown penis cookies for the party-gals to munch on. The cousin was so delighted to find this bakery website, Mandingo, that specializes in ethnic dicks. My girlfriend said she thought to herself, now wait a minute, the bride is marrying a white man why couldn’t there be a white dick included in the selection? The cousin went on to explain to the bachelorette party, who were all white with the exception of my girlfriend, that a Mandingo is apparently a very large Black man’s penis. What she failed to mention is that it’s also a derogatory term! My girlfriend said she could either:
A) Slap this woman upside her head B) Excuse herself from the party or C) Tell me about the story so I could write about it here.
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Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Mama always said if you want good real estate follow the crack heads…(part II)
by today's Urban Chameleon contributor FunnelCake
My mom has been living in Hot-Lanta for ten years now; enjoying her 2400sq ft, three story, balcony off the bedroom and living room with a view of the downtown skyline loft located in the crack head infested, gun shot bucking, drug dealer having neighborhood also known as da ‘hood. Just a couple of years ago she met a wonderful man, who she dated for a short time before deciding to get married, and invited him to live with her … cause uh…mama wasn’t moving. He, being head over heels over my mother, without question leased his four-bedroom chateau in the peaceful, quiet, suburbs to be with her.
However, da ‘hood has been a bit of a hindrance to his consulting business; as his conference calls are often interrupted by loud neighborhood arguments, (possibly over crack), with groups of people shouting, “YOU MUTHAF*CKA!”, every other word. Occasionally a gunshot or two followed by police sirens, which makes their Bichon dog, start barking.
One day my husband and I witnessed my step father, literally, running from room to room trying to avoid the blaring soundtrack of da ‘hood while on a conference call. Now I will say, in the short time they’ve lived there we’ve already begun to see change: a Japanese restaurant opened up around the corner, and you can even get a cappuccino at the new neighborhood coffee shop. Once, my husband and I went for a jog around the neighborhood and when we got back to the front of mom's loft to stretch, a crack head came up to us and asked if she could join. "Sure", we said, and she took our lead in the group stretch. We ended with a little Namaste Yoga meditation and she was on her way. It looks like a climbing Real Estate market can not only change a neighborhood but a crack head too.
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