Trayvon Martin Lessons

So this depressing-ass weekend has resulted in me saddened by the verdict. My first attempt at coping with this tragedy was to lessen the pain by creating a verb, either Trayvoning or Zimmermaning. But I couldn’t decide exactly what the situation meant to me. Does it mean being racially profiled? Or does it mean getting away with murder? Or does it mean shooting children? What exactly is being Trayvon-ed!

After a lot of reflection and with a lost for resolution, I, instead, have made a list of what I learned from the case:

1.       You will be judged not by the content of your character but by the bullshit of your social media. Be careful what you post.

2.       If you are a teenager, don’t fight adults. They may lose the fight but they won’t lose the war.

3.       If you want to get away with murder, fight a child, lose, kill them, and then plead self-defense.

4.       Racial profiling is inevitable. If you are a tall, muscular, Black man you should become shorter, workout less, become pale, and/or get a sex change.

5.       If you are Black, don't do things like wear hoodies at night.

6.       If you are Black, don’t walk toward your house at night.

7.       If you are Black, don’t go out at night.

8.       If you are Black and you’ve done nothing wrong, you are lying.

9.       If you are Black and you see a white man walking toward you, RUN AWAY.

10.   If you are Black and you are in a neighborhood, you should get down on the ground and place your arms behind your head so that the neighbors know you aren’t up to trouble.

11. If you are in the neighborhood watch, you have the right to police your neighborhood as if you were a trained officer with a gun. 
12. The State of Florida is not welcoming to Negro-kind.

So that last one may have been a little racist but this was a racially charged act. The 6 jurors all agreed that Trayvon was PROBABLY guilty of something and Zimmerman had the right to stalk him because of how suspicious he looked. And even though the 911-operator told Zimmerman NOT to leave his car, during his self-inspired pursuit of the most-likely-up-to-no-gooder, he was within his legal bounds to put himself in a dangerous situation. And no matter the result of said pursuit and said danger, his heart was in the right place. So he is innocent by conscience?!?

In short, I, as a Black person, should be okay with the Zimmermans of the world killing Blacks legally because they are good samaritans? Not to sound crazy but #FuckThatNoise.

The point is there are stereotypes against us all. Sadly, we can’t change everyone’s mind. And Black people repeatedly racking up the statistics for violent crime and filling up the prison system kinda looks bad on our part.

I guess the only thing we can do is be conscious of stereotypes against us, take the proper steps to avoid these situations, and hope for good circumstances.

Life sucks, and then you die. 

DJing Stories: The Veteran with the Red Lamborghini

So it was about 2007 and I was playing a weak night at the bar. I had just finished this Power Hour set (pretty much, you play a different song every minute of the hour and the people have to drink when the song changes. 60 shots of beer in 60 minutes = ReallyDrunk People) and was getting ready to pull out some actual songs that weren’t Power Rangers Theme songs and hits from the movie Grease.

The 30 or so people there were good and drunk and happy (again, 60 drinks in an hour). Unluckily, it was June-ish so all the college chil’ren were home pretending that they didn’t have a drinking problem. I was playing Christmas music and a little top 40 cause no one was there (yeah, I’m about that life), and people weren’t really paying attention.

The point is everyone was in a good mood . . . except for this one dude.

So, I put on one of those long-ass, white-people-love-it, bar songs that last like 15 minutes “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” (aka, my DJ has gone to the bathroom  song).I usually jump off the stage to chat with whoever is closest to me. This guy, who just happened to be in my vicinity, was at the bar, by himself, with a fresh scar on his head.

I ask him, in my “I’m a friendly, personal DJ that cares but seriously tip me or get me a drink” voice, how his night was going. He said well. And then leisurely explains how he is looking for a girl to take him home.

It turns out this guy is fresh from the Afghanistan war, thanks to our President at the time, and had survived a very serious bomb explosion.

I said something along the lines of “wow, it’s amazing you are alive.”

Then, he takes a moment to stare into his drink. He swivels it around and proceeds to explain how his surgery went. He says he was very fortunate that the doctors were able to remove the scrap medal from his head.  But while they were there, they found a malignant tumor in his brain. They gave him an estimated life expectancy of 8 to 12 months and sent him back to the US with six figures and hella veteran benefits.

I stared at him, shocked, as he sat there content. I told him how sorry I was to hear the news.

He goes on to tell me that he’s not sorry. He recognizes the fact that this will be his last 4^th of July, his last Thanksgiving, his last Christmas, his last everything with everyone. He doesn’t see a point in being regretful or maintaining poisonous friendships or focusing too hard on anything that causes stress. Apparently, when you only have so much time left in this world, you worry only about the things that matter.

Being the daughter of a veteran, my heart went out to this man. All he wanted to do was serve his country and prepare a better life for himself. In his effort to pursue happyness, all he received was the prediction of his untimely death.

I got on the mic and professed to the crowd that we had a veteran at the bar who just got back from 

Afghanistan who had NO BITCHES and a PARCHED MOUTH. He looks up at me and smiles as I point him out to the patrons of the bar.

In a few hours, the place gets packed and he ends up having a fantastic evening. (Noted, he didn’t get too much attention from the ladies. But he did enjoy talking to our busty bartenders. Smiling from ear-to-ear as only a man in lust can.)

