Pitts Indeed
link
His List Friday: 8/31/2012
1. George Huguely, a young man with a history of violence, got 23 years for killing Yeardley Love, a sentence which can be reduced with good behavior. Assuming no one kills him in prison, he should feel really good about that outcome. Had I killed Love, I do not like my odds of getting out while still in my forties. Or fifties. Or maybe ever.

2. I don’t mind guns in the hands of citizens. This has been covered. So keep that in mind while I Internet shout. A LIMITATION ON CLIP CAPACITY IS NOT AN ACT OF TYRANNY. Please stop bringing up the Framers when discussing firearms. They used muskets which took between five minutes and thirty-seven years to load and fire. They couldn’t conceive of an AR-15 with a 100-round drum magazine. High-capacity clips are not for enthusiasts or competitive shooting or non-human big game. They are meant to deal death to lots of people (who are generally supposed to be shooting back) very quickly. If you really feel a way about ammo, wear a gull dern loading-bearing vest.

3. Clint Eastwood talked to a chair at the GOP convention. A convention attendee threw nuts at a Black camerawoman and said, “this is how we feed animals.” Paul Ryan’s factual errors were scolded by Fox News. Allow the above to paint whatever picture you want.

4. My daughter sings medleys of US Army Ranger run cadences and Edwin Starr’s “War.” Cognitive dissonance is adorable in singalong form.

5. Eating Chinese food outside is weird.

6. Katey Sagal.

7. Without irony, I often give parental commands in syntactically Black ways— “Girl you betta not run in that street!”—and then switching back to what people call mainstream (but really mean white) bourgeois tongue—“It would behoove you to put the Play-Doh down, my love.” I know I switch back and forth in my own life, but I puzzled today over why I did so to Juice. I came to the conclusion it’s because I think it culturally and socially important she know how to do both.

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
Lance Armstrong and Strains of the Dope Beat
Let’s get a few things clear:

-I think Lance Armstrong doped. I think he was an elite doper who beat other elite dopers seven times. I don’t feel sorry for him, but I’m not gonna treat him as if, without doping, he’d just be Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s stunt double on ‘Premium Rush’.

-As various civil litigation has shown since the day before forever, copping a plea does not equate to an admission of guilt. People with more resources than Lance Armstrong have taken plea bargains because the prospect of fighting and fighting and fighting and maybe losing a case that has come down to flimsy evidence and hearsay years after the fact is not worth it.

-I refuse to have expectations of pro athletes beyond what I expect of people in general. Not unlike my feelings on Nike: I don’t know them like that, they don’t know me like that, so it’s best to just keep a certain expectational distance. Do athletes capitalize off portraying themselves as the superheroes we want them to be? Sure, but unfortunately, super heroics and being super human are not the same. Athletes moral obligations really aren’t much greater than our own. If I beat my wife (and live to stand trial for it), I’m not *less* of a wifebeater because Nordberg from “The Naked Gun” also used to beat his wife.

-Do athletes live by a different set of rules? Yes. They, along with everyone who ever had money, do. Now, does this reality reflect on *money* itself or the value *we* place on it? All rules and their application center around power, value and the perception of what is powerful and valuable. To change that, either: the perceptions of the powerful must change or: you must unseat the currently powerful (which takes powerful people of a different stripe). The world isn’t a place for just one kind of power, but it is a place that will always be run by the powerful and/or people who have no f*cks to give (a truth nicely illustrated by Batman and the Joker in ‘The Dark Knight’). It will never be run by spectators because the staggering power than they have is ultimately wasted on discussing people who decided to stop watching and dedicate themselves to the power they possess (this long tome illustrates this point rather nicely).

-Last point: Professional athletes work harder at what they do than the average person works at what they do. We often want to assign their prowess largely on their physical gifts and good fortune, but really…in their given field, they’re not much different than elite commandos, brain surgeons or law students with designs on the Supreme Court. They flat out work *hard* and are, frankly, willing to submit themselves to abusive levels of vigor in pursuit of a goal. If brought to an athletic court of justice, a jury of their peers would not be filled with the all-county schoolboy/schoolgirl standouts. When they cut corners, they do so relative to the equally elite, not the guy/girl who was a two-time All-State selection and got no offers to compete at the next level. Again, not saying breaking the rules is OK, but I’m not gonna pretend such rule breaking kept *me* from doing anything athletically.

