Never Forget

I wrote this two days after the attacks on 9/11/01. It was a stream of consciousness flood of emotion that I sent to friends and family via email.

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Dear Friends:

I woke up the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, with a sense of dread. I had a feeling that something bad was going to happen. I don’t know why.

I stumbled into my living room, turned on the TV, the volume on mute & went into the kitchen to grab some juice. As I glanced over my shoulder at the TV I thought, “Well, there’s a trailer for a movie I WON’T be seeing: “Armageddon-Independence Day-Rambo Does NY”. What else could I possibly think I was seeing, as I watched a commercial airplane explode into the World Trade Center on a clear & sunny September morning? I went into the bathroom, turned on the radio & stepped into the shower. Then I heard these words: “This day will go down in history as the most tragic in our lifetime”. I turned the water off, ran into the living room, turned up the volume on the TV, & sat on my couch where I remained in shock for the next 48 hours, remote control in one hand, phone in the other, box of tissues by my side, my kitty on my lap.

In those first moments of stunned horror I tried to call loved ones in NY, but to no avail. I eventually just started going through my address book calling everyone I know just to hear their voices, but phone lines were busy between SF & Atlanta, NY & Seattle, LA & Chicago.

There really are no words to express what we are all feeling. I think what makes this horrific act of terror so potent is that it feels as if this attack was directed at each & every one of us. We were all the intended targets. No one is immune from its impact.

Four commercial flights, flying from & to major US cities (one of which is my hometown), deliberately crashed into the Most recognizable building in the Most famous city in the World is More than the human brain can comprehend. Every time I try, the only reaction my brain can muster is to prompt tears to roll down my cheeks. My heart is so heavy & so sad – so very, very sad.

In times of tragedy, as cliché as it may seem, the country suddenly feels a bit smaller & undoubtedly more united. And yet, as much as we are compelled to feel a sense of national pride, to wave our flags & sing the anthems that we know almost all the words to, we must not forget that we are not a perfect land. We allow unspeakable horrors (racism, sexism, child abuse, etc.) to occur on our own soil every day. While many nations stand united with us now in our time of need, these same allies have valid concerns about our policies as well. We cannot ignore this fact.

It is vital for us to acknowledge that there are people in this world who have hatred towards our country so immense that they would be driven to orchestrate such an act as the one that occurred on Tuesday. We may never understand it, but it is REAL & as much as we feel the need to “retaliate”, we will NEVER end the evil pattern of terrorism until the issues that motivate these horrors are addressed. There are no easy answers.

So, what are we to do NOW? Right now, I don’t know what or how to feel. Numbness is all my psyche can seem to handle. Everywhere I go, every face I see, looks the same: blank expressions. There is no sparkle in anyone’s eyes. Not one person is smiling. Everyone looks as if they have the weight of the world on their shoulders, deep in thought & heavy of heart. I feel as if the muscles in my face that used to allow me to smile have been paralyzed permanently. It seems implausible to think we will ever be joyful again.

AND YET I KNOW WE WILL.

Our buildings may have crumbled.

Our children’s sense of innocence may have been shaken.

Our airports may have shut down.

Our icons of Americana may have been cleared out.

Our sense of security may have been tested.

We still have many thousands of bodies to remove from the rubble & our grieving hasn’t even BEGUN to reach its apex.

ALL OF THIS IS INDEED TRUE.

And YET:

I know that we WILL smile again.

I know we WILL have joy in our lives again,

because there are SOME things that NO act of terrorism,

no matter how horrific, can take away from us:

Our Strength

Our Compassion

Our Resolve

Our Honor

Our Courage

Our Faith

Our Spirit

Our Hope

Our Love For One Another

These qualities create our foundation, our core, as a nation & as a people. They are indestructible – Period. So, if these terrorists thought they could demolish us, they really should have just stayed home on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Their mission was NOT accomplished.

Whenever tragedy strikes we each must struggle to find the blessing amidst the devastation. Yes, we are lucky that we are safe & alive. I am thankful that no one that I know of, thus far, was injured or killed. Those are the obvious blessings. But life will never be the same for any of us. It cannot be. Every time tragedy strikes we say, “I promise to live life to its fullest, as if today could be my last. To cherish all the wonderful gifts, I’ve been given & hold a bit closer to my heart my loved ones”.

But DO we? WILL we? I wonder.

For me, the blessing amidst the devastation, is that I was inspired to write this letter to you, my friends, the family that I have chosen for myself, whether I’ve known you for 20 years or for 20 days, & to tell you that: You mean the world to me. If my life were to end tomorrow, it was a better world I lived in & a richer life I led because you were a part of it. You are always in my thoughts. You are always in my heart. You are forever in my prayers. I love you all dearly.

In Love, Friendship & Peace,

Lulu

9/13/01

 

 

Art Matters. How an Afternoon at the Movies Healed my Heart

Art matters. This is why.