At around midnight, when it was really starting to get crazy, he leaves surprisingly. He pays his tab, tips his busty beaut, and walks out to his car (with no woman on his arm, mind you). He jumps in this bright red Lamborghini, that is COMPLETELY uncharacteristic of College Park, and drives off into DC.

I tell this story to a lot and people always ask me “how do you know he wasn’t lying? Maybe he was just trying to get in your pants.” To them, I respond with it doesn’t matter if he were lying or not. Because at some point throughout this ridiculous war, we had lost men and women. Some of them never got the chance to finish their year with family. And regardless of whether his story was true or false, unbeknownst to him, he was telling an account of SOMEONE’s life.

So that was one of the most interesting nights at the bar. And plus, I got to see a lambo. And those joints are SHWEET!

DJing Stories: Shit Girl

So this story is by far my favoritest story to tell. Back when I first started DJing, I had the privilege of working at a crappy college bar (FYI, it literally smelled like crap. Not sarcastically smelled like crap or figuratively smelled like crap. It SMELLED like crap! Later on, I found out that they didn’t technically clean the bar. They just threw down hot water and bleach and swiveled the stuff around. #Disgusting.)

Moving right along, the bar I worked at had a mixed crowd. We had college kids, locals (who tend to be of the Negro variety), old playas (which tend to be of the retired variety), and your young escapees from the nearest military base. As a DJ, I had to keep these various folks and their various tastes in music entertained while maintaining civil interactions. Talk about tough titty.

One evening, as all evenings, a group of Caucasian females (coming from one trashy sorority or another) comes strolling in ready for a night out. This night out swiftly turns into White Girl Wasted part 456-delta-sigma-prime, aka too many to count. Anyway, one of the intoxicated patrons included a new recruit, nicknamed ShitGirl.

Ya see, one can only assume ShitGirl was new because one would want to volunteer an excuse for her actions. In actuality, she would need to be young or stupid from the way she handled her liquor. Talk about sloppy to the sloppiest degree, she was on the ground crawling to the music. And I don’t mean on beat or for any particular reason. Just kinda down there, chilling, enjoying the view.
RULE: The drunk person is entertainment to everyone, an embarrassment to their friends, and a lesson learned to ALL onlookers.

At one point, she disappeared into a different bar, unbeknownst to anyone (or mainly the people who cared). Yes, her own FRIENDS lost her and didn't really care to resurface her remains.
RULE: Friends don't let friends leave alone.

In her failed effort to be classy and not trashy, ShitGirl lost her phone. Accordingly, some college student, either ignorant to the profitable world of Ebay, Craigslist, or Amazon AND/OR practicing the basics of Karama learned from their World Religions lecture, decided to turn in her phone to the bartenders. 

At around 2:30 AM, ShitGirl reappears at the front of the bar. At this point, we had kicked everyone out. The bouncers are still around patrolling the last few straddlers, the bartenders are cleaning up the bar, the DJ is packing up her equipment, and the manager, keeping a micromanaging, stern eye on everyone and everything, has locked the doors. 

RULE: Shut AND lock the door if you want to count money. This should be logic, but hey stupider things have happened in College Park.

ShitGirl proclaims, through the door in her best, articulate, drunk slur of English, that she has left her phone inside. Being of masculine body and feminine heart, one bouncer feels pity and lets her in. #Mistake1

She stammers directly to the basement, bypassing the bartenders, and heads to the bathroom. Us remaining folks sit around, shoot the shit, and continue with our nightly duties. In 3 to 5 minutes, ShitGirl reappears with the most disgusting smells I have ever smelled in my life.

She appears with human feces, tampon blood, alcohol, beer bottle labels, and toilet paper on her arms where she had been blatantly digging in what is most obviously the women’s toilet(s). On top of that, she walks toward the bouncer who let her in, asking for her phone. He shrieks, as any person would with a drunk Zombie covered in other people’s blood, shit, urine, etc.

Although you think she was alone, she apparently had one friend left. Remaining in the bar, sitting near the coat rack with other bouncers, was a group of Navy men. These young gents did not want their night to end and sat peacefully with the bouncers, most likely discussing after-parties or politics (believe whatever suits your fancy). One of them, who will now be referred to as NavyPatron, takes ShitGirl back downstairs and cleans her up. Aww what a nice guy, right? Wrong!

In a few minutes, ShitGirl reappears less like a mess, but still troubled with a look of confusion and longing for her phone. NavyPatron walks up to the bartender and asks for a specific phone. Like magic, it appears. Apparently, it had been safe at the bar since 10PM. #Mistake2

NavyPatron hands the phone to ShitGirl and then receives a very gracious hug. Assuming he liked said hug or said girl, he asks ShitGirl where her friends were. In the bar? No. Neighboring bar? No. Picking up phones? No. Well, it looks like ShitGirl needs a ride home.

So NavyPatron takes ShitGirl away with him in his Ford Mustang of that year (yes, the military pays well). Anyway, she leaves with, not her friends, but a random male stranger to go “home.” #Mistake3

And when people ask me how I went 4 years without barely touching a drink in college, I tell them it's cause of ShitGirl. She is a true inspiration.