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
It’s Gotta Be The Shoes?
Uh oh. Nike’s wearing the Black Hat again.

This fall, the apparel giant plans to unveil a limited-edition sneaker, the LeBron X, that will retail for $315. The shoe, replete with gold-plated swooshes, will be equipped with an electronic component capable of measuring vertical leap and attractiveness to the sex of the wearer’s choosing. All in all, a pretty high-tech affair for the foot. Some, like the National Urban League, are particularly outraged at the sneaker giant for being so irresponsible as to release a shoe so expensive. Others, like myself, kinda just shrug and wonder what the big deal is.

Should people spend that much money on a pair of sneakers? It’s hard to say; such arguments leave us on the merry-go-round of what constitutes a worthwhile use of money. I can go out on a courageous limb and say that it’s probably not a good idea to buy $315 shoes (or a car or a house) if you can’t afford such things. If you can? Knock yourself out. Or don’t. You’re good either way.

Beyond that, I find myself puzzled by the harangues against the LeBron X. Is it because they’re footwear? I mean, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Christian Loboutin and countless others make shoes well north of $315 and have for longer than Nike has been in existence. Is it because they’re sneakers and these individuals see sneakers as the provenance of the proletariat? For the better part of twenty years—and particularly in the past ten—sneakers have become boutique and collection-worthy. The LeBron X is just another in a long line of unique, hard-to-get, limited-edition sneakers that fans and collectors alike covet. That “limited edition” part is important, as the regular edition of the sneaker costs an expensive, but (sadly) not outrageous, $175.

But…but…Nike has a responsibility!

Word? So Nike has a responsibility to make money and make sure knuckleheads don’t waste their money on things they can’t afford/don’t need? So, Nike is suddenly our kinfolk and them? And let’s not equate this to screwing consumers: This isn’t oil or health care or education: This is about a basketball shoe that no human on planet Earth needs in any conceivable way.

But Nike is preying upon the weak. They’re irresponsible for releasing a shoe that will whip people into a frenzy and cause them to waste money!

That’s the thing that bugs me about those protesting a bit too much. While I understand finding such prices repugnant, demanding that an apparel company be more responsible with its price points is mildly ludicrous.

But people look up to Nike!

Right. A business that engaged/engages in some tawdry business. A luxury business that derives power from whatever value the consumer assigns to it. Nike is a golem of our own creation, so when we rail against them in this manner, we often shirk much of our responsibility and cede much of our power. It is tantamount to saying

“We have lost so much control to you, Nike, that it is your responsibility to save us from ourselves. No; we can’t voice our disapproval by taking our money elsewhere. You, Nike, must stop the madness.”

Why are we launching into impassioned polemics about a luxury company’s responsibility when we would likely be better served by placing the onus on ourselves to be financially responsible?

Nike is going to be Nike. They, and many other companies like them, have dedicated Marketing departments that are paid handsomely to influence consumers. It is a job they do well as none of us can say we are beyond any and all persuasion.

Still, their power is not without limit. A consumer still has power and the vote they cast with their wallet is likely more influential than any they will with a ballot. Juggernauts though they are, corporations are rather more like sequoias than mountains. They are rarely swayed by the winds of protest, but rather, by the gales of unmet profit margins and poor quarterly reports.

“$315? Nah, I’m all set. Nike gonna have to do better than that.”

All power to the people.

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
‘When Mahalia Sings’ Will Be Playing at a Big Deal Type of Place June 20 - July 1. I Wrote ‘When Mahalia Sings’
Mahalia_poster

I often write about things that I am going through but not what I am doing. That stops today (kinda.)

From June 20-July 1, When Mahalia Sings, a play I wrote and directed, will be performed at Trinity Repertory Company, the most prestigious theater in Rhode Island and one of the premier repertory theater companies in the United States. It’s won Tonys and everything.