I went to the movies recently. By myself, which is how I prefer it. I sat in the very last row, which is also how I like it at this particular theater. I saw Spike Lee’s “BlacKkKlansman”. I knew it would be emotional. I knew I had to mentally steel myself for it. I knew it would be a lot. And it was. Especially those last few minutes. I’m not giving anything away by telling you that. The entire audience sat in stunned silence. Barely breathing.

Speaking of the audience, when I walked in the theater, I looked around & it appeared to me that the audience was entirely composed of retired age white folks. Going to midday matinees, it’s usually like that. The over 65 part, that is.

As the credits rolled, and Prince sang (don’t ever leave a movie before all the credits roll; that’s a pet peeve of mine & you sometimes miss really significant moments – hint hint), a young woman was trying to exit my row.

“Excuse me”, she whispered, as I was sitting there, holding my face in my hands, my heart in my stomach. I looked up. She was young. Barely 23, if I had to guess. If I had a younger sister, which I don’t, I imagine this young lady is what she might look like. The similarities in our appearance were notable. I guess I didn’t see her when I made my initial once over of the audience earlier. So, make that two people of color in the audience. Two black women.

I smiled weakly, shifted my legs so she could get by & then continued to sit there for another few moments.

I knew that I would need to go to the restroom to compose myself. I might even have to lock myself in a stall & have a good cry. I had errands to run & didn’t think my flood of emotions would wait until I got home.

When I entered the restroom, there she was. The young woman from my row. Looking in the mirror, dabbing tears from her eyes. She looked at me. I looked at her. And then I promptly I burst out into tears.

“I’m sorry”, I blubbered. “I’m so sorry. I just…can’t…”

“I know”, she said. “I know”.

And then this young woman, this total stranger, barely half my age, reached out her arms to me. And we hugged. And not one of those demure “respect my space” hugs. It was a real hug. The heart to heart kind. The holding on for dear life kind. The sharing an understanding, a feeling, an awareness of a human experience kind. The best kind.

There we were, two strangers in a public restroom. Bonding over a movie.

I apologized again. “I’m so sorry”. I’m not sure why that was all that I could say. Maybe I felt embarrassed by my own vulnerability.

“It’s ok”, she said, warmly. “It’s a lot. I’m going to sit outside (referring to the little lounging area in the theater) & try to process it. I’ll be there”. The implication, it seemed, was, she’d be there, if I wanted to join her.

I nodded my head as I dried my tears. She left the restroom & I splashed some water on my face, reapplied my lipstick, put my purse on my shoulder & started to walk out of the restroom.

Then I paused. I looked at my watch. I had errands to run. Places to be. Things to do. I was torn. Was I just going to leave & never see her again? Would our moment begin & end in a public restroom? Or would I walk outside, sit next to her & connect?

I made my decision.

I found her sitting on the couch, looking down at her phone. I sat across from her, not wanting to interrupt. Not wanting to seem needy. Maybe she was just being polite when she told me she’d be sitting there. Maybe I had misinterpreted her words.

So, I just sort of sat there. Staring off into space. And then I sighed a little bit too loudly.

She looked up.

And then we started talking. Like old friends.

We talked about the movie & how there were moments where we thought, “My god, this could be today. The words they are saying.” And then how we realized that this IS today. The words they were saying, WORD FOR WORD. The exact same words uttered by the KKK & David Duke in the 70’s are now being uttered by the current occupant of the Oval Office.

We talked about Trump.

We talked about race.

We talked about politics.

We talked about our lives.

She told me she just moved here, several weeks ago. From the same town where my father was born in Minnesota.

She told me that she now lives in the neighborhood where I grew up. Just six blocks away from my childhood home.

She told that she’d been her for just a few weeks and that I was the first native San Franciscan she’d met. She was very excited about that.

She told me she was a nurse & she was looking for a job.

She was young & excited about her life; the way energetic 20-somethings often are. But she was also weary & worried about the state & future of our country.

I told her that I understood. That I was worried too. And that in the end we would all be ok; a life lesson we older dolls, who’ve been through life’s ups & downs, have come to understand.

There was just something so familiar to me about this young woman. Maybe she reminded me of myself. I don’t know. But something made me want to keep her in my tribe.

“I know this might seem weird. We just met but…”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, “Let’s exchange numbers”.

My girl. Didn’t leave me hanging.

I told her that if she had any questions, any questions about San Francisco or needed any advice on her job search or just anything in general, to please call me. “Anything. Anytime. I’m serious”, I said.

We exchanged numbers. We hugged. We were healed.

This is the power of art. It brings people together. It changes people. For the better.

The movie had left me feeling so sad, almost broken, realizing how far we, as a nation, as Black Americans, still have to go to reach full equality. But the kindness of a stranger, with an invitation to connect, the power of a hug, soul to soul, sister to sister, brought me back to hope, happiness & humanity.

It was art that healed us. That matters.

