Chick in the Hood...

I just watched "Straight Outta Compton" and I think I was the only one rapping along. Granted the theater wasn't very full and I live in South Dakota, but I doubt I look like the prototype for the N.W.A fan. The yoga pants and the "Well-behaved women rarely make history" shirt aren't exactly a giveaway for a group whose lyrics are misogynistic, violent, and homophobic. (I also LOVE Guns N' Roses, if anyone wants to make this a race thing. This all probably has more to do with my Han Solo Syndrome, but I digress.) I do find something satisfying about running through McKennan Park with The Bitches while rapping "I'm expressin' with my full capabilities and now I'm livin' in correctional facilities, Cause some don't agree with how I do this. I get straight, meditate like a Buddhist," or "N W A's fuckin' up tha program. And then you realize we don't care, we don't just say no, we to busy sayin' yeah! To drinkin' straight out the eight bottle. Do I look like a mutha fuckin role model? To a kid lookin' up ta me life ain't nothin but bitches and money."



My appreciation for that harder type of hip hop, the old stuff, is in the storytelling. N.W.A always felt genuine and credible. No bullshit, you know? Most people who listen to them never lived in Compton, but probably feel like they could describe some of the experience based on the honest voices in the lyrics. It's a snapshot of a very specific piece of American history and well, lots of pieces of American history aren't so beautiful. I suppose my constant craving for authenticity was what led me to become an N.W.A fan.

So you know I like the music, what did I think of the movie, the movie, the movie?

If you've seen any press on this, there has been lots of criticism on the misogyny in the movie. That's fair. The women are basically props. One can argue that it's a piece of hip hop culture and that N.W.A set that tone. And if I really look at myself, maybe I give them a pass because it's black women that are the typically the targets here, so I don't see myself within that context. Now there's something to think about...

Dr. Dre's well-documented history of violence against women is left to the wayside. The kid, Corey Hawkins, who plays Dre in the film is great. But I can't help but wonder how much more fantastic the performance would have been if some of the darker elements of Dre's personality weren't left on the cutting room floor. The only woman he had significant interaction with (read two scenes) was his mother, and she slapped the shit out of him in one of those. So if a viewer had no idea about Dre's violence in real-life, that viewer might just think he had an abusive mother. And frankly, let's just consider the fact that Dre had the balls to stand up to Sug Knight--I doubt that nice guys dared to. Too much's of Dre's story is left out. I get it, Dre was one of the producers of the film, so why finance a film that shows you in a negative light and potentially damage your brand? I would contend that he's reached a status where the brand can handle it.

And speaking of personal brand, let's talk Ice Cube. He's a writer, so I always thought he was the most talented and his star power through hip hop and film is huge. Many moons ago, when I worked at a youth center, one of the kids would run into my office at the end of the week and tell me, "It's Friday and I ain't got shit to do." It was so funny I could even get mad at him for saying shit. People are gonna be quoting Cube as long as we use words. I also need to take a moment to talk about how Cube's son is a complete carbon copy of him--it's freakish how much they look alike. Pretty rad that he got to play his dad in the film.

I just have to say this because it was laughable to me. The director felt the need to label each group member with their legal names and street names the first time they appeared onscreen, like "O'Shea Jackson aka Ice Cube." It was such a "Duh," thing, but then I remembered that 90% of N.W.A conversations never mention MC Ren or Dj Yella, poor dudes. Of course they were talented, but how does anyone compete with Dre and Cube? Pretty impossible. So label 100% for the people that forget 40% of the group.

The part of the group you can't forget? That's easy. You see what I did there? Easy-E, who really did deal, so maybe he was the closest thing to what the group espoused about the culture. The dude had charisma, you can't deny that, and the portrayal in the film made me appreciate him in a different way--more human, less of a whore, and much more complex. It would be simple to write those young men off as gangsters or thugs, but that's just not factually accurate. They were talented, articulate, and hard working and that's why we're still talking about them today. While the film doesn't capture the complete picture, it gives some interesting insight into the legacy, for better or worse, of five Black men straight outta Compton.

The Committee Shant Convene...

The running types like to congregate, probably because we spend an inordinate amount of time talking about mileage, nutrition, what races are our favorites, and of course, our disgusting blisters, callouses, and much worse. I'm certain we annoy the non-running types with all our talk, making them tell us how bad running is for our knees while they slurp down a liter of soda or smoke a cigarette. I digress, this isn't a blog about making fun of anyone, but rather my thinking about why I run.

Obviously there are health benefits. It keeps the weight off, training for a race is the perfect motivation for me. It was what finally got me over the hump to quit smoking cigarettes. I've developed a bougie love of dry-fit fabric and have met some really incredible people. Plus, even though I am slower than Christmas, I always feel like a bad ass when I total up my mileage.



