5 elements: hip hop, vogue & storytelling

My take on the similarities between both vogue and hip hop, specifically the fact that there are five elements of each.

When compared with the five elements of storytelling, we can see all 3 as art forms that can only be mastered through practicing the underlying skills.

How Organizational Diversity Initiatives Lose the Plot

Contrary to popular opinion…

Diversity is not an initiative. It is not an imperative. It is not a strategic priority.

Diversity… is a fact.

You see, nature tends toward abundance and redundancy. When nature is left to its devices, not only is there enough, there’s also a variety.

Not just one type of cloud

Or grass

Or cat

Or human.

But many. And for no more apparent or justifiable reason than survivability. Of the whole.

Nature: Better make sure we have a lot of different types of these, so if something happens to one of them, at least we’ll still have the others:

Humankind: Oh, so you mean, ‘survival of the fittest?’ 

Nature: Um, no. That’s not at all what I mean. 

Where there is either lack or ‘excessive sameness’, there is usually an unnatural and / or external cause.

An Impact on Diversity

Decreased genetic diversity in plant crops puts the entire ecosystem at risk.

A dam constructed.

A toxic chemical introduced.

A meteor fallen from the sky.

Something happened to cut off the naturally abundant and redundant supply. And it remained. Continued. Settled in. Permanently changing the landscape.

Later, someone with short sight or memory will come along and wonder, ‘Why are there none of that particular flower here? Is this not its natural habitat?’ 

A committee will be convened, monies will be raised, campaigns will be launched. The naturally abundant flower will be trucked in from its natural, undisturbed habitat and planted in this place with its nearby dam or insidious chemicals. 

Over time, most of the flowers will wilt, die off. A constant committee will be needed to transplant a new batch every growing season.

Annuals.

Not perennials.

And the numbers are reported out at the height of the growing season. “We have hundreds of them here, thriving!” 

But no one ever stops to ask the flowers.

****

If the idea of solving the wrong problem could be summed up in a word, that word would be, ‘diversity’.

I’ve been involved in diversity initiatives at work in one way or another since I started working over 2 decades ago. 

I myself was what you’d call a ‘diversity hire’. Young, inexperienced, plucked directly from the natural habitat of an Atlanta HBCU thanks to a Big 4 diversity recruiting initiative. I was a lucky flower. I got transplanted into a patch with some experienced and invested black women who ‘understood the assignment’ and took me under their individual and collective wings, giving me the ability to take root in unfamiliar terrain with the aid of familiar associations.

This is an uncommon story. 

The more common one?

A ‘different flower’ is brought in as a transplant. She may thrive initially, but soon the toxic cultural norms of ‘one-size-fits-all’, ‘when you’re here, you’re family’, ‘it’s a lifestyle, not a job’ creep in. She realizes that there is no such situation as thriving here, there is: ‘conform and constrict’, ‘grin and bear it,’ or ‘wither and shrink’. Her other flower-friends, once she finds them, are usually the ones to inform her of her choices. After all, these are the choices they have made.

And so the flower makes a choice: survive, wilt… or grow feet.

In short, the story being told about organizational and corporate diversity is a narrative missing perspective. A thin plot hurtling toward a flimsy ending. 

Diversity initiatives don’t just need a rewrite, they need a whole new editorial team.

Remembering Little Richard

To be honest,everybody from Macon is irresistible.

Little Richard just packaged it best. Better than anybody before him did or after him will. I can’t say it was his music that got me to know and love him. The music was brilliant, no doubt. It was like celebratory fact. ‘Tutti Frutti’ (oh, Ruuudy!) was as indelible as Miss Mary Mac or the happy birthday song. It was a song everybody - not just black people, not just southern people, not just american people - everrryybody knew. How does a song get to that kind of status? Is it the song or the singer that makes it so?