When Harry Married Meghan

As a lifelong royal watcher, I am accustomed to the regal majesty of a royal wedding, but the May 19th nuptials of Prince Henry Charles Albert David Wales and Rachel Meghan Markle surpassed my exceptions. In every way. It’s not easy to make a royal wedding, viewed by millions across the globe, look & feel intimate, like a true family wedding, but somehow, they did.

On a day when the UK enjoyed California-like weather, a California born actress, divorced, biracial, a proud feminist and only child of a single mum, married into the British Royal family, forever after known as Her Royal Highness.

It was a ceremony that perfectly blended British regal precision with American exuberance & warmth.

A gospel choir sang a song connecting the world of civil rights activism, harmonic American classic songwriting & inspirational solidarity. And the whole world stood by them as they did.

A bishop from Chi town brought a little church up in here & the usually staid royals felt the spirit through their giggles.

Tiny flower girls & exuberant page boys waved & squealed, nearly exploding with trumpeting gap-toothed glee.

The red carpet of Hollywood unfurled on the ancient grounds of Windsor, with starlets & titled Aristocrats taking their spin for the title of Best Dressed.

The heir to the British throne took under his royal wing an African American single mum, guiding her, caring for her, like family does. Two people who couldn’t be more different in upbringing & life experiences, unified in their love for their children. He, softening the oft times chilled reactions that greet him. Her, proving you don’t have to be born royal to be a true Queen.

This mum. A social worker, yogi, dog lover with locs & a pierced nose, won the heart of the world with her grace & soft warm eyes, brimming with prideful tears.

And I know that sometime people don’t want to talk about race. It makes them uncomfortable. They ask, “Why does everything have to be about race?”. It doesn’t. Except when it does. This is one of those times.

It should be celebrated that a woman of color is now in the intimate fold of the British Royal family. It is not an insignificant thing. It means that a variety of voices & experiences will be at the forefront of how the monarchy moves forward.

The ONLY way the monarchy moves forward is if it stays relevant & changes with the times. Princess Diana was the catalyst for that awareness & we see that awareness carried through by her children. We live in a global world. In the UK 1 in 10 couples are in an interracial relationship. The royal family is now part of the fast-growing demographic. That matters.

I saw so many comments on social media on the day of the wedding from parents of kids of color who said that their children, especially girls, some as young as 5 years old, saw themselves reflected in Meghan. And while the goal for our children should not be to marry a prince, representation in all facets of life matters.

When a child grows up NOT seeing her/himself as CEO’s, Presidents of nations or key members of historically white institutions, be it a Fortune 500 boardroom or Buckingham Palace, it can limit their ability to dream bigger for themselves, to believe that they belong wherever their dreams & hard work takes them. That’s why it matters.

Another thing worth noting is that, whether by design or just coincidence, Meghan featured women in prominent roles in her wedding. Her dress was designed by one of the few head designers of a top fashion house. Her cake & flowers were created by women owned businesses & even the choir director was a woman. Again, I don’t know if that was a conscious decision, but I’d like to think that it was.

It’s been reported that during her reception speech, Meghan proudly claimed her feminist status. She has a proven track record of advocacy for the empowerment of women. That this commitment would carry over into the planning of her special day is a logical & welcomed possibility.

One of my favorite things was watching how giddy the American news anchors got when they saw the carriage pass by their mobile news stations.

Normally staid political reporters were jumping up & down squealing & in tears. It doesn’t matter who you are (or how many times you say you’re just not that into the royals), when you see them up close, you turn into a tween at a One Direction concert; trust me, I know from firsthand experience.

Marrying into any family is not easy. Marrying into the British royal family and all that comes with it requires a unique disposition of internal fortitude, strength, confidence, presence, humility, public speaking ability, telegenic appeal, relatability & warmth.

From everything we know about Meghan, it would seem she was born for the role. And I’ve never ever, ever seen Harry so happy. The looks on his face throughout the day, well, I mean, that is what it’s all about. I get chills & teary eyed just thinking about it. I have a feeling HE feels he married up.

And as my 99-year-old god grandpa, who was married for 75 years used to say: the key for a long & happy marriage is for the husband to know that HE’s really the lucky one.

The British Prince and his all-American girl.

It was a day for the world, no matter how jaded or cynical, to rejoice & believe in the power of love, as Bishop Curry proclaimed.

And to that, I say: “I do”.

I’ve got Pride

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When I was a little girl, we rented out a room in our large Haight-Ashbury flat to generate extra income. It was always rented to a young gay man, probably because my mum, a single parent, felt it was the safest & most sensible option. Their room was right next to mine in the front of the house & included a sitting room that we called the “library” because it had floor to ceiling bookcases, big puffy pillows on the floor & comfy nooks to settle in for reading or taking a nap. It was a common area in the house, but was mainly for our renter’s use, though I could often be found perched on the big overstuffed chair, peering out the window to observe the view of the always entertaining corner of Haight & Ashbury Streets.