And if you know me at all, you know it's a big part of my recovery. I would go so far to say it is the primary part of my recovery because it keeps my head straight. When I was drinking, I used to listen to The Committee, that shitty group of voices in my head that called the shots. Those bastards owned me--me, not the meat skeleton running down the bike trail, but the me I didn't even realize was so completely hijacked at the time. Me, the creative spirit, the one who knows how to move through fear, the one who isn't afraid to speak her mind or find the humor where others may not. The strong, beautiful spirit that is me was completely under the spell of those voices.

They knew what to tell me. They knew booze was my best friend. They knew that everyone but them and my best friend was not to be trusted. They helped me push decent people away. And they knew that I knew I was a bad person who just didn't fit. They knew I was damaged goods and I would never be good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough.

They told me this bullshit over and over, sometimes even using other people to really make their point. They visited my dreams, they rode in my car, they sat on my shoulders and whispered sweetly, "You don't mean anything to anyone, so you might as well feel better right now."

There wasn't an exact moment of clarity where I realized I could tell them to get bent. Where me decided to re-join this ride we call life. It was kind of a roller coaster and the funny thing is that it didn't happen until I'd been sober for a considerable amount of time. That's the thing we all had to learn on our own--getting sober is just the first round. Meaningful recovery is getting all the way to the Final Four. Sure, you feel like a beast sometimes, and you have those moments of grace--that's the Sweet Sixteen. It's a process and it certainly doesn't happen overnight.

And the bastards never fully go away.



After I let the dogs out this morning, I was walking up the back steps into the kitchen and looked up at the progress on #remodelordietrying. The countertop, the backsplash, and the cabinet looked really nice and I thought, "That is looking really good." And BOOM, there was one of them, "You don't deserve a nice kitchen. You deserve to live in a mess because you are a mess."

He was fleeting but he was there. My immediate thought, "Of course I deserve nice things," which was followed quickly by, "Maybe I don't and putting any resources into this is a bad idea."

It all happened in a few seconds. He caught me off guard. But he's still there and has been sitting in my thoughts today. I don't think the rest of The Committee is present--no quorum for you, assholes. So I just told him to get fucked, out loud, as the Bitches sleep next to me, gearing up for their morning run. And I will sleep soundly, content that now I am always running to something and never from anything.

I am periodically serious...

"It's more about owning your own comfort level and being confident in your own skin to do what you need to do to accomplish something. Really making it about yourself instead of about other people. For me, it was a bit of a metaphor. I was like, Running a marathon is a very, very big stretch for me. I need to do whatever it takes to get myself to the end of that line. We were running for a greater cause, we were running for breast cancer." - ​Kiran Gandhi

Inspiring, right? Sounds like a great woman--she's articulate, confident, and just ran a marathon for charity. And she is a pretty amazing young woman, she's a Harvard MBA and was on tour with M.I.A. But this quote is about a whole other story. A bloody story that has freaked out the internet in a way that does nothing to restore my faith in humanity. You probably have heard her story, but you may not have seen any of her intelligent, thoughtful quotes related to her story.

Kiran Gandhi is the chick who free bled while running the London Marathon.

Yes, she had the ovaries to free bleed a marathon.



Not my bag of Tampax, but I have never had issues exercising or running during my period. I think it helps. That's just me. Kiran talked about how sick she gets during her period, how she usually didn't run during her period, and how a friend keeping a tampon in her sports bra caused chafing and freaked her out. (Pro tip: SPIbelt for your necessities. Just sayin'.) But also understanding how we runners have all our weird little habits and rituals, I will respect her decision to free bleed and let it go. Why? Her lady parts don't affect me. The only lady parts that affect me are mine. And the Bitches, but I took care of that a LONG time ago. Things happen while running, like people pee themselves, shart, straight up poop themselves, spit everywhere, callous, blister, chafe, suck down GU packets, and sweat everywhere. Everywhere. I always warn someone who's never cheered at a marathon that he or she will see a dude with bloody nipples. Because he just wouldn't listen.

We are a disgusting lot. We're like hockey players with better vocabularies and more teeth.

But the internet went crazy with this. One news outlet pixelated her crotch out of the photos attached to the blog. Let that sink in. It isn't safe to go to a movie or to church in this country, because you might get shot, but run a marathon without a tampon and we are so offended by your blood, we will pixelate your crotch. The average woman loses four to 12 teaspoons of blood in each cycle. Apparently four to 12 teaspoons--do your math, that's a max of 4 tablespoons--of a woman's blood is offensive, disgusting, and wrong to a great many people in this world.

And Kiran did have a point to sharing this story. She wanted to raise awareness not just for the breast cancer charity for which she was running, but also for girls and women around the world who are discriminated against while having their periods or don't have access to feminine hygiene products. Think of all the homeless women in the United States struggling with this issue.

I've watched sites and feeds of women attacking Kiran, calling her disgusting, an idiot, and an attention whore. Dudes don't seem to want to jump in, although I secretly hoped someone would go full-on The Donald and accuse all of us fighting about this of having our periods. (Just because I love a popcorn moment.) I think the attention whore commentary was the most fascinating as there was even a story line that she got her period mid-race and then made up the whole story and awareness issue to get personal attention. The people who called the threads "disturbing" just made me laugh. It's a period. Remember? Four to 12 teaspoons of blood. And frankly, for most of us, periods should be like Christmas morning; it's proof the birth control worked for another month.