When I heard Little Richard talk - I believe the first time must’ve been some short after-performance segment on an old variety show - that’s when I fell in love with him. Thats when I realized why he was a legend. And it wasnt just for high-energy dance tunes with high-note punctuation. When he spoke, I heard it. Macon. That way of talking we have that cuts you deep, but also kinda makes you want to laugh, and sort of reminds you of an elder you once loved fiercely. Little Richard reminded me of that and of some of the menfolk I grew up around. They were, um... funny. I think that’s the euphemism we were using back then. They were naughty, loud, pretty, stylish, arrogant, and more than a little self-conscious and insecure. In essence, they were like I was then - teenage girls. But they were better at it, way better at it than I was. And I loved them. I kinda think everybody did. Even the folks who said they didn’t love them ‘cause they were ‘that way’. 

Today, my grandma remembered for me the time she saw ‘Li’l Richard’ at the national COGIC convention. It was later in his life. It strikes me for the first time that they were peers. 

My mom asks, “Was he wearing makeup and all that?” 

Grandma: “Naw, he had come up outta that. He was wearing a suit like a regular man.”

Me (already knowing the answer): “Did he stay up outta it?”

“Naw.”

I spend more than a few moments reflecting on that. How a man that fantastic and talented and ‘that way’ made it in a time like that in a town like Macon. As he said himself, “The biggest thing in my hometown was the jailhouse.” 

Little Richard was proof that being from a small town didn’t make you small. Just hidden. Tucked off to the side a bit. So if you had something to say— a song to sing or a rug to cut- You might need to wave your hands around a bit more than the next person or be a bit louder, a bit more gregarious to be seen and heard. And if somebody still tried to drown you out with their own noise, you could always just tell em... 

“Shut up!” 

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Kisha Solomon is an Atlanta-based writer, knowledge worker and serial expat. She writes witty, poignant stories about the lessons she’s learned from her life, work and travels. She deals with the sometimes frustrating and often humorous side effects of being black, female and nerdy. When she’s not writing working or travelling, you can find her in deep conversation with herself or her four-legged familiar, Taurus the Cat. www.lifeworktravels.com

The All-Too-Obvious Truth About Black People & Office Potlucks

PSA: Tis the season. The season... for office potlucks. 

Or as I like to call them, the one time black people will gladly turn down free food. 

Cuuuuz... in case you didn’t know...

Black people don’t eat out of everybody house.

Now, I know i may be telling ‘family tea’ right now, but I think it’s needed in this day and age where workforces are more diverse and radical candor is becoming a way of life. 

The next time your office has a big potluck... pay attention to your African-American colleagues. Oh? You don’t even see half of them? Maybe, you think, they’re in a meeting right now, and they’ll stop by later. Nah, bro. They ain’t comin’. The moment the pot luck invite hit their inbox weeks ago, they made plans for lunch off-campus. Or! If they do show up, be very clear that they have already conducted a private survey of their fellow black coworkers to find out which of them brought a dish and have identified exactly WHICH dish in advance. At chow time, they will only eat those dishes and perhaps store-bought ones. The most diplomatic among us will surreptitiously invoke a ne’er-before-revealed food allergy or digestive disorder to explain why we skipped over certain dishes. Others prefer the approach of putting a small scoop of most everything on their plate - scoops that will remain untouched until they touch the trash bin. 

Some might say this is racist. It can certainly be construed as such. But, this behavior is not only reserved for non-black colleagues. If u are a POC that owns a pet, you may also be on the receiving end of this behavior. Especially, if at any point in time you have revealed that you let your pet: sleep in your bed, walk on your counters, lick your face or eat out of ‘people plates’. You, may be a victim of Potluck Passover. Try not to take this personally. It really isn’t a personal attack, as these same folks will still hang out with you, look out for you and enjoy your other creative outputs. They just ain’t eatin’ out yo’ house. 

Just thought I’d share this PSA as I make my way back to the office after off-campus lunch. 

I hear there’s still plenty of chili left in the breakroom. 😏

---

ms. mcknight

In elementary school, my PE teacher was a drill sergeant.