If I wasn’t day dreaming, I had my nose buried in a book, such is the life of an only child in a household with no TV. Inevitably, our housemate would slide open the French doors that divided their room to the library & slowly, gently, tenderly, carefully, our friendship would unfold.

The men who lived with us all referred to themselves as my “fairy god-fathers” – their term; not mine. As a child, I didn’t understand the tongue in cheek we’re-taking-our-power-back meaning. Once I did, I both grimaced & grinned.

We had about five young men live with us over the years. This was in the late 70’s – early 80’s, before gay people could easily adopt kids or were even really allowed to think, dream about becoming parents in some cases. I was the only child in their circle of friends & was often invited to tag along to their ever so glamorous soirées, Oscar parties, holiday fetes & any other over the top event that might just really be a Tuesday night but always seemed like so much more to me. These outings gave my mum nights off from mum-ing & me, adventures to be fondly remembered decades later.

I often found myself sitting crossed leg in the middle of one of their friend’s exquisitely decorated antique filled living rooms in the Castro district on a priceless oriental rug, beading necklaces or playing with antique paper dolls (theirs, not mine), Judy blasting in the background, watching a group of lively young men gossip & flirt & dance & share stories about their hopes, dreams & fears.

I heard them talk about how they had escaped to SF from places like Iowa, Kentucky, Texas, so that they could live & love freely. They had all been disowned by their families for being gay. They had to create their own families & I was privileged to play the role of the little sister, niece, cousin they had to leave behind or, on an even deeper level, the child they never believed they would ever be able to have. It was from them that I learned my lifelong mantra: friends are the family we choose for ourselves. And love is love. Sorry Lin, but they said it first.

Of course, I was much too young to really understand the implications of all of this, but what I did know was that I felt so grown up & cherished in their presence. I knew there was something special about these men; to me they were worldly & fancy & sparkly & they knew a little something about everything. And most importantly, they taught me what they knew.

From them, I learned about music & fashion & art & literature & Broadway & why black & white movies of the 40’s were the best movies & that you must always bake with butter, never margarine & that cookie dough is calorie free & the power of the LBD & that one must always dress up when going downtown & the difference between Barbra Streisand & Barbara Stanwick; Bette Davis & Bette Midler; Oscar the Grouch & THE Oscars & the importance of wearing sunglasses, even in the fog, to prevent wrinkles, darling.

They were men of great style, class, elegance, intellect, wit, charm, creativity, beauty & fun. They were incredibly cultured & had exquisite taste. My memories of my time with them run deep:

Going to the “Nutcracker” every Christmas Eve.

Having high tea at Liberty House.

Lip syncing & dancing to the Andrew Sisters “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”. I know all the words, still, to this day.

Taking in the Christmas decorations downtown at Macy’s & I.Magnin’s  & ending the day with a cable car ride to Ghirardelli Square for hot chocolate with extra cherries & whipped cream.

Lengthy sermons on the essential need for dust ruffles & monogrammed stationery & silk dressing gowns.

To a young child, these experiences leave a mark; a permanent mark of rainbow colored glitter sprinkled on her soul.

To my child’s eye, mind & heart, these men were magical. They were my playmates; the most delightful big brothers to a shy, often sad & lonely little girl. They were fun & silly & played dress up & Always let me be Cher to their Sonny. A major sacrifice on their part, to be sure!

They told me I was a glittering gem & that I was “fabulous” & they meant it in a REAL way, not a “hey girl hey” way, tho we had those moments too. They treated me with respect. They didn’t patronize or pander to me. They expected me to keep up my end of the conversation, regardless of the topic or my lack of knowledge about it. Local politics or Best Dressed at the Oscars; my opinion mattered to them. They didn’t baby me. They treated me like an equal. But that didn’t mean that they didn’t spoil & coddle me. They made me feel special & valued & respected. Perhaps because society didn’t offer them the same respect as gay men, they felt compelled to make sure I was always treated as a whole person. For a young girl of color, this went far in developing my sense of self & worth & pride in being who I was.

They also showered me with gifts, some that I still have to this day:

A beautiful hand-woven throw that made on an old-fashioned loom.

A hand beaded necklace with an antique tiny bell at its center. Too tiny now for my adult neck but still cherished.

A beautiful white cake stand from Tiffany’s; an odd gift for a 10-year-old girl, you might think, but as the gift giver said when he handed me the HUGE blue box, “Sweetie, if I’ve taught you nothing else, please remember this: the light blue box is always the BEST box!”

I still have those treasures, but I no longer have my fairy god-fathers.

They all eventually succumbed to HIV/AIDS. They were all in long-term relationships. Their partners died too. By the early 90’s they were all gone.

These men were the first & most prominent adult male figures in my young life; in truth, the only father figures I had growing up. I know for a fact that it is because of my time with them that I am the person, the woman, the friend, the activist, I am today.