Interesting factoid: Trinity Rep is where my dad got his professional start, a company member at just 19 years old. (Yes; that IS trill.)Now, for some fun facts about When Mahalia Sings
  • The original concept for a show about Mahalia Jackson is Ricardo Pitts-Wiley’s.
  •  Athol Fugard inspired the script.
  • Barbara Bryant, my grandmothers and family reunions inspired the dialogue.
  • My wife Kim and I were married Saturday, March 20th, 2010. We enjoyed a two-day honeymoon at Mystic Aquarium because the first-run of “When Mahalia Sings” began the following Thursday.
  • The first run of the show included five principle characters and was 53 minutes long.
  • By the end of the show’s first run, my wife was 7.5 months pregnant. We had to: adjust a key on a song due to a “a baby kicking [her] in the heart.” We also: Draped her in a long scarf and attempted to hide her behind the piano as much as possible.
  • Barbara Bryant, Jason QuinnKim Trusty, and Kim Pitts-Wiley have been in every performance of “When Mahalia Sings” to date.
  • Barbara Bryant is my grandmother’s best friend. They’ve been singing gospel together around New England for over 30 years.
  • The character of Dub, originated by Amos Hamrick in the second run of the show, was created after Amos had expressed interest in being part of the show. There wasn’t a role for him, so I made one up.
  • Yakim Parker, who constructed the set for the second run of the show (and handles most of the set building at Mixed Magic) stepped into the role of Dub during the second run.
  • Angel Cooper, who plays Mahalia in the current production, is a member of Refined 313, a gospel group with her sisters.
  • Kim Pitts-Wiley’s right foot provides much of the show’s percussion. As such, a small area of the stage had to be repainted every week after being brutalized.
  • Four tambourines have perished since the show premiered.
  • One of the songs in the show is a nod to my dad’s play Waiting for Bessie Smith.
  • Two of the seven principle character names are based on family members of mine.
  • The show’s development was greatly assisted by a performance in which only three people were in the audience (that “one or a thousand” thing is real!)

This show is worth checking out. I won’t brag about the book (because that’s kinda lame) but I feel pretty good about it. I can definitely brag about my wife’s musical direction and the talent that lends itself to this production.

If you’re in Rhode Island or near Rhode Island (I’m looking at you Boston, New York and Connecticut types) come check this out. Make a road trip out of it. I’ve got a guest room and everything! This is kind of a big deal in the career sense, and I’d love to share this moment with you all.

You can hit up trinityrep.com for more show and ticket info.Share or re-post if you feel so inclined (and I hope you do). Thanks for reading. 

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
Pitts for The Record

I used to call people faggots.

I used to call things gay.

Interestingly, these terms were rarely, if ever, directed at actual gay people. Was I susceptible to the acceptable language of the environment? Yup. I really was one of those people who existed under the “well, you know I don’t mean it that way” umbrella, though I can’t say that the spirit of the terms used was exactly friendly. It was language used among friends in a joking manner of course but, when you call your buddy a half a fag, you’re not speaking in a complimentary way about homosexuality.

I wish I could say I stopped using such terminology because I had an awakening on my own. But I didn’t; at least, I didn’t at the point at which I stopped using such language. I stopped speaking like that because my girlfriend in college didn’t like it. Since I wanted her to like me, I stopped using it. And when I stopped using it, I stopped liking it. That’s when the light bulb came on and I heard it with her ears. And wow—it really is ugly. In fact, I heard someone call someone else a fag the other day and it was like a splash of cold water in the face. It had been so long since it had been acceptable for me and as my circle of friends don’t really speak in that way, I’d kinda forgotten people still used it with the vigor of my seventeen-year-old self.

Whoa. We’re still saying stuff like that? That’s gross and I’m not really sure how to respond in this moment of jocularity because I’m still stuck on your use of fag.

Why do I bring any of this up? Because this Mitt Romney article in the Washington Post has me asking a lot of hard questions:

- Is everything we did at 17relevant at 27? At 57?

- Do we believe people can change or don’t we?

- Is change only accepted by others if we acknowledge the things we change about?

- Do we only acknowledge change and growth in people that we like?

