All I want for Christmas…

Back when I was a tadpole Christmas for me was easy. Mad easy. All I wanted for Christmas was my two front teeth, a purple Huffy with a banana seat and streamers dangling from the handlebars and, perhaps, some Jellys.

Later in life, Christmas became a practical event. I wanted underwear, socks and cash or things that could be placed on E-bay for cash.

As I mature, my wish for Christmas becomes increasingly prosaic. For the sake of my loved ones and to make shopping for me easier, I decided to publish my Christmas list.
All I want for Christmas is …

1. Peace and damn quiet;


2. Freedom from intrusive questions;


3. The gift of not asking me when I’ll abandon my life of leisure for a steady 8-5;


4. No inquires on the state of my love life or lack thereof;


5. No betting with the House on when I’ll have kids;


6. Immunity from requests for cash

And if you really want to help me out this season…

7. Call my pimp, Sallie Mae, and tell her you got, no put $5 on it. That bitch wants her money.

Let me have the leisurely and luxurious Christmas you desire for yourself.

Pick your Afro Baby

You know that Sista. You've seen her at the mall, sitting up front at the less-bougie churches, vibing at Apache (Ying-Yang on 3rd for you old heads), at Common's last two concerts, or even presiding from the Bench.

She rocks the brown espadrilles, no less than 16 bangles, cowrie shell earring acquired from her latest trip to the Motherland or the discount mall, or perhaps a subtle nose ring. She may work at the West End or perhaps is a graduate of an HBCU. Her scent is slightly earthy and the waft of sandalwood essential oils warms your olfactory nerves.

She is tall and reminds you of Mother Africa. Her shoulders pulled back in regalness or even defiance. Coconut husk skin glistening in the sun. Her hair in full salute to Angela Davis and all that she represents, save perhaps, the weed. Woolly, strong, political. Protecting the movement, advancing the struggle, blazing new paths to tomorrow. Reclaiming the heritage.

You've seen that unadulterated sister. You've secretly said to yourself,

"That style is cute... for her."

"Couldn't be me."

"Sista needs a hot comb and a brush."

But instead, you simply smile and your inner diva gives her a Gill Scott Heron (the original spoken word artist) Power to the People fist pump. Right on!

I am that Sista.

And I will warmly accept donations to the "Give that girl a perm!" fund.