They didn’t live to see the many strides & advances that the LGBTQ community has made. If they were still alive today, they would be at the front of the line continuing to fight the good fight for the strides still to be made.

But they aren’t, so I do it for them. It is the least I can do to honor their legacy & repay them for all they have given me.

My description of these men might seem almost disrespectful in its seemingly stereotypical depiction of gay men, but these were the men I knew, as I knew them, when I knew them. This was who they were, at a time when the gay community in SF was thriving & carefree; when the pulse of the disco beat of the day seemed to ring in sync with the beat of the cultural awakening that was taking the world by gloriously gay rainbow storm on the streets of SF.

I am so lucky that I spent my formative years as their fairy goddaughter, wrapped up in the glow of this historical time. But my golden carriage turned into a pumpkin well before midnight of my young adulthood dawned and my fairy god-fathers vanished with it.

I am a better human being because I knew them. THIS, I know for sure. My fairy god-fathers may be gone, but their rainbow colored fairy dust flows in my veins forever. They had their Pride. And they gave me mine, too. xo Lulu

The Problem with Models of Color as Cover Girls

Models of color on the covers of major fashion magazines. It’s a good thing, right? Well, yes and no.

Seeing such diversity and actual models (as opposed to movie/TV stars) on covers of major fashion magazines is refreshing. The loss of that exposure has had a grave impact on the career paths of professional models. A cover can make a career.

However…

…it seems there is an unwritten, rarely spoken about rule that models of color have to share this pivotal moment in their career.

More often than not these days, when a Black/Model of Color (MOC) lands a cover, she is not alone; she shares it with other models. Sometimes they are other models of color; sometimes they are not. A quick review of some of 2017’s covers illustrates my point:

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And quite often, the cover story is about diversity, basically highlighting the fact that the editorial team has decided to put women of color on the cover. It almost makes it feel like a gimmick. Instead of just putting a woman of color on the cover and letting THAT be its own powerful image, it becomes a “thing”, a “look at what we did” moment.

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To be clear, I fully appreciate and want diverse beauty represented in fashion, advertising, and art. But if you have to draw attention to the fact that you are doing something, perhaps that is a clue that you don’t do it enough.

Maybe it’s the former model in me, but I am sort of selfish minded for these girls. To get a cover of a top fashion magazine is one of the apexes of any model’s career. It’s even more coveted now that models rarely get that honor: for the past fifteen or so years, cover girls aren’t professional models; they are Hollywood starlets. So when a model gets a cover, it’s a big damn deal for her career. And yet a shared cover happens primarily – I’d argue it ONLY happens – when the cover includes a Black model/MOC.

Further, when there is more than one model of color on the cover, they are usually in a range of skin tones, from light to dark. Again, the message is a seemingly positive one: “Yea! Diversity! Look at all the pretty colors”. It would be MORE powerful…and genuine to the message of diversity…if just ONE model was on the cover…especially if she were a dark complexioned model.

Our culture puts a higher premium on lighter complexioned women of color. I say this as a woman who falls on the lighter hue chart herself. The privileges I experience in life, based on that reality, were not only restricted to my modeling career; they extend to my life, day to day, every day, as a woman of color in America. I am afforded more opportunities, acceptance and accolades because my skin skews lighter. My lighter skin makes me more palatable to those who might hold biases towards people of color. People never know WHAT my identity is. Makes it a bit harder for them to figure out how to discriminate against me too.

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The first time, in its 32 year history, that Sports Illustrated put a Black model on the cover of its career making swimsuit issue, she was not alone. Tyra Banks shared the cover with Valerie Mazza in 1996.

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It’s almost as if they were testing the waters. Once they saw the positive reaction her appearance received – and that the world did not come to an end – the next cover was hers and hers alone. Tyra’s cover turned out to be one the most popular and iconic covers in the magazine’s swimsuit issue history.

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It was the first…and last time that a Black model was on the cover alone…until this year’s 2018 cover model, Danielle Herrington (I’m assuming she is Black TBH). That’s 21 years between the two. And only two in 64 years.

There HAVE been a few Latina models on the cover. When Chrissy Teigen was on the over in 2014, (she’s part Thai) she shared the cover with two other girls.

In May 2017, American Elle issued six covers, with six different models, each solo on their respective covers. Two of them were MOC: the stunning Jasmine Tookes and the radiant Maria Borges. Instead of just giving one model a cover, they dilute…for lack of a better word…the power of that one image. Why not just give one cover to Maria? And then maybe another cover later in the year to Jasmine? Why must they be a package deal, folded in with stunners – but super safe choices – like Hailey Baldwin and Bella Hadid?

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This isn’t to say that it happens all the time. There ARE times when black models grace covers alone.

In 2015, Jourdan Dunn was on the cover of British Vogue alone. However, that was the first time in ELEVEN years a Black model had graced the cover alone. The last time was 2004 with Naomi Campbell.