So let's just get over ourselves. Granted, this is coming from a woman who once made a tampon cake (strawberry filling), but seriously, quit shaming each other. Let's quit second-guessing each other. And let's quit being so grossed out and ashamed of our bodies. We are rad. We are women. Period.

Adulting...

I'm trying to remember what I thought my adult life would be like when I was a little kid. I'm pretty sure it was non-stop doing whatever the hell I wanted without consequence. I was never the kid that dreamed about being married or having kids. I never really felt like I fit, so it made sense that I wouldn't want the traditional stuff. I do recall wanting to be a writer since books were my favorite thing. I remember a plan to be a hot dog vendor on Wall Street--my logic was that the people who worked there had a lot of money and would tip really well. I spent most of my childhood imagining I was somewhere else. I even had an imaginary friend named Roy. I sent him to live in New York City and he got a job as a janitor at the Empire State Building. He would toss quarters off the observation deck for me.

I have a good adult life. I'm fairly interesting, have a cool job, good friends, and live with the raddest Bitches on the planet. I've been doing that reflection and growth thing again lately, trying new things, and while I am decent at being uncomfortable, it's really kicked up some shit for me. But Schooly math includes "Uncomfortable + reflection = growth." Schooly math usually kicks in after I've been single for a while. I have to go through the broke and angry phase and just be pissed for awhile. And it's weird, whether or not I was the one pulling the trigger on ending the relationship, I've always felt better when it was over. Maybe some of us just aren't built for the long haul relationship. I don't say that to mean that some of us are innately incapable of having a healthy relationship. Of course, lots of us are damaged, but I really don't think anyone is hopeless. I say that because I think some of us have hit survival mode where we have learned to draw all strength from within and are completely independent.

The shit's really kicked up in the last month or so and I feel open again. Not open like I want a relationship, but open like I feel like me again. I'm getting uncomfortable, trying golf and painting, training for my race, and just being. I even found a renter so I can have some cash to get my kitchen remodel finished instead of staring at it and being angry. If that's not adulting, what the hell is?

I'm busting down my expectations to the roots and just trying to be a decent human every day. Remembering that only good lies before me and knowing that I can figure out how to get through almost anything.

Picasso's Bastards...

That isn't even a fair comparison, Picasso. I say that having never taken an art history class and having the most basic comprehension of abstract art and abstract expressionism. Yes, I can spot a Jackson Pollock, but if you wanna get granular about it, that's only because Ed Harris played him on screen and who doesn't love Ed Harris?

It's about art, though. I've always been surrounded by artists, some of exceptional talent, but I never really considered myself one, but for a few good writings and a handful of poems. But I think I may have expanded a bit in the last few weeks when I picked up a paint brush to see what happened.

The blame goes to Recovery Queen and her art show. I made a cake for the show the first year, since that's another medium in which I am quite comfortable. That was the cake Janot said, "Girl, you can't bring a cake and not expect a Black man to eat it," and turned it into performance art when he marched over a cut a big hunk out.



I laugh whenever I think of that night.

The second year of the art show, I didn't submit anything. I encouraged, er, prodded, a few other people to be in the show, but my cake game wasn't as strong so I sat out.

Recovery Queen bugged, er, encouraged me off and on during the year. She's an amazing artist, so I figured it was easy for her to say, "Everyone's an artist." And then I realized, everyone is an artist, just like everyone can sing or everyone can dance. It's a little about the degree of how well you do it, but more about having the guts to actually give it a shot and see what happens.

There was an idea floating around my cranium. It was tied to something one of my favorite professors told me once when she said, "Your ability to see the big picture will be your greatest blessing and your greatest curse." Yes, the big picture. The ability to connect the dots and see how things fit. A great skill. Great enough to make me want to rip my hair out at times. When I think about that big picture, sometimes it is oriented toward a specific issue or problem, but this time I was thinking in terms of my whole life. I've never had trouble getting in the helicopter and flying around above my life to see where the gaps are--I haven't ever been that good at doing anything with the information. But for the "Big Picture" art project, I thought about hovering about this whole life and really examining the emotional pivot points. What formed me? Where are the befores and afters? Where were those physical places and how did they make me feel?

I settled on five spaces to explore, some good, some terrifying, and some a bit of both. Intellectually, I have words to describe the spaces, but I guess it's just something I want you to consider coming to see at the show. The spaces are called, "The Place Where People Loved Jesus the Right Way," "The House on Potter Street," The Bronco," "The Brownstone," and "The Girl on the Run." They are just little canvases with cheap, acrylic paint slung on them, but I was surprised at the intensity with which I went at the work. There is definitely a lack of skill on my part, but the work is honest.

If you are interested, the 3rd Annual Recovery Art Show will be held September 4 at Exposure Gallery in Sioux Falls.