Her name was Ms. McKnight. She had a sort of hi-top fade – mostly black, speckled with here-and-there grey. She sported a couple of matching chin whiskers.

To be fair, I don’t know for sure if Ms. McKnight was actually ever in the military. I do know that at the start of every PE class, before the actual PE portion began, Ms. McKnight would have us perform military drills. Well, not drills, really… formations.

After ‘dressing out’, we’d all line up in neat little rows, alphabetically by last name. We each automatically assumed the ‘at-ease’ position – feet firmly planted hip-width apart, hands lightly crossed behind our backs, backs and shoulders straight, eyes straight ahead focused on some imaginary point in the distance. We looked like some kind of Smurf version of S1Ws. We were a class of less than 30, none of us more than 10 years old, most of us, black. Our contrasting light blue top and dark blue bottom uniforms drove home the militant midget image.

How long had we been lining up like this?

By this point, the routine wasn’t so much memorized as it was ingrained. Was this not just the way one stood when standing around doing nothing? Would I not stand this way in similar situations forever into the future? In the grocery store checkout line? At the DMV? When waiting to ride the Scream Machine at Six Flags? When I looked to my left and right, whether it be now or 20, 30 years from now, would I not always find Ashley Davis and Greg Dinkins flanking me in line?

Once lined up, we’d stand there and await our instructions from Ms. McKnight. She’d take her time, finish with whatever she was looking at (‘How To Weaponize Adolescents (Revised Edition)’? ‘Retired Drill Sergeant’s Monthly’?) on her clipboard, then slowly walk to her starting position in front of us.

“Ah-TENNN-HUUUTT!!”

We’d spring into action, in one synchronized motion, we switched to the ‘attention’ position. Feet and ankles close together, bodies rigid, eyes alert, arms stiffly extended by our sides.

“PREE-zennnt ARMS!!”

Our collective right arm engaged and landed in a taut salute.

Ms. McKnight would begin to walk slowly among our ranks, inspecting each of us for flaws, misalignments, sloppy or incorrect dress.

“AT EEEEZ!” she’d shout out as she continued walking, peering.

We’d shift back into our resting position.

“Ah-TENNN-HUUUTT!!”

Back to full salute.

 “Ah-BOUUUT-FACE!”

We pivoted swiftly and curtly to the rear, one Smurf army united in motion.

“At EEEEZ!”

This would continue for several minutes. Ms. McKnight shouting orders at us; us responding with the appropriate movements.

Occasionally she’d stop in front of one of us and bark a question that we were all to have memorized and be ready to answer at a moment’s notice. There was no way of knowing if you’d be the one she’d ask to spout off the answer like a Marine reciting the Rifleman’s Creed. It was as random as being singled out in a game of duck-duck-goose.

She’d slowly stalk us, row by row, scanning her eyes over us, while we dared not break formation by looking at her, moving or even breathing too much. All of a sudden, she’d stop and address one of us by last name.

“Demps! What is physical education!?”

To this day, I remember the answer to this question. It is tattooed on my brain. It is a part of my nervous system. If I were ever in a coma, and someone asked me this question, I’d probably wake up and respond,

“Physical education is that part of our education that strengthens us physically, mentally and spiritually!”

If we stammered, forgot or responded too slowly, we’d get a demerit. Ms. McKnight would note it on her clipboard then continue her inspection, looking closely for any other infractions.

Ms. McKnight was always stern, but never harsh or cruel. In fact, I’d dare say that we all liked her. We also feared her, but it was the same kind of fear we had for our parents, and we liked them well enough. We didn’t even mind the drills much. It was simply one more of the peculiarly unique things that was a part of being a student at the little red brick schoolhouse on Ward Street.

Was it odd to have a bunch of kids pretending to be tiny soldiers? Certainly. Was Ms. McKnight and her approach to physical education likely a holdover from her own childhood PE classes in the 1950s? Probably so. But if it were only the drills, the whole thing would have probably become a source of childhood trauma. Whenever I happen to reunite with my former Smurfs, we tend trade these old memories like survivor stories. But, unlike typical survivors, it’s not scars we have, rather a wistful sort of awe that what once seemed so perfectly normal is now bizarre for its quaintness and simplicity, and, for that reason, all the more precious to us.