Thankfully we didn’t have to wait another 11 years for it to happen again.

In 2017, with Edward Enninful at the helm as the magazines new EIC, his premiere cover in December featured Adwoa Aboah. By herself. Progress.  This is a reminder that diversity BEHIND the scenes, among key decision makers, in ANY industry, is vital to ensuring that a wide range of sensibilities, truths and experiences are reflected.

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I recently saw the May 2018 British Vogue cover and it is exquisite. It also has nine models on it; most of them WOC (as best as I can tell). I will add, however, that this cover does represent an even bolder diversity with a model who is not a size two and another model wearing a hijab. I actually contemplated not including it as an example to make my point of this essay because it is SUCH a powerful cover. But how powerful it would have been if each of these models were given a cover all to herself? I can’t help thinking about that.

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Taking Mr. Enninful out of the equation, why do fashion editors at these magazines make these art direction decisions? Is it flat out racism? I don’t think so. I think it’s more innocuous and subtle form of bias. The type that seeps into our everyday lives. People often ask “why does everything have to be about race”. It doesn’t. Except when it is.

I don’t have any empirical evidence on this, so I can only speak to my own interpretation of why Black models/MOC are often required to share a cover, but in broad stroke terms I think it represents a lack of awareness and ingrained biases implicit within the fashion industry, advertising and marketing. I’ve worked as both a professional model, and then, later, in advertising, at both the creative and account management ends. In both realms, I saw how the lack of representation in decision making roles created a limited view of the world they were trying to serve.

It’s important that decision makers understand the decisions they make have serious implications for many young (in particular) women who look at these images and make a direct correlation between them and their own self-worth, beauty and value in society.

At the end of the day, every decision comes down to money and advertisers. If they put one Black model on the cover…especially a dark complexioned model…there may be an unconscious fear of “offending” some of their readers and advertisers. But they want to “address” diversity, so they put a few models on a cover, ideally a white model to distract as needed, call it the “diversity issue” and pat themselves in the back for their bold artistic decisions.

I consider that a cop out.  Put a dark skinned beauty on the cover. Don’t explain it or justify it. Just put her beautiful face on the cover. And while we’re at it, where are all of the Asian models? That’s another story for another day. Representation for them is woefully lacking in this realm (the aforementioned May British Vogue cover is a refreshing exception).

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It didn’t always used to be this way. In the mid to late 80’s and into the early 90’s, Black models graced the covers of top magazines solo, with no “diversity” fanfare. A lot. Each of these supermodels, Karen Alexander, Kara Young and Louise Vyent had at least 10 that I counted during a quick google search. There was no fuss about diversity. They were just there, in all of their Black Girl Magic glory. I’m really not sure why it seems that progress regressed over the years. But it did.

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When I’ve mentioned this new phenomenon with covers to folks in my circle, many of whom are people of color, many who are not, but most who follow fashion and style and beauty trends and all who are, as the kids today say: “woke”…they are shocked. Shocked that this is actually a thing, but even more so, shocked because they sheepishly admitted they never noticed the thing. They were so busy celebrating the fact that models of color were actually getting covers that they missed the problematic pattern of these covers.

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I want to make it clear that I am so very proud of these cover girls. As a former professional model myself, I fully understand and appreciate what it means to get a cover – any cover – in this highly competitive industry. I celebrate in their success and nothing I’ve written should be interpreted as negating their professional accomplishments. I simply would like to see each of them given the chance to shine in their own light, on their own covers. It is a good, positive, powerful thing…for them professionally…and for us collectively…to see the rich diversity of our humanity reflected in these images. I’d rather have them on these covers, than not at all. I just hope there comes a day when this diversity is presented, not as “otherness”, but rather as just part of the expected landscape of our collective beauty, with each woman given her moment in the spotlight. ~ Lulu

Peacefully Protesting While Pissed

Wednesday, November 9, 2016, 6pm…The day after.

The plan was to get home, put on some sweats, face plant into a vat of chocolate and have Anderson Cooper tell me it was all a bad dream.

But that’s not what happened.

I went to bed on Tuesday, November 8 in tears, my head aching, my heart broken, my spirit shattered. Donald Trump was President Elect. I simply could not believe it. COULD. NOT. BELIEVE. IT.

My devastation was not so much fear around what kind of President he would be (cause personally I think he’s more liberal than he’s led his followers to believe & cause half of what he’s told them he will do once in office simply can’t be done cause, ya know, The Constitution and stuff).

No, my angst was due to the damage already done because he ran a campaign based on fear, hate, sexism, racism, xenophobia and the notion that you can just “grab” whatever you want in life. And when the Republican nominee for the highest office waves those flags, it emboldens others to do the same.

I’m not naïve. I know there are people in this country who are bigots, homophobes and ignorant buffoons. But for the most part, they keep their sick, twisted thoughts to themselves. Trump’s antics emboldened them; gave them a perceived legitimacy to their rants and with that, the hoods came off. And that terrified me.