Having navigated the waters of prep school, I’m more appalled that Mitt Romney claims to not remember being a ringleader of young boy shit than I am the incident. Don’t get it twisted: The incident is absolutely appalling, but the apparent side-stepping concerns me more. Now, it’s possible he really doesn’t remember, but assuming the haircutting incident is true, he comes off badly. He either:

A. Really doesn’t remember, as such an incident isn’t even a blip on his moral radar OR

B. He totally remembers and would rather try acknowledging without admitting.

Politics aside, A and B are just crappy. Politics not aside, I’m not sure that saying you don’t remember an ugly incident that five other people recall does anything to helpl with your voter connection.

Questions, questions, questions…

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
Swedish Cake: First Thoughts, Second Thoughts

Here’s what I wrote first for Ebony:

DEAR SWEDEN: STICK TO FISH

Dear  Swedish Ministry of Culture,
 
Who thought a genital mutilation cake was a good idea?In light of the growing outrage over a stunt that might be more thoughtless than it is racist—which is really saying a lot—I figured I’d fall back and ask a fundamental question: Who said, “I think this exhibit could use a body cake”?

Personally, I appreciate that you’re using your resources to shed more light on the horrors of female circumcision in Africa. It’s a subject that is as terrifying as it is culturally fascinating and is absolutely something that should not be swept under the rug of current events. The more exhibits like this, the better and more informed people will be.And while I know seeing a project come to fruition can be exciting for all involved, that excitement needs to be tempered by the subject at hand. If you were opening a new soccer stadium and had a scale model of the stadium in cake form, people would likely be into it. Heck, you could probably fly out the guy from Cake Boss and he’d have some quirky misadventures before presenting you a masterpiece.

When you’re dealing with the forced circumcision of girls and women, levity is not your friend. A black body with red velvet innards and a performance artist in Blackface is not your friend. Who on the planning committee thought eating Black body cake while a performance artist cried in agony was square biz anyway? Forget poor taste; cake in that context doesn’t sound especially appetizing.There are stories attached to genital mutilation; these girls and women and human beings; they are not merely objects to be carved away at with little regard. Yet, in attempting to honor these individuals by telling the truth of their stories, you carved away at them again, smiling and laughing as you passed around a piece of them in confection form. For that, you should be ashamed.

Pro tip: When unveiling an exhibit that deals with a serious subject, forget cake. Treat those in attendance to a tasteful slideshow or video accompanied by appropriate music and a quality voice-over. Do not let them eat cake.

Then, challenged to do a bit more homework on situation, I wrote this:

On impulse, I’m inclined to feel that genital mutilation cakes made for the unveiling of a exhibit on female circumcision in Africa is a confection created in poor taste. I’m certainly not alone in feeling this way. In the wake of this controversy involving the Swedish Ministry of Culture, there has been many a rebuke. Indeed, the museum housing the exhibit had to be evacuated due to a bomb threat. To see a dark Black body—replete with a red velvet center and a performance artist head—displayed in this way, being carved up and offered up to ravenous spectators makes the blood boil quickly.Upon first sight, I reacted quickly and angrily, dashing off an open letter to the Swedish culture ministry, wondering who thought such a cake was a good idea, and immediately passed it along to my editor here. I was confident she would approve of the approach and quick turn-around.

She told me to dig deeper, to explore the elements of the storm further, especially the motivations of the cake’s creator, artist Makode Aj Linde (who is a person of color, if that makes a difference to you). The directive forced me to cool down and deal with this troubling confection and the meaning of subject, audience and context.So, I considered Linde’s perspective on his work, which often features what we would consider stereotypical Blackface caricature—garishly white eyes, red lips and white teeth—painted onto incongruous images—European busts, animals, etc. The cake and performance, he says, were meant to be provocative commentaries on the West’s view of African female circumcisions. Stifling my impulse to tell him exactly why he failed, I forged on to watch the video of the event and had my mind blown.