Yes, if it were only the drills, Ms. McKnight’s methods might have been considered truly weird. Even questionable. But it wasn’t only the drills. It was the question. The question made the whole routine mean something more. I didn’t know it at the time, but there was a reason Ms. McKnight asked that question.

She could have asked any number of questions.

“Demps! What’s the school’s alma mater?”

“Ferguson! How many bones in the human body?”

“Bentley! If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself?”

But she didn’t. She asked the one question that would remind both us and her of our reason for being there in that class – outside on the playground-slash-parking lot behind the little red schoolhouse in good weather, downstairs in the social hall under the church when it rained. Why we were performing those drills. Why she was inspecting and correcting every detail of our movements and dress.

She was there to instill pride, discipline, a basic and physical understanding of teamwork and cooperation. She was there to remind us that at this small Catholic parochial school in an all-black neighborhood, there were many kinds of education to be had. There was religious education to strengthen our spirits – the nuns and other clergy saw to that. There was classical education to strengthen our minds – our dedicated staff of lay teachers handled that; but only physical education addressed our entire selves. Spirit, mind and body. And only, she, the Commander-in-Chief of Physical Education, had the privilege and the duty of delivering this most complete form of education to us.

In hindsight I think we Smurfs were damned lucky to have a Ms. McKnight.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t I feel a certain kind of way the first time I saw Full Metal Jacket.

Photo by David Pennington on Unsplash

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Kisha Solomon is an Atlanta-based writer, knowledge worker and serial expat. She writes witty, poignant stories about the lessons she’s learned from her life, work and travels. She deals with the sometimes frustrating and often humorous side effects of being black, female and nerdy. When she’s not writing working or travelling, you can find her in deep conversation with herself or her four-legged familiar, Taurus the Cat. www.lifeworktravels.com

when hosting a dinner party

“As W.S. Gilbert said, ‘When planning a dinner party, what’s more important than what’s on the table, is what’s on the chairs.’ ”
~ from, “Giving a Dinner Party (I)” in Life Is Meals: A Food Lover’s Book of Days

I sometimes imagine the afterlife as a decadent feast that never ends. Only in heaven, you’re surrounded by all the wonderful people you love, and in hell, you’re surrounded by all the awful people you hate.

The finest meal can be a misery if the wrong people are at the table. And last night’s leftovers becomes a royal banquet when shared with pleasurable company. The best dinner parties are those where each person brings their own special something to the table, yet everyone shares a common trait: the ability to just let go and savor the moment.

colored

I’m at a bar with my Cape Town host, Lionel. In the course of our conversation, I hear him use the word, 'colored' multiple times. Finally, I ask, 'You keep saying that word, what exactly do you mean when you say it?' Lionel: 'It means mixed race.'

Me: 'Ohhhh... ok. We use that word at home, but it's just another way to refer to black people. It's antiquated, so it's mostly an in-group term.'

I continue, 'You know, I did notice when I arrived here that there was a whole set of people in CapeTown that I didn't really see in Jo’burg.'

Lionel (laughing): 'Yeah, in Jo’burg, you'd be hard pressed to find 3 colored people in any place. Hell, you'd be hard pressed to find 3 white people!'

He 's exaggerating... but only slightly. Later, we are at a bottle shop, where i'm purchasing 'supplies' (cuz, #RetailDrinkingIsForSuckas). A clearly inebriated, but totally harmless brotha strikes up a slurry convo with us. After a few exchanges with Lionel, in which he reveals he's from Congo, then declares, 'All Africa, one love!!' he turns to me. 'So, my sister, you're from here? You speak Zulu?' Lionel jumps in, protectively. 'She's colored. She speaks Afrikaans.'

Wait. What?