Of course not all of his supporters are racist, bigots. Many of them are good people. But here’s the thing: if you KNOW that he is endorsed by the KKK & you KNOW that he mocks the disabled, Latinos, war vets & you KNOW that he degrades & demeans women…and you STILL vote for him…you are cosigning on that behavior. Period.

So I cried. And woke up the next morning & burst out into tears before my feet even hit the floor. I cried as I listening to Hillary’s concession speech. I cried on my way to work. I cried all day at work. I was having trouble processing my emotions. I was gutted. And exhausted. Cause crying takes a LOT of energy…at least the way I do it.

So by the end of the day I just wanted to get home…so I could cry some more.

On the bus, listening to my music (lots of Marvin & Donny & Mavis & Sade), sort of zoned out. The bus stopped at a major intersection and we just sat there a bit longer than a normal red light would warrant. The driver announced, “Folks, looks like we aren’t going anywhere for a while. Traffic is blocked”. Lots of deep sighs and groans from my fellow passengers. I am sure I was the loudest.

We all filed off the bus & then we could see what was blocking us from getting home: thousands of people marching up Market Street. At first I thought, “Ok, cool. I’m glad they are protesting but I need to get home”. Then I heard the chants directed at us & all the others folks disembarking off of other buses in the area, “Join us! Join us!”.

And so I did.

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I’ve protested peacefully many, many times. As a San Francisco native it’s just sort part of your DNA that you take a stand & fight the power. So me joining this protest was not out of character. To be clear: I am only interested in peaceful protests. I’ve never been involved in anything other than that.

So in that moment, I headed straight for the marching crowd. And as I did, the folks in that area let out a huge cheer as it became clear that myself and several others from the bus, were joining them. I fell into line next to a few super adorable college age girls. They smiled & fist bumped me. “Yea! Right on!” they cheered. I looked them in the eye & said, “I need this. I really need to be with all of you. I am just so….” and then I burst out into tears, the emotions of the day and the moment and the movement overwhelming me. The girls wrapped me up in their arms, hugging me tight. “We know, we know” one of them said. And then we linked arms & kept on marching.

The crowd was about 3000+ strong. Totally peaceful. All ages (tho I would say most were aged 18-25, those glorious millennials who felt the Bern & showed up for Hillary in record numbers). There were families with children. There were people of every race. This being San Francisco, it was a crowd that represented every walk of life. The beautiful array of humanity that makes our city by the bay so vibrant and unique. And contrary to what Trump tweeted out, none of us got paid.

I think what struck me most was how every step of the way people joined us, people like me who came across the march by accident, on their way home from work, leaving the gym, walking the dog. People who had not PLANNED to march felt the surge of energy that summed up how they were feeling and it compelled them to take action. Every time they joined in, the crowd cheered, high fived, hugged them.

It was a spontaneous demonstration (no pun intended) of decency and compassion. There was NO violence. There was outrage and passion but it was controlled and focused and empowering.

At one point someone had a piñata in the form of Trump floating above the crowd. Someone yelled, “Get it!”. Someone else yelled, “Burn it”. But a huge roar of “No!!!” went up from many of us. We are NOT going to behave like that. Instead…and is was actually sort of funny…people were shaking their fists at it & just yelling “Boo!” in its direction. It was as if they needed a focal point upon which to address their rage. That little paper puppet got a lot of it!

We marched for about eight long blocks, approaching the iconic intersection of Castro and Market Streets where a HUGE crowd had already assembled. I’ve stood in that intersection in times of good and bad, when Harvey Milk and Mayor Moscone were assassinated; when protesting the Iraq War, when campaigning for Obama. And so there I was again, with my people, in my hometown.

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People were waving American, Mexican, Canadian, LGBTQ flags. It was almost a party atmosphere; spirits were high and positive. Don’t get me wrong, people were mad, chants of “Not my President” & “Grab Back” & “I’m with her” filled the air but the anger was contained & focused and more than anything, people were energized and uplifted. I heard a lot of people saying, “This is what I needed”, “This makes me feel better”. That’s how I felt. I think we needed to be reminded that there were more of US who voted believing that we are Stronger Together. Election Night rocked us to our cores. It scared us to think that so many of our fellow Americans did not value the same things (and people) that we value. We needed to know we were not alone.

I’ve heard a lot of people say that these types of protests are a waste of time. I could not disagree more. As long as they are peaceful, they are VERY worthy. There is power in numbers. There is power in community. There is power in expressing your feelings. For most of us during that day we had to contain our emotions, our tears, our rage while at work or running errands or tending to young children. We needed a release. We needed to rant and rave and cry out to the heavens. This country has a rich and proud history of peaceful protest marches. And for me it has always been important to say that I “was there” in those pivotal historic times.