Linde nailed it. He absolutely nailed it.Instead of sucking my teeth, I watched, listened and considered the artistic objective. As the scene unfolded, I remembered a bit of Shakespeare:

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.I saw something powerful and heartbreaking unfold in this gallery. The celebrants and revelers at the exhibit were merely unwitting—but abundantly willing—performers in Linde’s play. The cake was not for their delight. The wails he let forth as the cake was cut into was not for their amusement. Linde wasn’t enjoying the moment, making light of a brutal history; indeed, his presence served to shame them, to shame them for partaking in something so distasteful as a cake representing the countless girls and women who have been brutalized. They should have been outraged. They should have been disgusted, haranguing for the cake and the artist to be removed immediately. But they weren’t. Rather than recoil in horror and outrage at the sight of such a cake or the sound of such screams, the men and women in attendance—The West—ate and chitchatted and snapped pictures of the spectacle. As Minister of Culture Lena Adelsohn Liljeroth cut into the cake’s clitoris, she was prompted to whisper to Linde, “your life will be better after this.” And she did.

Ignoring the grotesquery they saw and heard before them, the crowd took what they wanted and passed it around the room. Linde and his cake were merely the exhibit writ large and delicious, treats that signaled an early Halloween and little else. There seemed to be so little reverence for the subject of the exhibit or the man crying out; if there was a stand taken, it has yet to be brought to light. The true outrage in this moment in this moment is not Linde’s cake or performance; it is that no one in that gallery rejected this as utterly reprehensible.Plates at the ready and shame on standby, they took what they wanted from that enticing Black body, leaving nothing in return.

While I’ve often frowned upon performance art, it is moments like this that remind me how powerful it can be when courageously and properly applied. And believe me, what Linde did took courage. Could I have done that? On stage, in what is the controlled environment of the theater with clearly-defined audience and actors? Sure. In public where those lines are severely blurred? I doubt it. That the Culture Ministry—which I highly doubt was in step with Linde’s intentions—would even agree to such a performance is but a further indictment. This agreement was part of the performance itself and reflects just how much work needs to be done on these matters.Allowing my blood to cool, I was able to deal with the jarring brilliance of Linde’s commentary on a level that my initial reaction did not. But coming to understand that the artistic intent was not to delight but, indeed, reveal, offered little comfort.

All the world’s a stage. And they all took the cake.

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
Bad News, Bros

Dear Bros,

(And by ‘bros’ I mean siiiiiick bros, as opposed to Black bros, unless of course you’re a siiiiiick Black bro, in which case I’m totally talking to you as well.)


I know that rave-y concert gatherings like Barstool Blackout are a pilgrimage of sorts in whatever city they touch down in. I understand the appeal of the sensory stimulation: Loud techno/electronic/dance music to pump fist to whilst raging; pharmaceutical satisfaction to keep the party going; scantily-clad young women with ever-so-long backs, shaking what little their mamas gave them.

And then of course there are the fellow bros. Adorned in sunglasses and fluorescent tatters that would put the Ultimate Warrior to shame, there is at every turn, a bro with whom you can preen and aggressively hug bare chested while spilling your beer. Your hair? Sick flow or bro fade. Your biceps? Sick pump. Your lax tank top or smedium v neck? Sick bro wear. Your U-S-A chants? Sick patriotism. Barstool Blackout is a celebration of the sacred broalition; hardly a monolith, it is yet a mighty fraternity whose roots can be traced back to the twelve men who bro’d with Jesus of Nazarene.

But alas, I needs must share some bad news: There is a harsh reality you must accept while basking in Xanadu, lest you find yourself thrown into a dank alley, your evening cut short and the cruel glare of shameful walk on the horizon.

No one wants to see you bro onstage when the DJ invites Long Back Sally and the Spandex Syndicate up to objectify themselves party.

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
J DAY + ?: That Chick Cray

So, the other night, there was a cast party at the theater for the two shows we ran in the month of March. As most of the babysitters were at said party, I elected to bring the Pack n’ Play in the hopes that Juice would tucker out following the show that evening.

She did. About two hours after the show ended (which is four hours after her normal bedtime if you’re keeping score at home.)

With all those people she’d come to know and love and all that music and all that Ouma (my mother), homegirl was determined to party. So, she’s running around and being hype and being admired until she steps into the theater space from our lobby area. Sitting on a low platform are a few actors from the shows and nearby are a few people in chairs. This was roughly a circle of people having various conversations. Not wanting to be left out, Juice walks to the edge of the circle and observes for a minute before matter-of-factly taking a seat on the low platform and, after a few beats, attempting to sit cross-legged as she saw a few people in the chairs doing.