The night was unseasonable warm, the sky clear, the stars bright – a perfect night to be out & about, but as with much of life, shoe choice makes a big difference in protest marching and I could tell that mine might limit my political engagement. I stayed with the crowd for about 30 minutes. The crowd was large & loud & more people continued to file in from Market Street. There was someone on the loud speaker leading chants & speaking to truth to power. I heard some folks say the crowd was going to march to The Mission (a couple of miles away). I knew that would be too much walking for me. I felt I had done my part, my tiny part, but now it was time to go.

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I hugged a few new friends goodbye, took one last look over my shoulder at the sea so humanity… and headed home…where I put on my sweats, face planted into a vat of chocolate…while Anderson Cooper told me it was not a bad dream…it was all true:

Donald Trump will be the 45th President of the United States of America.

Inked by Sade

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I still can’t believe I got a tattoo! It’s not something I ever really thought about but in the past few years I felt like I wanted one & I knew that it would be music related & it was gonna be Sade related because if music is my religion, then Sade is my God.

“By Your Side” is the name of one of her songs. It might surprise you to know that it’s not necessarily my favorite song of hers but it DOES represent my connection to her music in a powerful way.

(Before we start, can we just acknowledge how weird a wrist looks out of context? SO weird!)

It was the fall of 2000. I had just come home after a bumpy day at work. I even remember what I was wearing (green cargo pants, a pink tank top, jeans jacket, green striped tote bag). Normally when I come home I immediately kick off my shoes, drop my keys & sunglasses in their proper little spot (because I am uber Type-A & organized that way), put down my purse & turn on the TV (terrible habit, I know).

But this day, for some reason, I went into the kitchen & turned on the radio. I NEVER do that. I still had my sunglasses on, purse still on my shoulder. The station was set to KBLX, The Quiet Storm. The DJ was saying, “Sade’s first release in 8 years” & then a song started to play.

I literally dropped to my knees in the middle of my kitchen & started to cry. The instrumental intro to the song started to play. I started to cry because I knew that soon, when this album was released, I would have 12-13 new songs from an artist whose art affects me so deeply; songs that would give me everything I need when I need it. I don’t really know how to explain it. There are actually singers whose voices I would rather have if I could sing, than hers. But her music moves me like no other.

I actually said out loud to the empty room, “Sade, WHY do you make us wait so long for your music? We need you by our side”

And then she started to sing the song:

“You think I’d leave your side baby
You know me better than that
You think I’d leave you down when you’re down on your knees
I wouldn’t do that”

I sobbed. As usual it was as if she knew my heart; knew exactly what I was going through. There I was, on my knees, questioning her, begging for her.

She continued to sing. The last line was “I’ll be there by your side baby”

The DJ came on the radio & said, “There it is. “By Your Side” by Sade.

Well, I just about passed out. I mean, she was LITERALLY reading my mind, my heart, my emotions. She was reading my heart & as always, knew exactly what I needed to hear, when I needed to hear it. There she was, being my favorite artist in all the ways that move me.

When the cd was released, I had preordered it & picked it up at the record store (remember those??). I had a whole ritual planned: I was going to start listening the CD on my Discman (lol) the minute I walked out of the store & walk home & just enjoy the music with the backdrop of San Francisco all round me. The walk home was not a short one (From the Embarcadero to Cow Hollow for your SF peeps). It was not a walk that one takes just on a whim. It was a long walk, but walking up & down the hills of my hometown on a brisk clear night, with Sade serenading, is pretty much my idea of heaven.

So I walked & I listened. I few times I stopped to take in the view. And because I am super Type A & like clarity & order & finite beginnings and ends, I started to wonder if the CD would play all the way till I got home or if it would stop sooner. Btu I didn’t really think too much about it. I just walked & listened. And as I put the key in my front door, at that very moment as I opened the front door, the very last note of the very last song faded away. I don’t know what you call that, but I call it a sign…yet again…that Sade knows. She just knows.

“By Your Side” has become a little mantra I say to myself when I need encouragement or a reminder that everything is going to be ok.

Cause here is the thing:

The thing is, there is ALWAYS something or someone by your side…to get you through, to give you encouragement or tough love or a pat on the back. It might be your faith, or your bestie, or your lover. It might be your favorite spot in nature or your much loved piece of prose or a warm cuddle from a fur baby. And it might even be a song…or the title of a song. And it might even by YOU, by your side. In most cases, it’s a combination of all of the above.

So when I started to think about getting a tattoo, something inspired by Sade was the only option & this was the obvious choice. On the inside of my wrist (where is can be easily covered by my watch for those times when a tattoo might not be appropriate) where I can see it, glance at it, stare at it, enjoy it. And I HAVE! I have really looked at it & focused on it & allowed it to do what I hoped it would do: give me strength & courage & faith. Sometimes I wake up in the morning & my arm is up on the pillow & the tattoo is the first thing I see & it comforts me.

It’s been almost two months now. And I have no regrets…which is a good thing…cause it’s gonna be by my side forever! xo lulu