WHO IS THIS KID?!

Ask any of the half dozen witnesses: a 22-month old child attempted to enter a conversation circle and attempted to cross her legs to look the part. It was so random and quick, there was absolutely no way to get out a camera before she quit attempting to make the cross, but it totally happened.

I know that doesn’t sound like much, but I’m telling you: Watching a little kid sit down and attempt to sit cross-legged in a conversational way is hysterical.

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
Joe Oliver Subjects Himself to 30-Minute Posterizing

Son…just now watched this Lawrence O’Donnell interview with Joe Oliver, supposed friend of George Zimmerman. O’Donnell, Charles Blow and Jonathan Capehart went straight Lob City on dude. 

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »

link
Daddy Diet or: The Things We Think and Do Not Say

This was originally published on Ebony.com


I have no desire to get Type-35 diabetes, though I’ve spent the last few years eating as though I did. Between late nights at the theater and a penchant for being a passive-aggressive emotional eater who takes out frustrations of the daily grind on greasy fast food as though it was manna sent from above, my diet could be classified as “not especially healthy.” I wish this was the part where I told you that the birth of my daughter changed my dietary outlook, but that’s fudging the truth a bit. Upon becoming a parent who still spent late nights at a theater, the challenges of child-rearing merely allowed for more French fry eating at 1:30 in the morning.

The struggle, of course, is that bad food tastes delicious and does terrible things to your insides. There have certainly been times I actually felt physically distressed at shoveling junior bacon cheeseburgers down my gullet. Why am I doing this? Then I remembered that sitting there in the car, listening to the radio and devouring delicious horror was my little bit of sanctuary.

‘98 Jeep: conveyance, confessional, fortress of solitude.

Then my wife shipped off to basic training.

To keep us linked, I took up sacrifices that would actively keep her on my mind. One was not shaving (my beard looks awful, thank you for asking.) The other was cutting out alcohol—if she can’t kiss the book, why should I? Unbeknownst to me—because I was still eating poorly—I was losing weight. Wanting to be responsible husband/parent dude, I decided to use this momentum to get back in the gym. And failed. Five Guys was more appealing than five sets. Still as I’ve written and spoken to my wife over the last few months and seen the positive changes being effected in her and myself in this time apart, I’ve decided to give my health another shot. But this time I started with focusing on changing my diet.

The change, in short: way more water, way less sugar, way more food that won’t kill you and can actually spoil after being prepared.

The new diet has been an enjoyable challenge. It hasn’t been a struggle every day, but it has certainly required focus. The thinking and unwinding I used to do while slamming down fast food behind a steering wheel is done above a cutting board with fresh fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, I totally feel like Eric Bana in Munich. This lifestyle change has given me a chance to slow down and take care. While I never let my daughter eat as badly I was eating, this improvement has also given me more time to focus on her and hopefully prevent her from getting Type-36 diabetes. This challenge has been somewhat less enjoyable.

While my wife has been away, I have been abundantly fortunate to have the support system that I do. My daughter is still at the age where people want to be around her, so there are plenty of people—my parents, my wife’s dad, my sister-in-law, friends at the theater—who are willing to lend a helping hand. As these are people that I trust with my offspring, I have a good sense of their eating habits, which are delicious and often unhealthy. It’s not a mountain of fast food wrappers or anything like that, but the offerings are decidedly (African) American in preparation—a little too much grease; a little too much salt; vegetables that have had the nutrients cooked out of them. I want to say something, but I haven’t found the words.

Food is political, cultural and even spiritual in some cases. If you don’t couch dietary concerns into direct medical conditions like allergies, voiced restrictions are often read as ’ bougie’ and an indictment of that person’s entire life and how they carry themselves in the world. So it is with great unease that I hazard broaching the subject with regard to what my daughter eats, especially with people who have given so much of their time and heart to being there for my family. How do I address this?

Am I being a wimp as a father? I’m disinclined to beat the drum of diet reform. I discuss my changes, but I don’t feel the need to infringe on others. I simply did what I felt I needed to do for myself.

How do I inform without indicting; improve without infringing?

Geez, I can’t wait ‘til my wife gets back.

Posted via email from Pitts Think. | Comment »